Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley lets himself out onto the elevated upper back deck, escaping from the noise of one egregiously temperamental old man, five additional bickering adults more than halfway to tipsy, and seven rambunctious and screeching children under the age of eleven. Why are kids always so sticky?

He’s left the light off, hoping for a moment of secluded peace to sneak a smoke in the dark, but patting at his pockets, he realises he’s missing the all important lighter he would need for his pilfered cigarette. He’d snuck the fag from Michael’s purse left in the hall, but neglected to steal the lighter with it. Damnit. He’s bound to get caught if he tries to dip in again.

It’s unseasonably warm for East Finchley in late December, but his breath still leaves puffs in the chilly air. It’s also cloudy, and already full dark at 17:00, so there aren’t any stars to look at and the moon isn’t visible. Pity.

Just then - a bright flash lights up from the back garden next door. It’s a man, standing in front of a free-standing fire pit, having just lit a fire. The warm glow illuminates his face in profile and Crowley leans on the railing to get a better look. White-blond curly hair puffs up around his head like a halo. The firelight silhouettes a cute upturned nose, a sturdy frame wrapped in a thick cardigan. Crowley can practically see his eyelashes from here. He’s beautiful.

“Oi! You there! Got a light?” Crowley shouts across at him.

The man turns in his direction, obviously not able to see him in the shadows. “Me?”

“Yeah, you!”

The man turns to look at the fire in front of him, then back to peer into the shadows again, “If you need, I suppose?”

“Excellent!”

Aziraphale watches as the man climbs down the lattice underneath the deck and drops to the ground clumsily, landing in an awkward crouch. He rights himself and strides across the yard, having regained some dignity, before then attempting to scramble over the fence. Either his coat or his shoes catch on something and he tips, sprawling face first into the hedge. Interesting.

He waits, hands on his hips, for the man to emerge, which doesn’t take long. He springs up and Aziraphale is able to take in the full view of his lean frame from a closer vantage. He’s wearing impractical snake skin boots, the tightest skinny jeans he’s ever seen, and a pea coat unbuttoned at the collar. His bright red hair is visible even at a far distance from the firelight - it had probably been more artfully styled before it met with the shrubbery, but is now in disarray. Even with dead leaves stuck to his coat and a stick in his hair, he’s stunning.

The redhead saunters over to the fire, hips swinging, but keeps some distance between them. “Halloooo, thanks for the assist.”

Aziraphale looks him up and down, appraisingly. “And you are?”

“Oh, Ashley Harrison, at your service.” He smirks, and moves closer, extending a hand.

Aziraphale takes his long fingers in his own softer, sturdier grip, with a shy smile, “Anthony Cortese.”

Crowley’s eyebrows go up, “Anth-, so, ehhh, nice fire you have here, Mister Cortese?”

They both look at the pile of kindling and the very obviously not wood things on top of it. Crowley stoops to the side and plucks a small log from the pile next to them, tossing it on.

“So,” Aziraphale starts, “kind stranger, what brings you to our fine neighborhood this evening?”

“Ngk… Not kind. Parent stuff. Siblings. Holidays. You know.”

“I suppose. None of those here though.”

“And, uh, not anyone else, either? Just you? All on your lonesome on Christmas Eve?”

“Fraid so. Although, I’m not alone now, am I?” He bats his eyelashes coquettishly.

Is he actually flirting… or is this…?

Aziraphale turns away from him and gives a generous squirt of Ronsonol to the pile, sending flames up over their heads and lighting up the full extent of the garden - a flash of light bursts out, all the way down the partially terraced slope, past an apple tree, and to the back wall beyond. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Angel!” Crowley exclaims, breaking the spell of their game. “Nearly took my god damned eyebrows off!”

“Oh, hush, you.”

“What, let there be light?!” He takes a step back from the fire but brings himself closer to Aziraphale’s side. “At least, thanks to that little pyro trick, I’ve been illuminated to the poor state of the garden, and I must say - I. am. disappointed. Your Lilacs look like utter shite and that Forsythia wasn’t properly pruned again this year.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him. “Any opinions on the Privet you crushed with your dashing entrance?”

“Yeah. Could use a trim.” Crowley crosses his arms and looks away from him.

“And here I was, ready to believe something could finally meet your expectations.” He sighs, “Mother would have agreed with you, you know.”

“Speaking of not meeting expectations,” Crowley grumbles. He aimlessly kicks at the pile of logs. “….Anyhow…Gabriel, huh.” He nods his head at the items on fire. Sniffing. “Finally, ehhh, chucked him to where he belongs?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why do we appear to be enjoying a bonfire of expensive suit jackets and…is that an honest to Satan copy of ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People?!’ Angel, are you burning a book?!”

Aziraphale turns to dip into a box perched on the garden bench behind him that Crowley hadn’t noticed before, and lobs a handful of limp ties on top of the conflagration. “Some people may call that dross a book, but I hardly think it counts.”

“And why the hell does it smell like Paco Rabanne and The Lowback Hawksmoor?”

“Started the fire with his cologne and ridiculous imported cigars. Humidor is under there too.”

Crowley sinks to the grass, crosslegged, “Fuckin’ hell, Aziraphale.” Immediately, he springs back to his feet realizing the ground is both freezing and damp, “Fuck!” and now, so is his arse. He turns it to the fire. “You know, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to burn that kinda shite,” he says, tipping his head backwards at the smoldering bits of apparel. “Probably giving us both six different kinds of cancer right now.”

“Did you, or did you not, just come over here and ask me for some manner of light for your cigarette? Pot? Kettle?”

“Meh. Different.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale raises one eyebrow at him and uses the iron fire poker he’s brandishing to swirl the ashes about. “And I thought you quit, anyway.”

“I did. Ages ago. But, they’re driving me to madness over there. Our ever humble patriarch has already gone mardy and locked himself in the study; the miniature hellions are all sugared and feral; and, so help me god, if I have to listen to the bickering between my sisters for one more second I’ll throw myself into Mutton Brook. So, yeah, I stole one from Michael and scarpered. And Anthony? Really? Couldn’t come up with anything else?”

“You surprised me,” Aziraphale huffs, “So no. I couldn’t think of anything else. I was on the spot.”

“You’re out of practice.” Crowley points at him with the unlit cigarette and a grin. 

Aziraphale points back with the glowing end of the fire poker and a frown, “Maybe you should come round more often and I wouldn’t be.”

The light comes on from the balcony deck next door, making the both of them duck and shield their eyes for a second. Bea sticks their head out, casting a shadow and hollering, “Anthony?! Where the hell did you go, you wanker?!"

“Over here!” He yells back.

Bea turns their way, “Oh, hey Aziraphale! Happy Christmas and all that bollocks!”

Crowley decides to discard his unsmoked cigarette and flicks it into the fire. Blergh. Didn’t really want it anyway.

“Hold on!” Bea continues, “Don’t go anywhere! I’ve got something for you! Anthony, come to the fence and catch!” 

“Would you two keep it down, we do have other neighbors,” Aziraphale hisses. But he gives a cheerful wave to Bea anyway, unfailingly polite. Crowley leans forward and exaggeratedly looks left and right, noting the dark houses up and down most of the block. “Not right now we don’t. Looks to me like everyone else has decamped for the holidays.”

Bea disappears inside then returns, overhand pitching, without further warning, a cheerfully wrapped box the size of an extra large fruitcake. It sails from above and across the fence, ribbons trailing, and Crowley has to make a diving catch for it, rolling across the damp grass like a heroic goalkeeper.

“Give that to Aziraphale, will ya!”

Crowley ambles back over and lobs the box to Aziraphale who has to drop the poker to catch it. He shoots Crowley a particularly withering glare and levels an entirely dead pan, “Thank you.” Before turning to set it on the bench behind him.

“Bea says hi.”

“I was there. I heard. As did everyone else within a square kilometre.”

The light next door goes off again, leaving them lit only by the fire in front of them again. Crowley adds another two logs and Aziraphale drops a luxurious looking lavender scarf on top of them. They watch it catch and curl in on itself in silence. 

Aziraphale and Crowley can’t see, but after having turned off the light, Bea lingers in the back shadows of the first story deck, observing. After a few minutes pass, Bea hears the door behind them slide open and closed with two quiet swishes and Shax comes up behind them, looming. She hovers behind Bea before the two of them move forward to the railing at the same time and start to shuffle competitively, vying for the best vantage to eavesdrop.

“What are they saying?” Shax stage whispers.

“Shut up.” Bea whispers back, “Sure as shit can’t hear them with you yapping in my ear.”

Shax elbows them and gets an even sharper elbow in return. This kicks off an intense yet silent shoving match that is ended when Shax puts her hand too close, pushing at Bea’s shoulder, and Bea bites her on the wrist.

“So…” Aziraphale starts, “Is everyone over for the holiday? Thought I saw Shax outside earlier.”

Crowley spins slowly, giving his body the rotisserie treatment of warmth. “All of them. Every last bloody one. Even cousin Michael, with Uriel and their two, too.”

“Lord.”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you quartering, then?” Aziraphale tentatively asks, “This really is an unexpected surprise. I had no idea you’d be coming for Christmas.”

Crowley looks up at the house next door, every interior light burning brightly. “Yeah, uh, last minute change of plans. Full house and I just got in, so… I’m kipping on an inflatable in the attic. Probably going to freeze my tits off up there.”

Aziraphale pointedly looks down at his lean chest then back at his eyes, “don’t think you have that particular problem, my dear.”

“Don’t be pedantic. You know what I mean.”

“Pedantry is my most useful skill. You…here’s a thought, actually, why don’t you stay here, with me? I’ve plenty of room. Bit of a mess at the moment… but, at least you can keep your never-have-existed, and still entirely-non-existent, tits from freezing off.”

“I’d look great with tits.”

Aziraphale looks him up and down again, intentionally slowly this time, cataloguing him from head to toe and back again, shrugs. “I guess you could pull it off.”

“Ugh. You’re a tit.”

“Should I rescind the invitation then?”

“No,” Crowley grumbles, “but, do you mean just for tonight?”

“Oh, for however long you’re here, I suppose?” Aziraphale pokes at the fire, it’s producing some disturbingly colourful flames. “I don’t mind. When are you back to Edinburgh?”

“Umm. ‘bout that. I’ll, uh, actually, tell you in a bit. Just gimme a minute, I’m just gonna grab a bag of things first.” He darts off, back in the direction of Bea’s. “Be right back!”

“Oh fuck! Get back inside! Move!” Bea hisses and shoves Shax towards the door.

“Crowley! Use the damned gate!” He calls after him, but he’s already back over the fence, this time landing on the other side on his feet with only a small stumble - that he pretends to turn into an intentional jog. Rather than using the side door, he climbs back up the side of the house using the lattice again, looking rather like an impaired house spider, and pulls himself over the deck railing.

Aziraphale looks after him, fondly, “Oh, Crowley, please never change.” he says aloud to the night air.

Next door, Shax and Bea are sitting innocently on the sofa, Michael between them. For all appearances they’re playing a game of Cribbage while sounds of destruction emanate from the direction of the kitchen. Uriel and Ferdinand are in the individual armchairs across from them. Uriel is quietly reading ‘Remembrance of Things Past (La Recherche)’ and Furfur is scrolling through his phone playing something involving coin crashing noises at highest volume.

Crowley flies down the stairs carrying an overstuffed black duffel bag, in too much of a hurry to take in the extremely ridiculous suspiciousness of the tableau, and hollers over his shoulder as he heads through the kitchen. “Staying with Aziraphale. Pop back over sometime tomorrow. Don’t wait for me to start the festivities!”

They all hear the door slam behind him and drop the pretense immediately. Bea slaps their cards on the table, with a predatory grin, “Now. Let the real games begin.”

In a flash, Crowley is back, emerging this time from the lower side door and letting himself through via the connected gate nearer to the front of the garden.

“What, No steeplechase this time?” Aziraphale teases, as Crowley comes back up next to the fire, dropping a laden duffel bag on the ground.

He rubs at the back of his head, sheepishly. “Nah. Figured I might be getting a bit old for it after all. Your Privet really isn’t as soft a landing as you might think.”

“I’ve never had the fortitude to give it a try.”

“Well, I don’t recommend it. Two out of ten.”

“Noted.”

“Should we head in?”

“If you’d like, it is a bit…nippy, or do I mean, nipply, out here. Wouldn’t want you to lose those nipples of yours, now would we?”

“Oh fuck off.”

Aziraphale plucks up a hose he’s stretched over from the house and douses the fire with it, sending a foul smelling plume of smoke into their faces and blossoming up and out into the air like a mushroom cloud. They both cough and stumble back, watching as it dissipates and listening to the embers sizzling out with a crackle.

“Right. Well. That was a thing.” Crowley says, grabbing up his duffel. “Please tell me that you have absolutely extraordinary amounts of alcohol in there.”

“Just the usual amount,” Aziraphale replies.

“Oh, good, that’s a yes then. Let’s get to it.”

Aziraphale gestures towards the house, "After you."

As they disappear inside, the group on the back deck, which has now expanded to Michael, groans in near unison and retreats.

They enter through the back patio door and Crowley stumbles and nearly trips on the threshold when he sees what he’s walking into. The house is in shambles. They’ve come into what was the dining room, but is now missing one half of the wall to the left that leads into the kitchen. Stacks of dropcloths are taking up most of the antique oak table. He can see between the open walls, and everything beyond is in a similar state. “What the…”

“Oh, just come through.” Aziraphale leads him around piles of lumber, buckets, paint pots, stacks of tile, and the odd abandoned tool. Crowley leans over to peek at the kitchen on the way, and half of the ceiling is gone, bare timber spanning across and into the dining room. “Angel…”

The wall between the dining room and living room is gone entirely, knocked down to the studs. Everything Crowley remembers about the house is in disarray, including Aziraphale’s precious books, which are apparently splitting the difference between stacked on the floor and packed into boxes. The shelves are half empty and something is off about the furniture arrangement. More piles of dropcloths are mounded around the room and a pyramid of miniature paint pots guards a section of wall with swaths of test swatches striping it.

There is a sad looking Christmas tree near the front window. It’s missing lights and only has a few lonely bobbles decorating it. There are no gifts beneath.

“As you can tell, we were renovating.”

“We…were renovating?”

“Gabriel and I. It was…. part of his ‘conditions’ for moving in.”

“Alright, I need to start drinking in earnest for this, don’t I; you were actually going to let that,” he pauses, unsure of how offensive he can be now that the wankstain is gone, “fucking wankstain (damnit) move in with you? Here?”

This draws zero reprimand from Aziraphale and Crowley considers. Fuck, must be worse than he’d imagined.

Aziraphale breezes on as if he didn’t even hear him. “Why don’t you go on into the living room and get comfortable, I’m sure you had a long drive. I'll bring the wine.”

They’ve settled in. Crowley on the sofa and Aziraphale across from him in an arm chair that he’s dragged over. A small coffee table separates them and they both lean over it to access the wine Aziraphale has poured, a Diablo Velvet Merlot. It doesn’t have a year.

“I do apologise for the rather pedestrian selection this evening. I haven’t had the time to top up with some better quality offerings.” 

Crowley snorts at that, “Come off it. I’ve seen you drink White Lightning. Not to mention that one night in Shoreditch with the absolutely, definitely, counterfeit Scrumpy Jack that miraculously didn’t put us both in hospital. Tesco special isn’t going to kill me. Nor you.”

Aziraphale throws a cushion at him.

Now that the wine has him lubricated, Azirphale has been on a rant. 

“Oh! And he wanted an ‘open floorplan,’ you see. And a home gym, which was to go upstairs. And also, for me to…control the clutter. Maybe put some things into storage. Things I wasn’t willing to part with, anyhow.”

Crowley nearly sees red. “Oh, is that all? Just you, changing everything to appease him. Changing yourself, changing your home. All to appeal to his narcissistic whims?”

Aziraphale loses some bluster and looks ashamed at that, and Crowley regrets the jabs immediately. “Sorry. I-”

“Nono. Don’t be.” He concedes, “You’re right. It crept up on me, really. It was always just one more little thing, then another, then another. I could never do anything right, never good enough, but I didn’t see it that way. He was always just trying to ‘help me improve.’ And next thing you know…” He gestures around at the whole of the house.

Crowley doesn’t want to ask, but he has to, he can’t not. “So, um…what happened, then?”

Aziraphale’s posture straightens even more than normal and he hardens his expression, preparing himself in a way that makes Crowley apprehensive. “May as well get this over with.”

“You don’t have to, Aziraphale, if you don’t want to. It’s…not really my business…it’s not.” Crowley looks at his lap, abashed and feeling guilty for pressing. “Fuck ‘em. Or, errr…sorry?”

“It’s perfectly alright, Crowley. It’s just…unpleasent.” He pauses, fortifies with more wine, and speaks, factual. “You may as well know all of it. I came home early from the Library.” He takes another sip. “There was an unexpected power outage that couldn’t be serviced, so we closed up at half-day. Gabriel had been overseeing the work here, at the house, you see, dealing with the contractors and such, so I expected to find him when I got home. In the throes of…renovating.

“What I certainly did not expect was to find him thoroughly overseeing the General Contractor across the back of our sofa. In the throes of…well…you can imagine. Not renovation, anyway.”

Crowley’s jaw drops and he sets down his wine. Looks to both his sides one after the other at the sofa he’s currently sitting on.

“Oh, that one went to the charity shop over a week ago. This one used to be over there.” He indicates the missing chunk of wall with his wine glass. “They did at least have the decency to throw a dropcloth over it first, but I couldn’t stomach looking at it.”

“Gross.”Crowley shudders, and scrunches his face.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I put the dropcloth on it, to protect it from dust and paint.”

“Angel, I’m pretty sure that makes it worse.”

“Yes. It does, doesn’t it.” He leans forward from his chair and refills his wine, face now impassive.

“I never liked him, you know.”

“Crowley,” He gives him a patronizing look, “Seriously? I don’t think there was anything more obvious. On the day you met you “accidentally” spilled his drink. Twice. And I know the second time that you were intentionally aiming - for his lap. You referred to him as ‘his royal smugness.’ In his presence. On multiple occasions.”

“Wasn’t wrong.”

Aziraphale leans back, sipping, “No. You weren’t.”

They’re getting into their cups now, one bottle of wine already gone and moving rapidly through the second. Neither of them have any idea what it is, but it had had a screw top. They've been volleying all the names they can remember back and forth, competing for who can surface the worst of them from the past.

“Benedict Cumbertart - and that one is extra awful because you introduced me by that name and expected me to somehow keep a straight face.” Aziraphale adopts a haughty air.

“I can’t decide between “Bobby Williams or Raul Davies,” those have to be a tie.” Crowley muses. “You must have been watching too much “Top of the Pops” around that time.

“As if,” Aziraphale huffs, “Kyle Minogue beats them both, handily,” Aziraphale smirks at him. “I mean, really.”

“Jonathan McFell,” Crowley says in retort, swinging his glass around, “which would have been fine… if it weren’t for your abysmal attempt at a Scottish accent to justify it.” 

“Yes. Donald McDonald was a superlative choice. I applaud your stunning victory there, Matthew Crawley,” Aziraphale shoots back. “Now that was just tragically embarrassing. Admit it.”

“Not my fault you made me watch Downton, and don’t think I missed what you did there, Philip Morris.”

“Well it was tragic, poor Lady Mary,” he makes a pouty little moue, but the effect is ruined when he can’t hold it and it slips into a wicked smile, “and as for Philip, I was making a point about your terrible habits. Anthony Yellowpants.”

“Oh, come onnnnn, those were special circumstances.” Crowley groans.

Aziraphale giggles, “the man you tried that one on, was wearing yellow pants. Which everyone in the whole pub was privy to… because he’d tucked his shirt into them when he left the loo.”

Crowley barks out a laugh, throwing his head back, “It was like my brain short circuited, it was all I could see so it was all I could say. The look on his face!”

They both laugh, remembering the night from decades ago. Aziraphale refills his glass and hands the bottle over the small table to Crowley so he can do the same. He empties it and sets it on the floor next to its predecessor.

Aziraphale settles back in his armchair, “What was the name you tried to pull off when we were caught out by Vice Chancellor Metatron -  when you knocked his pint over, at the Dirty Donkey -  night before sitting for exams and you were three sheets to the wind…Billdaddy?”

“Bildad! And I was soused! So were you, by the way, more than. I tried to come up with something like Bill and then a last name like, dunno, Davison, but, instead… that came out.”

“No, what came out was, ‘Billdad? Shuiiiite….’ as you drunkenly slurred around and then tried to swallow cursing out loud at your own terrible fake name. I thought you were going to chuck on his loafers.”

“It was a fantastic fake name. I stand by it. And as if yours was any better.” He slumps lower down on the sofa, sprawling and spreading his legs wide, grinning.

“Mine was perfect. Besides, I was too busy talking us out of being thrown out whilst you were dithering with Metatron and not realizing we didn’t have enough money to cover the tab.”

“A.Z. Fell, Esquire, was perfect, was it? You basically said your own name, you nitwit.”

“He never did track us down though, so I say it was a success.”

“Alright, I'll give you that one.”

“Didn’t matter in the end though, we both still passed anyway, miraculously.” Aziraphale says, a little softness coming into his voice at the memory.

“Heh. We did.” Crowley takes a large swallow of wine before gesturing at him with the glass, “Nothing will beat the originals though. Those dodgy fake IDs were magnificent.” 

“Magnificently awful."

“Counts.” Crowley insists.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I still have mine.”

“Nooooo. Not possible. It’s been nearly thirty years!”

“Shall I retrieve it and show you?”

Nah, I believe you. Don’t think you’ve ever gotten rid of anything,” he says, looking around at the piles of boxes and books. “Wish I still had mine,” he adds, wistfully.

Aziraphale snorts into his wine, “I’m not sure how you expected to not have it confiscated the second we tried to order at the pub.”

“What? It was a good likeness.”

“I don’t think it was the likeness that was at issue, my dear. I think it’s that no one on earth was going to believe a fifteen year old boy was actually 37 and named ‘Nanny Ashtoreth.’”

“Yeah, well, you’re just lucky I went first… ‘Reverend Zebediah Francis.’”

They both hold a straight face for a few moments before dissolving into laughter. “What a couple of idiots, eh?” Crowley says.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was a learning experience. And after all, we did get so much better at it. Eventually.”

“Yeah, we did, didn’t we...” At least, I did, Crowley thinks. Always easier to pretend with Aziraphale, pretend to be someone else. ‘To not let him see the truth of things.

“I never did ask, at the time, wherever did you procure those terrible fakes?” Aziraphale squints at him, questioning.

Crowley mumbles something unintelligible into his glass, “frrrrrrrhhh.”

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

Crowley coughs, “Furfur…said he knew a guy….”

“Oh good lord. Furfur?! Was this when he was going through that phase? Photographing everyone, popping out from behind trees and fences and such like some kind of….jump scare teenage paparazzo?” He laughs again, “That’s where you got our photos?” 

“Yep.”

“Well, that certainly explains it.” He snorts, “And, your silly sister went on to marry him.”

“Don’t remind me. They’re over there right now with their hellspawn twins, Adras and Aemon, contributing to the absolute bedlam. After eight years you’d think I’d be able to tell them apart but…doesn’t really matter which one is lighting the carpet on fire versus which has stuffed a whole bog roll in the toilet to overflow the bathroom.”

Aziraphale gives him a look, lips pursed. “Really, Crowley.”

“Yeah, alright, you’re right. The carpet fire was definitely Hastur, the little shit.”

“And the rest of them?”

“Dunno. When I left - Dagon had Eric and Amy tied together in the pantry, and Ligur was exploring his creativity by multicolour finger painting the kitchen cabinets with the contents of the refrigerator.”

Azirapahale stands, gesturing at their (again) empty glasses. “Another?”

“Why not.”

Aziraphale returns with the bottle of red already open and pours for the both of them before settling back down in his chair. He waits until Crowley is taking a drink.

“Snakey Spice.”

Crowley splutters and spits wine across his glass in hand and onto the floor. “Bassstard.”

Aziraphale passes him a box of tissues. “You thought I’d forgotten that one?”

The evening continues and they are now bickering about whether or not Hamlet is responsible for Opelia’s death. Crowley, yes, he’s a repressed dick; Aziraphale, no, it’s a combination of everyone around her - this is a well worn argument, a comfortable groove - and they’ve both, in point of fact, argued the opposite on prior occasions as well as the case for neither.

Unable to stop his mind skipping from shitty partners to Gabriel, Crowley obliquely brings them back to the topic they’d abandoned earlier. He gestures with his wine glass at the chaos around them, “sooooo…what are you planning to do with all this now that you’re, eh, single.” Smooth, Crowley.

Aziraphale looks around, “I really have no idea. I liked things the way they were, before.” He gets a far away look, sadness creeping around his eyes, “Maybe I can have it restored.”

Before he can stop his mouth, Crowley blurts out, “probably should get a new contractor though.” He freezes immediately, realizing what he’s just said.

Aziraphale gapes at him for a second before he collapses into giggles, hiding behind his wine. “Oh? You think that, do you? Any recommendations?”

“Furfur probably knows a guy…?”

Aziraphale guffaws now, and keeps laughing for a while. “Yes. He probably does.” He intones, having recovered himself. There is a beat where he takes another sip of wine, attempts nonchalant, “Ahem, and, ah, you? Anyone special in your life these days?” Smooth, Aziraphale.

Crowley scoffs, “Nah, you know me, single as ever.”

Aziraphale looks at him a bit sideways, “You must have plenty of interest though, I mean… lots of opportunity for you, isn’t there? Especially with your looks?”

Crowley furrows his brow at him, “What opportunity? What looks?”

“I just mean, you know, men, women, more, ah, twice the options?”

“Twice the…?! That is NOT how it works, Angel. And besides, there haven't been any women in ages.” Crowley eyes him, wondering if he’s gone too squiffy.

“All those girlfriends, thought you were straight for years.” Aziraphale mumbles into his wine, hoping too late that it’s gone unheard.

Unfortunately for him, Crowley catches it and snaps back at him, “I thought you were straight for years!” He rearranges himself testily, before mumbling, “besides, weren’t girlfriends,” under his breath.

Aziraphale hits back, “How you ever thought I was straight is beyond me. Your lack of observational prowess is honestly astonishing.” He huffs, and settles back into his chair.

Now they are both riled.

“Oh, my observational prowess isn’t up to snuff, is it? And what about yours?” Crowley bites out, not letting this go. Escalating.

“Mine? Mine?! How was I to know you weren’t anything other than as straight as you appeared? You always had a fawning fanclub and, and a…a revolving carousel of girlfriends. I couldn’t even keep track. What was I supposed to think? It wasn’t until Uni that it became apparent that the ever changing love interests flocking around you weren't exclusively female, and that you were entertaining all of them. You never even told me, not directly. I had to watch it happen and figure it out.” He pauses a moment and deeply frowns, “I at least told you.”

“Not what I meant by lack of observation.” Crowley slams back the last dregs of his glass and stands from the sofa, wobbly and needing to put a stop to this before he does or says something he’ll regret. “Which way to the functional guest room? This place is a disaster.”

He moves towards the stairs, but Aziraphale launches himself up and grabs him by the wrist before he can get away. Something isn't right. “Not what you meant?” He asks, not letting Crowley go, “What did you mean then, if not…?” Crowley tries to pull away but Aziraphale continues to hold him there, their eyes locked.

“Come on, Aziraphale,” Crowley slouches and sighs, breaking their eye contact, his wrist going limp in Aziraphale’s grasp. “As if you don’t know. Might not have back then, but you obviously do by now. No way not to. Don’t play with me.”

“Obviously….?”

“Obviously.” Crowley mocks, still looking away from him.

“Care to share with me exactly what it is you think I know?”

Crowley now tries to shake his arm free, but Aziraphale just grips him harder. Crowley growls at him, “You know. You’re just acting like you don’t. Drop it. Forget I said anything. Stop this.”

“Stop what?! I still have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah. Fine. You really want to pretend you don’t know? I’ll tell you. Better. I’ll show you.”

“I don-”

Quick as a whip, Crowley has suddenly freed himself and has Aziraphale by the lapels, silencing him. With a half spin he pins him to the nearest intact wall, next to one of the half emptied bookcases, rattling picture frames. “You know THIS.” He takes a scant moment to search Aziraphale’s eyes, and seeing no immediate fear, smashes their lips together. He feels Aziraphale stiffen under his full body press and after two seconds of no response from him - other than lifting his arms around him to deliver a fluttering ghostly pat, he releases him, staggering back a few steps, eyes wide and a look of abject terror on his face, arms up in a sort of half pleading half placating gesture. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck. Aziraphale. I’m so sorry. I -” His words are choked off with a high pitched whine.

Aziraphale, for his part, is still leaning against the wall, but pitched slightly forward. His eyes are wet with tears and he’s covering his mouth with one hand, trembling.

“I’ll go. That was…I’m sorry.” Crowley’s still backing away, perilously close to tripping on the bundle of dropcloths rumpled at the edge of the rug. “I forgive you,” Aziraphale says, looking directly at him now, and tears well up in Crowley’s eyes as he stops for a moment. “Don’t bother.” Continuing to back away, the rug gets the better of him, before the mound of canvas can, and catches under his heel. He goes down in a pile of limbs, his head narrowly missing a pot of paint.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale is across the room and helping him up before he’s really regained his senses. “Are you alright?

Crowley stands in front of him, hunched, tottering, more than a bit drunk, and brushing away tears, looking up at the ceiling. “Yeah. Fantastic. Never been better. Think I better go now.”

Aziraphale grabs him, hands around both biceps, holding him upright. They sway together and he gives him a little shake, forcing him to drop his head so he can look into his amber eyes. 

“No.”

“No?” Crowley blinks at him.

“Do it again.”

“Do….”

“I said,” he yanks Crowley to him so they are practically nose to nose, “Do it again.” He stares him down, commanding. “Only this time, do it properly.” Crowley’s eyes go wider than what seems humanly possible and he sputters, “Properly?”

Aziraphale’s thumbs start making little calming circles on his arms and his face goes soft, reassuring. An invitation. “Yes. Kiss me. Again. Properly. If you would, please."

Hesitantly, Crowley inches his face forward, inquisitive, but not quite touching. Aziraphale loosens his grip and Crowley snakes his left arm around his waist and his right up behind his neck, tangling his fingers in the curls at his nape. “Is this…alright?” His breath is a ghost across Aziraphale’s lips. He watches, and waits, Aziraphale's grey-blue eyes bouncing up and down between keeping his gaze and lingering on his lips.

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“Considering how long I’ve been waiting for this, could you get on with it?”

“Oh.” Crowley breathes out, closing his eyes and bringing their mouths together, tenderly this time, exploring the softness of Aziraphale’s lips between his own. Unlike when he’d pinned him to the wall, Aziraphale responds immediately, practically crushing him to him in his embrace.

The air around them compresses and seems to lose its ability to supply oxygen. Crowley gasps and clings to Aziraphale, his legs going out from under him, having apparently transformed into cooked spaghetti. Although Aziraphale’s strength could easily hold them both up, usually, he feels weak and is slumping around Crowley even as he holds him tight. His skin feels like it’s on fire.

“Oh god, oh god.” Crowley murmurs into his lips. “Aziraphale, please.” Aziraphale just makes a low moan and sucks his tongue into his mouth, provoking even more incapacitation.

Crowley is about to pull them both to the floor, turned into a dead weight. The only movement he’s capable of is continued kissing. He won’t let go of Aziraphale’s neck and is dragging them both down.

“Maybe we should go upstairs?” Aziraphale says, prising them apart, searching Crowley’s eyes even as he holds him up by the waist. He’s looking for an agreement, desperate to know they are on the same page. He can’t imagine what he’ll do if this is unwanted after all.

Crowley’s pupils are so wide they’ve nearly taken over his honeyed eyes entirely and his lips are kiss-swollen, wet and red. He nods, “okay.” And then he keeps on nodding, like an automated puppet not turned off. “Yes. Yes.”

They pull apart more fully and step towards the staircase, Aziraphale directing them. He walks Crowley towards the stairs, still holding him around the waist and moving him backwards with sure steps like he is leading them through a waltz. It’s easy, like they’ve been dancing their entire lives and this is just routine.

Aziraphale takes hold of Crowley’s loose hand to more properly guide him along the path, continuing their backwards steps, avoiding boxes and stacks of books. When they reach the bottom stair, Aziraphale turns them round and walks backwards himself, tugging Crowley along after him, like it’s a game they’ve played a thousand times before. And in a way, it is, they have. Stair by stair, Aziraphale dips down and kisses him before pulling him up another step.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Aziraphale pulls him onto the landing and directs him to the master bedroom, having spun them round him in a way that allows him to now have Crowley be the one backing up again, the final steps of their dance. A few more steps and he pushes him now, backwards, before realizing too late, and to his horror, that there is no longer a real bed there for him to land on. 

Crowley’s lower calves hit the bare mattress on the floor and with a gasp he falls much farther than anticipated. Landing with a harsh exhalation of air from his chest, followed by a squeak, he tries to sit up and falls back, the wind knocked out of him. “The fuck?” He manages to wheeze out.

“Ah, yes, the bed went to the charity shop too, frame and all. New mattress. So sorry.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale turns to the side, ignoring Crowley sprawled out on the bare mattress, and gathers a stack of blankets and sheets he hadn’t quite gotten around to dressing the bed with, since it’d only been delivered earlier that day. At least he’d cut the plastic wrapping off. He tosses the pile over Crowley’s head, to the end of the bed, and follows it with two pillows.

Crowley watches all of this, flabbergasted. “Hellllooo! Forgetting anything?” He points at himself as a third pillow narrowly misses his nose.

And then, he’s shocked back into silence. Backed by the hallway light, Aziraphale is slowly disrobing, his hair lit up like a halo by the soft light. He steadily removes the thick wool cardigan and lays it across a chair next to the bureau. It’s followed by his bowtie (this goes on the bureau itself) and then his waistcoat is also arranged on top of the cardigan. He’s in his shirtsleeves and trousers now, and slides his braces down so they are hanging at his waist.

“Ngk.” Crowley makes a noise from below. “Aren’t you at least gonna let me help?”

Aziraphale stops the unbuttoning of his shirt to move forward and kneel between Crowley's open legs. “Go on then. Help.” He waits, not moving. Crowley can feel the heat of him, just inches away, and concludes in an instant that he’s not ever anticipated a confident and commanding Angel when it comes to sex. He really should have. He really really should have.

He’s known the man for over thirty years and never been able to say ‘no’ to him in any capacity, not once. Aziraphale’s been commanding him with or without words ever since they met. And when it comes down to it, he’s probably (definitely) more experienced than Crowley is, all appearances of his (supposed) promiscuity aside. It’s a miscalculation that has him at a disadvantage and he can only gape up at him, awaiting further instruction. Oh fuck.

Aziraphale hovers over him, and slowly resumes, beginning to unbutton Crowley’s shirt for him. “I’m helping you…aren’t you going to do your job now and help me like you asked?”

Crowley is still locked into the moment, feeling Aziraphale’s hands trail up and down his chest, having slipped under his now half-off shirt. Everywhere he's touched, it feels like Aziraphale’s fingers are lighting up his skin with sparks. 

“Take it all off. Now.” He states, and squirms away up the mattress to the pillows, ripping his loose hanging shirt up and over his head. He follows it by stripping down his trousers in an (admittedly) unsexy amount of wriggling and lays himself back down on his back, now only in his erection-tented pants. Aziraphale is still kneeling where he’d left him, not having moved, so Crowley hoists himself back up and shuffles to him, starts grabbing at his remaining layers of clothes. “Off, off. Off now. So much beige. Begone! Let me at you.”

While Aziraphale hastily moves to strip the rest of his layers off, Crowley sneaks a half unfolded sheet underneath them and shakes out two of the blankets, tossing them to the side and onto the floor in a little mound.

Before he can get himself back into a seductive pose, a warm palm grips his ankle and pulls him into position. Laying him back down again, Aziraphale’s hand slowly moves up his calf, rubs at his knee, caresses his thigh, and then stops, enticingly, with a thumb gripping the crease of his hip and fingers curling around his backside over his trunks. Another hand skims straight up and holds him down by the shoulder.

Now that they are both nearly bare, Aziraphale realises they are in a bit of a predicament, or two, and his confidence slips for a moment. “Ahhh… Crowley. I…depending on how, or what, we will… well. Well, anyway, I don’t have any prophylactics on hand. You should know. You should also know that I get tested regularly and…that at the time of…at the time of my discovery, Gabriel and I hadn’t been intimate for quite a long time. So, I’m…”

“Me too.” Crowley jumps in to agree. “Wait. Not, I mean, not me too, like, as in I’ve not been intimate with Gabriel, cause I haven’t. Obviously.” What the fuck had he just said? “Fuck. I mean…”

Aziraphale drops his head to Crowley’s neck and snort laughs. “Try again.” He kisses around his collarbone, licking a little, making it even harder for him to get a comprehensive sentence out. Crowley whimpers softly and arches his chest up into Aziraphale’s, seeking more skin to skin contact. “You know what I meant, you bastard,” he breathes in, hard, as Aziraphale’s upper hand moves down to graze over his nipple. His thick fingers roll it for just a second before moving back up his neck to push back his hair and hold it, pinning him in place again. 

“I’m good too. Been ages and ages for me, I’m-” is all Crowley manages to get out before Aziraphale's mouth is now on the nipple he’d teased, his tongue laving and then pulling the raised peak into his cupid bow mouth with a quick and forceful suck, followed by a nip of his teeth. “Fuck! Good. Good. I’m good. You’re good. Everything’s good! Oh my god. Get on with it!”

Crowley’s cock is straining and leaking against his trunks and he rolls his hips up, unable to make contact as Aziraphale is frustratingly holding him down and is also too far away for him to manage some friction.

“Get on with what?” Aziraphale pulls up and back, giving him the same annoying look he always does when he’s about to deliver some cutting remark that they both know makes him the winner of an argument.

Crowley stops and realises he doesn’t actually know.. “Ahhhherrmmm. What do you usually…? I’m not particular, actually? What do you want?”

Aziraphale now realises he doesn’t know either. “Well…. I’m…what do you want?”

Crowley looks down between them and then back up, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes in the near dark. His fingers catch on either side of Aziriaphale’s hips and he slides his hands under the elastic of his boxers before running them from sides to center, moving the band from catching around Aziraphale’s swollen cock and sliding them down. 

“You.”

Aziraphale’s cock bobs and then bounces back up, wet at its fat tip, looking red and hot. The feeling of Crowley’s comparatively cool fingers wrapping around him causes Aziraphale to buck his hips into his fist and moan. “Crowley, oh…yes…”

He opens his eyes, unaware that he’d squeezed them shut at Crowley’s touch, and looks down. Crowley’s face is a painting of desire. His mouth is hanging open and his eyes are nearly glazed over as he strokes Aziraphale, his other arm thrown up over his head, gripping a pillow. A deep flush runs down his chest and he’s already got beads of sweat gathering at the hollow of his throat.

Aziraphale reaches down and wrenches Crowley’s trunks down his thighs, deftly using one foot to drag them the rest of the way past his ankles. He pulls Crowley’s girth into his own fist and begins working him with a sensitive touch, at first, just lightly moving the foreskin. With his other hand he reaches over and winds his fingers between the ones Crowley is using to hold onto the pillow, forcing them apart and then gripping on, hard. Only once he has them grounded together does he start to increase his grip and pace, incrementally. Crowley bucks up into him and arches his back, dampening Aziraphale’s chest with his increasing sweat as they come into more solid contact.

Once they begin to rock as one, their hands come together and wrap in unison around one another’s cocks. Pressed together, Crowley spreads slick precome along both their shafts when he rubs his thumb across Aziraphale’s tip and he drags his hand down all the way to grip his balls for a quick moment. Aziraphale shudders and falls on him a little more heavily, trapping their cocks and arms between them. They are both rutting now, no real finesse, just steadily faster and harder.

“Stop.” Crowley pulls out his hand and pushes up at Aziraphale. “Stop, not like this.”

Aziraphale freezes and lifts up, his hand still trapped between them and wrapped around Crowley’s cock. He looks at him, not knowing what to expect or how to move. Has he done something wrong?

“Fuck me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Errr…fornicate with me? Put that giant cock of yours in my arse?”

“...Excuse me?!”

“Make love to me with your big beautiful phallus?”

“…Can you even spell phallus?”

“Can, but don’t need to. Unless you’ve given yours an even fancier name I need to know about.  Probably some sword from Lord of the Rings.”

Aziraphale gasps, affronted, “As if.”

Crowley reaches up and pulls him back down to him in a fierce kiss, hands on both sides of his head, fingers locked into his blond curls. They get lost in it again for a while, Aziraphale lazily resuming his stroking while Crowley combs his fingers through his hair.

“Aziraphale….” Crowley groans. “I want more. Please, can we? Can you?”

Aziraphale rolls off of him in tacit agreement and reaches over to the nightstand that is uncomfortably elevated from their position on the unsupported mattress. His hand scrambles around in a drawer for a while before he’s forced to stand and search more thoroughly. Having finally found what he needs, he drops back to the mattress right between Crowley’s thighs. Without warning, he licks a stripe up his cock, sucks the tip of him into his mouth and then engulfs him farther, taking him practically all the way in with shocking speed and efficiency. At the same time, he drags a finger around and under Crowley’s balls, teasing at his rim.

“Holy FUCK” Crowley’s hips jump off the bead, accidentally driving him deeper into Aziraphale’s throat. Aziraphale only hums in satisfaction and removes his teasing hand to place a broad palm across Crowley’s right hip and push him back down flat. Once he’s felt him settle, he bobs a couple times and then pops off and delivers kisses to both of the insides of Crowley’s thighs. 

“How would you like this to go?” Aziraphale asks, bringing himself back up to blanket Crowley with his body, kissing along the side of neck and up to his ear.

“I want to see you. That’s all. Just…let me see you.” Crowley says, quietly.

Surprised, Aziraphale kisses him softly. “Of course. We can do that.”

He reaches over for the lube he’d pulled from the drawer and left next to them, clicking it open and coating his fingers before dropping it back. He kisses Crowley again, briefly, and shuffles partway down his lithely muscled body, encouraging his legs farther apart with his dry hand and nudging his nose into his chest. Running his slicked fingers down Crowley’s shaft, over and past his balls, he strokes a few times at the flat of his perineum before slipping back to his entrance. Running circles for a few lazy turns, Crowley is growing restless beneath him, squirming, so he stops teasing and slips a finger in. Crowley sighs and relaxes, taking it in easily, but it’s so tight and hot Aziraphale feels his own cock jump in response and he lurches forward sliding in more than he’d meant to. “Yes, yes, Angel, like that,” Crowley begs; and Aziraphale only needs to pump a couple of times more before he’s able to slip a second finger in, drawing out a gasp and some muttered insensible consonants. He curls his fingers then, pushing deeper and pulling towards him with a slow dragging pressure, like he’s beckoning Crowley to him.

“Please,” Crowley says now, “Angel, please.”

At this Aziraphale removes his fingers and reaches back over for the lube. He pours a healthy amount in his hand and slicks himself, slowly stroking as he watches Crowley below him, legs splayed open, cock hard and weeping, the smear of both of their sweat and precome and now the lube making his skin glisten. He’s beautiful, unattainable, but he’s somehow here now, finally in his bed.

He brackets himself back over him, one hand guiding his cock into place. Crowley feels the head of him, teasing at his entrance and bucks a little, “stop making me wait.”

And then Aziraphale is pushing in. His hips move in small increments, at first, gentle, just working his head past the tight ring of muscle. But almost as soon as he gets past the first resistance and starts to slide in more deeply with each stroke, Crowley locks his legs around his back, grabs his arse with both hands, and shoves him in to the hilt with a filthy moan so loud Aziraphale practically comes on the spot. “Crowley, my God,” He says, his forehead falling to meet Crowley’s, breathing hard and slow. “Slow down.” He lifts back up so they can look at one another and what he sees there is so searing he can’t believe it’s real. He starts moving again, dragging out and pushing in again, but only halfway, then shallower, then just grinding them together.

“I didn’t think, I never thought it could, oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop.” Crowley’s grip on him is fierce, not letting him pull out much at all now.

Aziraphale reaches down between them, and again, using the lightest of touches, takes Crowley back in hand to stroke him in time with the circular motions he’s making with his hips. He’s unbelievably hard, the hot length of him filling his hand. He wishes he could somehow have Crowley in his mouth at the same time he’s inside of him. And then, at the combination of Aziraphale buried in him and his hand around him Crowley starts to tremble, “Aziraphale, I’m…”

“Me too.”

When Crowley comes it’s with a cry. He throws his head back and his whole torso comes off the mattress, his arms are wrapped around and still holding Aziraphale by his arsecheeks, keeping him inside of him even as he pulses across his own stomach. Just the sight of him falling apart would have easily been enough to pull Aziraphale with him but the additional feeling of his body clenching around him catapults him instead. He pulls out just enough to slam home twice more before he empties himself into Crowley with a cry of his own. One of Crowley’s hands joins his and in the smeary mess between them he sloppily keeps their hands moving on his cock. Somehow, with the little abortive thrusts Aziraphale is still making instinctively, Crowley isn’t done, he’s still coming, releasing smaller and smaller waves of spend between them with a choking whimper.

As he comes to a stop, his hand falling to the side, Aziraphale goes still on top of him and neither of them say anything, loudly breathing in and out together repeatedly before their breaths sync and they fall quieter. Aziraphale’s head is buried in Crowley’s shoulder and he can’t see Crowley’s expression. He’s afraid to look. The single hand Crowley is still using to grip him releases, brushing up his side before he throws it up over his head and pulls a pillow over his face.

It’s enough to dislodge Aziraphale and he slips out of Crowley, trailing wetness across the loose sheet.

“I’ll just, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” he says, not sure what else to do, and moves backwards until he’s able to rise from the mattress with something approaching decorum. “I’ll get us cleaned up.”

He returns quickly, but then approaches slowly. Crowley is still laying there with the pillow over his face, not having moved. He stands awkwardly, holding two hands full of flannels and towels, half wet with warm water and the other half dry. “Crowley? Are you all right?” He shuffles closer, apprehensive to close the distance, to touch if it isn’t welcomed.

“AM I ALRIGHT.” Crowley screams into the pillow, muffled, before flinging it to the side, and to Aziraphale’s annoyance, knocking over an unlit lamp. “No, I am not alright. You never told me you were a bloody sex god!”

“A what?”

“You heard me, don’t make me repeat it.” He sits up and crosses his legs. Looks up at Aziraphale standing there with armloads of towels and a look of fearful confusion. Looks back down at the absolute mess all over him. “Are those for me? Give over.”

Aziraphale shakes himself and comes to sit next to him on the mattress. “Here, let me.” He begins with the warm wet flannels, stroking up and down Crowley’s chest and down farther, slapping Crowley’s hands away when he tries to take charge. “Lay back down.”

Crowley obeys and allows Aziraphale to continue, allows himself to be maneuvered like a limp doll and be attended to. He gasps when Aziraphale swipes between his legs and then very gently around his cheeks and entrance, tenderly cleaning him. When everything seems to be to Aziraphae’s satisfaction he drops all of the flannels and towels to the side of the bed. “Let’s lay down for a while, shall we?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley nods in agreement, feeling syrupy.

Aziraphale stands, and with a magician’s flourish, yanks the soiled sheet off of the bed and out from underneath Crowley without moving him a millimetre. “What the…? Did you just…?” 

“Hush.”

He picks up the blankets Crowley had nabbed and fluffed up earlier and spreads them neatly over Crowley one at a time before arranging himself at his side and sidling in next to him. 

Crowley turns his head to the right and looks at Aziraphale, searching, for what, he doesn’t know. He rolls his body towards him and darts a quick kiss to his lips before pushing at his shoulder and encouraging him to take the place of the little spoon. Aziraphale does, easily, and Crowley wraps himself around him, tangling their legs together and kissing at the back of his spine and neck. Aziraphale relaxes, Crowley’s arms around him, and starts to wonder what had really just happened.

Crowley is already drifting off, still spooning him in a tight grip from behind, but Aziraphale is restless. He rolls around with an intentionally heavy thump and faces Crowley, slotting their thighs together and shaking him back to fully awake. “Why? Why haven’t you ever said anything before now? Before tonight?”

Crowley groans in annoyance but buries his face in his neck and sneaks a kiss behind his ear. Then another, because he can now. Aziriphale had used his, “not dropping it” tone so he knows he is expected to give more of an answer than kisses.

“As if I could have,” He says, drowsily. “Like I said. Early on, I thought you were straight. I was constantly terrified you’d figure me out and...” He pauses, gives another lighter kiss and pulls back so they can look at each other in the slanted light coming from the hall, “At least, right up until…um. Noah.” He drops his head back down again, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“So even before then…you wanted…?” Aziraphale leaves the rest unsaid.

“Since the first time I saw you, Angel, sitting there in the sun on your back garden wall. Pretty sure you were my bi awakening. Had never had a pash on a boy before but, my gods, you were so…gorgeous. Knocked me flat out.”

Aziraphale laughs and hugs him closer. “Don’t be silly. I’m fairly certain you knocked yourself flat out when you fell out of your new neighbor’s tree trying to steal apples. Scared me half to death landing in front of me like that.”

“Pshh. That was a perfectly executed and very impressive jump.”

“Ah. Yes. And that’s why you have this very impressive scar to prove it.” He reaches up to tilt Crowley’s head, kissing him on the small snake tattoo that covers a crooked scar near his temple. He cards his hand through Crowley’s hair a few times before cupping his face. “We’ve wasted so much time, haven’t we...” It’s not framed as a question.

“Can’t think of it like that, Angel. Won’t allow it. You’re my best friend. Always have been, always will be. How was any of it wasted?”

Friends. Oh, of course, friends. Aziraphale thinks. Best friends, but, just… friends, exactly like it’s always been. His heart throbs with hurt.

Crowley moves his head to affectionately rub it into Aziraphale’s chest hair and is answered by his stomach making a loud rumbling noise.

He laughs, low, and into Aziraphale’s skin, breathing him in. “Guess it’s too early to be going to sleep anyhow, isn’t it. We probably should eat something.”

“Oh.” Is all Aziraphale can provide in response, embarrassed by the stomach grumbling and the tenderhearted realisation that this wasn’t necessarily what he’d thought.

“Yeah, yeah, I could eat.” Crowley sits up, stretching languidly, answering the question posed by Aziraphale’s stomach, if not the man himself.

“I have some frozen pizzas?” Aziraphale offers. Hungry as he is, he’d rather stay here while he can, extend the intimacy for as long as possible. But he knows the moment has slipped away. He should have let them fall into slumber when he’d had the chance, instead of prodding.

“Pizza sounds grand.” Crowley yawns and sits halfway up, blinking into the light cast into the room from the hallway.

“Well… save your judgement until you see what they are….” Aziraphale grouses from behind him.

“Doesn’t one usually reserve judgment when it comes to frozen pizza? It’s like, the social contract.”

“Not for these…” Aziraphale pushes himself up from the mattress and goes to the bureau, pulling out a pair of pajamas. Crowley admires his naked form from his place below, having fallen back into recline. 

“Do you have anything, or would you like to borrow something of mine?” Aziraphale asks him, pointedly.

“Could just walk around starkers. Let you enjoy a show.”

Aziraphale gives him an admonishing look. “I think not”

“Or use a sheet. Toga party.”

“...” 

Aziraphale does not end ‘the look,’ and stares him down.

“Fine. I’ve got some things, my bag’s back down in the living room though.”

“Just a tic, I’ll grab it for you.” Aziraphale hops into his pajama trousers without bothering with pants and shrugs into the button up top, dashing out of the room a little too quickly. Crowley hears his feet on the stairs, pattering down, and then back up again. “Here we are,” he deposits the black bag at the end of the bed, revealing a sliver of his chest as he bends down. “Meet me in the kitchen?” How he manages to make a matching set of striped cotton pajamas so attractive, Crowley can’t understand. Fuck he’s hot.

Having dropped the bag, Aziraphale turns to leave again. He will NOT make it weird. He won’t. Friends just have casual sex, don't they? It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just because it  hasn’t happened before doesn’t mean it will change things, will it, even after all this time? Crowley will still be his best friend, as he’s said, and he’ll go back to Edinburgh in a few days anyhow. He can keep it together until then. Nothing has to change whatsoever. It’s just a…maybe something they shouldn't have done. He sobers. “I’ll get things ready while you dress.” He states flatly, and walks back out of the room and down the stairs.

When Crowley comes into the half-destructed kitchen, now in loose black joggers and a worn Queen t-shirt with a visible hole in the armpit, Aziraphale has the oven warming and three frozen pizzas arranged on the counter, ready for his perusal. Crowley paces back and forth, eyeing them with suspicion. The options are: cauliflower crust with kale and vegan cheese; cauliflower crust with mozzarella and tomato; and lastly, Plant Kitchen Very Veggie Pizza, no cheese - and it has corn on it.

“I take it back. These aren’t pizzas, they’re war crimes.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whines and sits down in a chair at the heavy oval clawfoot breakfast table. “I don’t have much right now unless you want to make a whole production of it, and those,” he puts his nose in the air, “were not of my choosing. They were left here by you know who.”

Crowley extends his long fingers and pushes two of the pizzas forward, like piles of chips on a gambling table. The third, the kale and vegan cheese, he walks across to the bin, and using the foot pedal to open it, lifts the offending disc far above his head to dramatically drop it in sideways with a satisfying thunk. “We’ll make do.”

They’ve finished off all the tasteless pizza they can stomach and are lingering at the kitchen table, finishing with some tea.

“Incidentally, why did you bring up Noah, earlier?” Aziraphale asks, out of nowhere, knocking Crowley off a bit.

Crowley looks at him quizzically, like he’s missing something obvious. “That…Because that was when you came out to me?”

“Yes, I vividly recall. All you said in response was, ‘that’s nice I guess’ and then asked if I wanted to bunk off from our double lessons to get kebabs.”

Crowley fidgets, spinning his teacup in its saucer. “What was I supposed to say? You came out to me at the same time you handed me the live grenade that you - Had. A. Boyfriend? What did you expect from me? I was shattered.”

“Expect? Expect?! Nothing! How could I expect anything at all when I didn’t know that you and I both were…that you were… I was absolutely petrified to tell you myself! You could have said something too, before, or right then! You should have!” 

Crowley ducks his head before shaking it and looking off to the side. “After me standing right there, right in front of you, for the past five years, pathetically mooning over you every single day like a lovesick fool? No. I couldn’t have. In the same breath that you told me it was actually possible we could be… could have been…” He swallows, hard, “You told me you’d chosen someone else. What was the point? You didn’t want me.”

“But if I’d have known!”

“Wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“How can you say that? We were seventeen for Christ’s sake!”

“Not just seventeen.” Crowley counts off on his hands, “Noah, Julian, Tristan, Leo, William, Oscar,” a pause, “and then fucking Gabriel. And the whole time, I was right there.”

“No, you weren’t.” Aziraphale takes up his tea, defensive. “You left. Left me. You went to Edinburgh.” 

“Well I couldn’t exactly stay in London, now could I?”

“Whyever not?!” His teacup hits the saucer a little too hard, sloshing a bit of liquid out on the table.

Crowley lowers his voice to a near whisper and settles back, staring down at the kitchen tile now, studying the grout lines. “Couldn’t take it any longer… you were talking about moving in with Tristan. I couldn’t watch you with him - frankly with any of them before or after that, for that matter. But, that.” His voice rises, “That was my limit. I definitely knew I couldn’t keep up the façade while you went about playing at happy families, domestic bliss, whatever, with him. And then… I left, and you… you did it right away. Moved him in. Replaced me like nothing.” His voice drops to a quiet whisper again, “And then, after the funeral, after our trip. You, um, you know. Everything was different after that. Then you moving back here was….”

“But…you’ve never had a serious relationship in the entirety of your life! What would it have mattered to you?! Why did any of that matter?”

Crowley looks up and cocks his head at him, eyes tired, sad. “And you never found that the slightest bit odd?”

“Well, no? I just thought you…didn’t go in for that sort of thing. We never really talked about it. Not seriously. Is… that not the case?”

“How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?” Crowley pushes away his untouched tea, too exhausted to keep everything in for even one more night, and not after what had happened earlier. He’s already spilled enough, why stop now. His fingers curl on the edge of the table and he looks down at them, the tips blooming white as he grips too hard. “I’ve been so obvious, for so long. A lifetime at this point. Aziraphale, you idiot, I’ve never been in a relationship because nobody else could ever be you.”

Aziraphale stands so quickly his chair tips backwards onto the floor with a bang, “are you telling me this wasn’t just….just…ahhh…about sex?” 

Crowley stands as well, launching himself to his feet in response. His chair remains upright but only barely, sliding back across the floor. His eyes search Aziraphale’s face, his voice hoarse with hurt, "Of course not! Is that what it was for you?” When Aziraphale doesn’t answer right away, he backpedals, feeling a painful tingling zing through his entire body. His eyes are wide, unblinking, and he grabs the chair to sit back down again, slouching and crossing his arms, looking intently at his abandoned tea. “Sure, yeah, that’s fine, if it was. All good. Whatever. A rebound. Just sex. A little fun. Understood. Yep. Totally fine, I’m not… erm, I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Aziraphale takes another step so that he’s now at the side of the table, closing the distance between them. “This entire time?!” He belts out and takes another step, his voice growing thunderous, repeating, “THIS ENTIRE BLOODY TIME?!”

Crowley shrinks into himself, “...what?” He can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Aziraphale curse.

“I have been, indisputably, irrevocably, absurdly and stupidly, IN LOVE WITH YOU for nearly thirty FUCKING years and NOW. NOW YOU TELL ME THIS!”

“You wot?” Crowley’s head whips up.

Across the distance between the two houses, three faces are plastered against a small downstairs window. Bea, Shax, and Michael are pressed against the bathroom window panes, standing in the tub and jockeying for space in the dark. It has the best view into Aziraphale’s kitchen and he never closes his blinds. Ferdinand (Furfur) stands back, leaning against the door jamb. “What’s happening now?”

“Can’t tell, but it looks like they’re arguing again.” Michael says.

“All they do is argue.” Shax scoffs, “All they ever do. Ever have done.”

“That’s how they flirt.” Bea grins.

“Has anyone bothered to tell them that it’s flirting?” Furfur chimes in from the doorway.

At Aziraphale’s jump from his seat, Bea responds, “Ohhhh…this is getting good.”

In all their years, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Aziraphale this furious. “I’m the idiot?” Aziraphale continues, pressing forward at him. Crowley decides to match the energy, standing again, why not? He pulls himself up straight in an attempt to use his scant inch of height advantage and postures at him with a glare.

“I am?!  No. NO.” Aziraphale shakes his head and raises his voice even louder. “You,” He pokes Crowley stiffly in the chest, “running around with everyone and anyone, always so cavalier, Mister Casanova. Why would I ever have thought you’d be interested in stuffy old boring next door ME?” Crowley tries to interrupt, “boring, never-” but is silenced by Aziraphale taking a step closer, bringing them practically chest to chest now. “You say you were ‘right there,’ well SO WAS I. I was there when you made your way through every girl in sixth form, slept your way through half of our residence halls, were slinking into our flat in the early morning in last night’s clothes every weekend! And I’m still here now while you regularly post a different pretty face next to yours every week on instagram and never call! Of course I thought this was just about sex! And NOW, you’re telling me it wasn’t?!”

They’re still inching closer, Crowley talking over him now. 

“I wasn’t sleeping with them! I WASN’T!” Crowley defends, “Not in sixth form! They were just my friends! And as for at Uni…and…err, after that, not them either! Well, a few of them,” he prevaricates, “but only a few! They were, are, still mostly friends!! I’m not a monk but I’m also not -!”

“Only a few! Is that supposed to be reassuring?!”

Crowley tilts his head back and screams at the bare bulb hanging from a partially installed electrical wire, waiting for a fixture. “Arrrrghhhh. You’re impossible!” He relaxes a smidge, breathing in and out deliberately, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we go back to the part where you said you’re in love with me?”

Aziraphale now looks chagrined, and blushes up to his ears. “Um.” He backs up a step.

They both breathe for a moment and avoid one another's eyes as they calm down.

Crowley notes the increased distance Aziraphale has put between them. “Fucking hell, I knew I shouldn’t have listed to Bea. Coming here was a terrible idea.” Crowley steps around Aziraphale and rights his chair, offering it to him before moving back to his prior place.

Aziraphale doesn’t take it, and remains standing across from Crowley. Something is clicking into place, 

“Crowley?”

“What.” He slumps back against the edge of the table, eyeing Aziraphale at a 45 degree angle with his head tilted.

“You never did tell me…when are you going back to Edinburgh?”

Crowley stills, fear creeping across his face, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Aziraphale cuts in, “It’s only that…you mentioned earlier that you had something to tell me about it?”

Now it’s Crowley’s turn to blush. He shuffles his stocking feet, kicks back a heel at a table leg. “Welllllll…’bout that…I’m not. Going back.”

“Crowley?”

“Look. I got laid off, made redundant. Been putting feelers out for something for a few months now, but, not really trying too hard. Needed a change, ya know. Then Bea called and….”

“And what?”

“IknewGabrielwasgonesoIcameheretoseeyou”

Aziraphale moves back around to place Crowley between himself and the table, trapping him.

“Repeat that, in English.”

“I…I already knew Gabriel was gone alright. Bea told me. Four days ago. So, I, er, packed up, canceled my lease, and thought, well, I’d come here, and then I could see you. And then, maybe…dunno…stupid. Not much of a plan.”

“See me?”

“Yeah?”

“But, you can see me anytime you want! You had a flat! Possessions! Connections! Friends! You just up and chucked it all, to move back here, with no plan? why??!”

“I just told you why! BECAUSE! Because I’ve been in love with you to the point of obsession since I was twelve, when I saw your stupid fucking beautiful face, and fell out of a tree I was so incapable of processing it! Because then you became my best friend, and THAT was the best thing I thought I could possibly imagine! But, no. NO. It wasn’t enough. Because I can imagine a whoooole lot, so, so, I’m here…I’m here because I want more! I want you! Because I love you and I miss you and I’ll never love anyone else and I thought maybe I could finally try and convince you to love me too!” He goes a bit limp, drained of the full weight of his confession. “Thought it would probably take a while…was gonna try and, dunno, woo you, or something. Kinda fucked it though, didn’t I.”

Aziraphale darts forward and grabs him bodily to heave him up onto the table, shoving himself between his legs and holding him by the waist. Crowley is stunned into silence. Aziraphale’s eyes are boring through him. “You’re in love with me.”

Crowley nods, slowly, carefully, “yes…thought I just established that.”

“And I’m in love with you.” Aziraphale’s hands move up to his shoulders.

“I mean….you said so a few minutes ago, but…I think you took it back-”

And then Aziraphale is absolutely devouring him with a kiss, pushing him flat onto the table top and climbing up after him, knocking their two teacups and saucers to the floor with a swipe of one arm and a messy crash.

“Eeeeeeee!” Michaels squeals, before recovering herself and trying to pretend nobody just heard that. But Shax’s face is right next to hers, hand on her shoulder, and she’s whisper-screaming into the side of her french twist, “Ho-leeeee fuuuuck,” so there’s no denying it.

Bea whistles with their fingers in the corners of their mouth, high and shrill, effectively moving the two of them away from the window while they cover their ears and glare matching daggers at them. Before the pair can jump back to the view, Bea grabs the cord and drops the blinds all the way to the sill with a whap - effectively ending the show. Furfur steps forward and gives Bea a begrudging high five.

“Now. Every one of you owes me £210. Uriel too, Michael. Pay up, fuckers.”

Even though he’s being pressed rather uncomfortably down on a hardwood table, Crowley really can’t argue with the way that Aziraphale is grinding down on him and tugging at his hair. At least not until he can’t find any traction with his sock clad feet and realises they are inching backwards - his head is now dangling over the edge of the table, shoulders close to following. “Angel.” Aziraphale keeps kissing him, even through his talking. “Aziraphale. We have a logistical problem here.”

Aziraphale lifts his head up, looking, for lack of a better word, feral. “Don’t think this is gonna work here?” Crowley says to him, eyes darting left and right. Next Crowley knows Aziraphale has pushed himself back and off of him and circled around the table, avoiding the side where there is a wet pile of porcelain shards. He yanks Crowley by his shirt and the side of his joggers, dragging him across the table and pulling him up into a bridal carry. “I am about to show you EXACTLY how much I love you.”

He takes a shortcut through the deconstructed wall and heads for the stairs, carrying Crowley with him.

Chapter Text

Early on Christmas morning, Michael and Uriel are having a friendly bicker as they’re gathering their payment to hand over to Bea, writing out a combined cheque. “It’s not MY fault we set the bet to tack on £10 a year. How was I supposed to know it would go on this long?”

“I don’t even remember agreeing to it.” Uriel claims, adopting an attempted face of passivity.

Michael pushes at her wife’s shoulder with her own, “Yes you do. We all agreed - and you did too. Don’t deny it. It was the night we were all out for their graduation. When the both of them were too drunk to hide they couldn’t stop making eyes at one another but were so oblivious at the same time - we couldn’t stop laughing at them.”

Uriel breaks and lets out an actual snicker, an unusual departure from her normally staid constitution, “Not that them being oblivious narrows it down, but…Crowley literally fell in his lap in the booth. Face first. After dedicating that horrendous karaoke version of 'Morning Angel,’ to him.” 

Michael laughs again, “They’d probably both be traumatised if they could remember any of it.”

“Wait a minute,” Uriel says, "wasn't there also, “Robbie Williams, ‘Angels’? And a Eurythmics song?”

They both chuckle and Michael confirms, “Oh, oh, yes, but that was earlier in the evening. Morning Angel was later.” She pauses to deliver the punchline to the story they both know is coming - “ It was the Shaggy cover,” a snort, “Then…plop!” They fall against one another, laughing hysterically. “I thought Aziraphale was going to combust!”

“Wait, wait.” Michael sits back up straight. “What was it Aziraphale performed, with all the dancing?”

Uriel’s face scrunches in total mirth, “‘You're The One That I Want,’ Grease. He did both parts. And the choreography.” Michael tosses her head back and cackles.

Furfur and Shax pool their notes and she organises and straightens them on the countertop with sharp thwacks. “Thank fuck we didn’t start this bet back when they met, we’d need to sell one of the kids,” she says. 

Furfur chuffs at her softly and rubs her shoulders, “Never seen anyone so stupid over anyone as Crowley is for him. And other way ‘round.”

“No arguing that. They’re both stupid,” she responds. “I swear, if he wasn’t my older brother I’d’ve throttled him years ago. Or not,” she tilts her head, pondering, “then he’d have been put out of his misery and where would’ve been the fun in that?”

“Aemon.”

“What about him?”

“I mean, if we’re selling one…”

Bea gathers Dagon, Hastur, and Ligur in the sitting room, lining the three of them up in a row in front of them. “Now, my little flying monkeys - Go. Go get my money. You two, they indicate Hastur and Ligur with two pointing fingers, ”Shax and Furfur. And you,” one finger at Dagon, “Michael and Uriel.”

The three run off in different directions while she cackles, “Fly, my pretties, fly, fly, fly!!!”

At the loud outburst, the door to their father’s study creaks open, and a tall, older, handsome figure emerges, scrutinizing Bea, still crouched on the end of the coffee table where they’d been perched for the delivery of their instructions.

"What's all this then?” He asks, in a beleaguered yet smooth baritone, brushing his two-toned black and silver hair back with one hand.

Bea stands and grins like a shark. “Anthony. He finally closed the deal. Or, maybe Aziraphale did, hard to tell.”

A rare smile creeps across Lucas’s face. He pulls out his wallet and fingers through it before handing Bea a wad of cash. “And our side agreement, still in place?”

“Absolutely. If this is you doubling down.” Bea counters.

“I’ll go double if it’s before the end of the year.” He raises an eyebrow at them, “Want to take it?”

Bea narrows her eyes at him, looks left and right in calculation before tilting her head back up at him. “Triple.”

“Triple! You have a deal.”

“All in?”

“All in.”

They shake hands.

“Excellent. Now, don’t disturb me until I’m expected to make an appearance.” He turns and shuts the door behind him, the lock clicking loudly a second later.

Aziraphale surfaces to a low level of wakefulness and blinks at the morning light creeping across the ceiling, slowly realising he is being literally blanketed by a nude Crowley. The man is draped over and clinging to him like he’s a limpet and Aziraphale is a rock. The rough texture of the bare mattress irritates his exposed skin from heel to shoulder, but he can feel every square millimetre of flesh where he and Crowley are touching and his heart sings, before it abruptly plummets.

Nothing and everything slot together in one tidal bore of churning emotion and he gasps, sitting up and dislodging his human afghan. This startles Crowley awake with a shock and he shoots up from his face down position, his head just having been dropped onto the mattress roughly. With blurry eyes, he looks around the room for danger, “WHAT, WHO?” before looking down between the two of them at the missing blankets, now pushed down and exposing them in all their glory. His hair is essentially sticking straight up in every direction like he’s been comically electrocuted. Aziraphale’s eyes are wide, scared, waiting for Crowley’s reaction to the scene. 

And then he sees Crowley’s face do something that appears to settle into pain. He seems equally terrified, but his demeanor is quickly falling with what Aziraphale interprets as sadness and questions, everything about him making it look like he’s been stabbed. “I’m sorry…I gotta…” He says before trying to extricate himself and stand from the mattress, his lower half tangled in the blankets.

He’s started to move, but the twisted covers have slowed him down and Aziraphale is stronger and quicker. He can’t sprint away this time. Aziraphale grabs him by both shoulders and shoves him back down to the mattress, holding him down. “I meant every word last night. I meant every damned word. All of it. Don’t you dare.”

Crowley meets his eyes and goes rigid, challenging, eyes narrowing at him. “I meant everything too! What are you on about? Let me up, you twat."

"What did you just? I…You aren’t leaving?”

“I’m…of course I’m not leaving!”

“Then why are you fighting me?”

“Because I have to take a piss, you idiot!”

“Good! Aziraphale says in defiance.

“Great!” Crowley counters back.

“Wait. I’m sorry, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? What are we even arguing about?? Can I at least get some coffee first, circle back to…whatever this is?”

“How much I love you. And your limited bladder capacity, apparently.” Aziraphale growls back with annoyance, releasing him with a shove. 

And with that, Crowley’s scowl transforms into a mischievous grin and he flips a naked angel to the bedsheets, bracing himself on top of him. He runs his hands up and down Aziraphale’s flanks, tickling him intentionally, which nearly earns him a knee in the balls on reflex. “STOP THAT, FIEND.”

Crowley pulls back and resettles himself, laying flat and calm on top of him like a blanket. “Jesus. Fine. stopping. You stay here and I’m going to go make you breakfast in bread. After I piss.”

“Did you just say…breakfast in bread?” Aziraphale asks, incredulous.

“...no?”

“You did. I heard it.” He looks smug, giving Crowley his cockiest eyebrow.

“Well, how embarrassing for you then. Hearing things at your age already.” Crowley says, nipping at his neck in retaliation, “I would never say something so ridiculous. Guess you’ll just have to wait here, have a think about that while I go about how to butter serve you.”

“Butter…Oh my god. Alright, then. Butterwench Antonia, get thee to the kitchen and bring your Lord Breadgood an offering.”

“I honestly do not know what is wrong with you sometimes.” Crowley mumbles, sitting upright again, straddling him, wriggling a little. “M’Lord Breadgood,” he rolls his eyes. “Lord my arse.” He pauses and Aziraphale already knows what’s coming, braces for it, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Heh. Literally. My LORD, my ARSE.” He wriggles again, more deliberately. “Can I be Miss Cockle Bread instead of the wench?”

“What’s wrong with me? You think that there is something wrong with me in this exchange?” Aziraphale scoffs.

“Yes, M’lord Breadskint, I do.” Crowley does a strikingly accurate imitation of Downton’s O’Brian for this delivery, including the half eye roll and the little sideways lip purse.

“Usually, what’s been wrong with me, historically, has been that you haven’t been kissing me.” Aziraphale says, pushing up at him with his hips. “I’m starting to suspect that we’ve both had the same problem for years.”

At this, Crowley concedes; he has absolutely lost this riposte. He falls to Aziraphale’s side and says, “Low blow, Angel, low blow.” He then pokes him in the ribs, to let him know he isn’t entirely serious, eliciting a squeal from Aziraphale and a hard slap to his own bare arse.

He ignores the slap for now, but they will definitely be revisiting that later.

“You. You just squealed.”

“I…did not.”

“You sounded like a dolphin. A seal. Azirasqueal.” Crowley cackles.

“...” Aziraphale glowers at him.

“You’re not actually letting me touch your kitchen, are you?”

“Oh. Oh absolutely not,” he sniffs. “You’ve seen the state it’s in already and there is no possible way you could improve upon it. I am well aware of what happens when you try. You lay here and look pretty and I’ll make us some toast.” He smiles and adds, “I do appreciate the offer though, Miss Cockle Bread.” And now it’s Crowley’s turn to be flipped back under the weight of Aziraphale. Both of their eyes glitter and Crowley goes soft, melting underneath Aziraphale’s bulk before reaching up and cradling his face with one hand, sliding his fingers into soft curls.

“Toast is perfect, Angel.”

“No. You’re perfect. You go on and make your ablutions while I make toast - and then we are to come back to this bed. Then that. That will be perfectperfect.”

“Agreed. Now, get off of me before I piss all over your brand new mattress.”

They don’t make it back to bed. Crowley comes down while Aziraphale is brewing coffee, boiling water for tea, and making his way through what appears to be a third attempt at toast. A pile of incinerated slices rest on a plate next to the sink, ready for the bin.

Crowley creeps up behind him, and gooses him around the waist with both sets of bony fingers, causing him to all at once: squeal, again, loudly, and drop the (mostly passable) slice of toast he’d currently been dealing with - and the butter knife he’d been applying to it - into the sink with a clatter. He hadn’t been applying butter, mind, he’d been trying to scrape off the most charred bits before Crowley could catch him.

Crowley hooks his head over his shoulder and they both peer down at the ruined toast and crumb covered knife laying next to a dirty collection of empty teacups and an absurd amount of spoons.

“You miss my cooking, admit it, Azirasqueal.” Crowley says, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing again. Aziraphale squeaks and leans his head back to meet him cheek to cheek. “I do.” 

Then, Aziraphale turns around in his arms, giving him an impossibly soft look that hardens almost immediately, “I do not, however, miss the terrific mess that always comes with it.” He pushes a palm against Crowley’s chest, moving him away from him. “And stop calling me that.”

“Stop making noises like a set of bagpipes when I squeeze you and I’ll think about it...”

A soundburst of sizzling overboil comes from their right, and Crowley shoots a glance at the hob. “Are you boiling those eggs or transmuting them?” 

“Oh bother!”

Several pieces of toast and four eggs relegated to the compost bin later, they are sharing from one plate, back to sitting in the living room, but now they’re on the sofa together instead of separated by the small table. They nibble at pieces of toast with salty butter and marmalade, and thick wedges of fresh cut sharp cheddar. The eggs had not been salvageable and the smell of them is still airing out of the kitchen.

Earlier, while Aziraphale had been burning toast and turning eggs into sulphuric bombs that would frighten even hell, Crowley had snuck his gifts for him under the tree. And then, feeling the tree a right bit pathetic, he’d decided to add some additional decorations. That said decorations were his and Aziraphale’s discarded underpants from upstairs along with five wine corks suspended by dental floss, a burnt pot holder, bits of balled up newspaper, and five pairs of socks he’d thrown artfully into the branches was neither here nor there. The empty wine bottle he’d jammed on upside down as a topper, tilts at a precarious 30 degree angle in warning, but reflects the sunlight nicely. Although he thinks it’s the underpants that really pull it together.

Irritatingly, Aziraphale steadfastly refuses to acknowledge his work and pops a piece of cheese in his mouth, savoring it. He leans over to pluck up another, and just to be annoying, Crowley grabs the one he’s reaching for and eats it first. It’s when he’s bending back up, having taken a different piece of cheese, that Aziraphael looks over at the tree again, with a familiar mix of annoyance and affection, and notices the packages beneath it.

“Where did all that come from?”

“Where’d what come from?” Crowley says, through a mouth full of purloined cheese.

“That. The package. Or packages.”

“Oh. That. I got you something.” Crowley says casually. He knows Aziraphale won’t be able to resist, so is able to stand at the same time he does, and match his path over to the tree, having anticipated him masterfully.

“It’s not much.” Crowley bends down and retrieves the three rectangular packages tied together in a stack with ribbon, handing it over. He leaves Bea’s box below from where he’d tossed it next to his own offerings.

“Oh,” Aziraphale looks at the gift now in his hands, his face falling, “But…I don’t have anything for you, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Crowley moves towards him and cups his face with both hands. “Not true. I’ve gotten the best gift possible. The only one I’ve ever wanted. You.” he kisses him softly, before moving to nibble at his ear, then licking at his neck, drawing out a gasp. He bites down hard on his collarbone and gives his arse a smack, to break him out of his mood (and in retaliation for earlier), grinning and backing away. “Now. Open your presents, Angel.”

Crowley turns and looks out the front window at the cloudy sky. He can’t watch when Aziraphale actually opens it. Behind him, Aziraphale sits on the floor and arranges the gift in front of himself. Carefully, he first unties the ribbon and sets it aside. Unwrapping the first package, on top, he finds a volume of Dylan Thomas poetry. A special edition. ‘The Poems of Dylan Thomas.’ It’s a scholarly edition that includes additional works from his notebooks and letters and verse script from ‘Under Milk Wood.’

He glances up at Crowley but his back is to him. He’s looking out the window and swaying almost imperceptibly forward and back. Aziraphale turns the book over, then over again and opens the front cover. “For my Angel. Yours, -C” Crowley has inscribed on the cover page. “I love it. Thank you.” he says, unable to really say anything else. It’s perfect. 

The thanks prompts Crowley to look over his shoulder at him for a second before turning back to the window, shrugging. “Just a book.” Behind his back Aziraphale clutches the book to his chest, mouthing silently, “just a book,” and rolls his eyes.

He sets it aside and moves to the second package in the pile, all three are clearly books but this one is thicker. He gasps when he opens it. It’s another special edition - a beautifully bound version of ‘The Princess Bride.’ He’d have to look up the exact edition to be certain, but he knows it’s rare and expensive and that he’d mentioned to Crowley exactly once that he would love to have something like it.

“Crowley! You didn’t!”

At this, Crowley turns back to him and gives a flourished bow, grinning, “As you wish.” Before he turns back to the window again. He’s already regretting his choice for this next part and he might need to make a run for it.

Aziraphale opens the third package, the thickest of them all, massive really, and is confused for a moment. It’s a book, yes, but it’s more like a homemade album. It’s bound in deep blue leather and it’s weathered, obviously well worn and frequently handled. There is no lettering on the cover or the spine and it seems designed to contain photos or mixed media.

He opens to the first page and finds a spray of pressed apple blossoms. He looks up to Crowley for an answer, but Crowley is, by now he’s deduced, intentionally avoiding looking at him. Aziraphale knows there can’t possibly be anything remotely interesting on the other side of that window.

He begins thumbing through the album slowly, as it dawns on him what he’s looking at. He sees: school programmes, class schedules with their classes together highlighted, notes and doodles they’d passed back and forth when they were teenagers, ticket stubs from concerts, a month long post-it note argument about milk from the front of the fridge of their shared flat, pressed “clover over Dover” (from when they’d gone to the cliffs and Crowley would NOT stop singing that damned Blur song, rolling around like a hound while Aziraphale threw tufts of it over him and laughing at him to stop being so embarrassing). All of it is preserved in chronological order.

Interspersed with the receipts, movie tickets, a label from a bottle of wine (shared at the edge of the water on the Swansea docks) are pictures. Many many pictures.

There’s also a wrinkled and marked up (with Aziraphale’s handwriting) map from their road trip to Kent, along with collected museum programmes and more ticket stubs (Maidstone, Canterbury Cathedral, Leeds Castle, Down House). There are more pressed flowers, these from the gardens they’d roamed, and a peony from Penshurst. After this, the additions get sparse. It’s only holiday and birthday cards, two postcards Aziraphale had sent him from trips back to Wales, and the odd cinema stub or dinner receipt.

He flips to the last page. It’s a spray of pressed wisteria blossoms, and then nothing else. He remembers when Crowley must have preserved them. He’d turned up for Aziraphale’s birthday in early May, very soon after Aziraphale had broken with Oscar, just for a weekend. The wisteria had been in bloom in the garden and they’d sat under it for hours, Crowley regaling him with tales of his awful coworkers and descriptions of the vibrancy of Edinburgh, distracting him from yet another catastrophic end to a failed relationship before disappearing again.

“You. You impossible, infuriating man.” Aziraphale jumps to his feet, clutching the book. “Why? Why have you been hiding yourself from me like this? Hiding this? It isn’t fair!”

Crowley keeps his back to him, eyes now squeezed shut. Considers before answering. “Because. If I’d have ever told you, and you rejected me, I would have lost you entirely. And I couldn’t have lived with that.” He leans his forehead on the windowpane. “You’re the most important person in the world to me. Always have been.” He stays hunched, no longer looking out the window, eyes still closed and as motionless as a statue, “And…you would have. I’m nothing like any of the men you ever dated. Nothing. Complete opposite, in fact. Ya know, not your type.” He shrugs, “But, I’m here now, and I’ll try. I’ll try to make you happy, if you’ll let me.” His voice drops down quieter, “I just want you to be happy.”

Aziraphale very carefully sets down the memento book on top of the other books and approaches Crowley from behind, carefully. When he’s sure he isn’t going to be thwarted, he wraps his arms around him, but Crowley’s still stuck there, now back to looking out the window at nothing. Well, not at nothing anymore. Across the street the Young’s hyperactive son, Adam, is now repeatedly throwing a stick into the air so his dog can leap up and catch it.

“Crowley. Please look at me.”

Reluctantly, Crowley turns around in his arms but doesn’t look at him. Aziraphale raises a hand and pushes back his hair, brushes his cheek. “You don’t have to try and make me happy. You’ve always made me happy. I love you.”

Crowley finally looks up, meeting his gaze. “And as for not my type, have you not seen yourself? Do you not own a functional mirror? I’d always thought you so far out of my league that it was impossible to consider.” Crowley colours a bit and ducks again, resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You mean that? The making you happy part, that is?”

“Of course I do.” And then, with immediate decision, he falls to his knees in front of Crowley and the world’s most ridiculously decorated Christmas tree. He grabs Crowley’s hands with both of his own. “Marry me.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, WHAT?”

“Marry me.” Aziraphale says with determination and wrenches off his mother’s ring, the family ring that he’s been wearing on his pinky since she died. “If you truly want to make me happy, then marry me.” He waits a beat, as Crowley is looking down at him completely confused. “Haven’t we waited long enough? Don’t we already know?! I love you! You love me!” He pulls at Crowley’s left hand, encouraging, “Please?”

Crowley falls to his knees with him. “First of all, yes?”

“Is… is that a question?

“No. It’s an answer. Wait here.” Crowley says, leaving him there with the ring still in his hand, and runs up the stairs.

“Where are you going?!” Aziraphale yells behind him, but gets no reply.

Crowley is coming back down, taking the stairs three at a time, and it ends with him bouncing off the door at the end of the landing to make a proper turn and skidding in his socks back to Aziraphale. He comes to a stop at the edge of the rug and gets back on his knees. In his hands he’s cradling a small black velvet box.

He thrusts it at Aziraphale. “This is for you.”

Aziraphale looks at him, disbelieving, and doesn’t take it. Crowley pushes it at him and he pushes it back. “Can you at least put this on first?” He holds up his mother’s ring again. Crowley flushes and, after holding the box for another beat, extends his left hand and allows Aziraphale to slip the ring onto his finger. It fits easily, perfectly. Seeing the gold ring that Frances had always worn on her middle finger, and then Aziraphale on his pinky, now settled on his ring finger is overwhelming. He thinks he’s going to start crying so he pushes the box back at Aziraphale again. 

Tumbling the box over in his hands, Aziraphale can tell now that it isn’t new. The velvet is worn smooth in places, and the gold printed jewelry shop label is too faded to read. He runs a thumb gently across the hooked latch. “How long have you had this?” he asks, incredulous, looking back up at Crowley. They both move simultaneously from their knees back to a seated position, facing one another.

With some hesitation, Crowley answers. “Since, ahh, erm…since right after Kent.”

“Kent. Our trip to Kent.”

“Yeah, after the funeral and the whole,” he hand waves, “disaster breakup with Tristan, and our time together there, I thought…but, then, um.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to ask for further clarification. Immediately after the funeral, still in the cemetery, Tristan had weaponised Aziraphale’s fresh grief to try and assert himself with shockingly inappropriate entitlement over everything, turning the day into a relationship detonating fight over money and inheritance expectations. In the aftermath, Crowley had bundled Aziraphale off and driven them back from Amlwch; not stopping at the Finchley house or in London, but instead whisking him straight away on the impromptu trip in a bid to distract and buoy him, knowing how much Aziraphale had always wanted to spend more time there. They’d left a ragingly angry Tristan behind them to find his own way home. 

What Aziraphale hadn’t known, and still doesn’t, is that before they’d departed Crowley had threatened Tristan in no uncertain terms that if he wasn’t gone from Aziraphale’s life by the time they got back, he wouldn’t want to know what the consequences would be. And so he was. By the time they’d returned, the flat had been emptied of every last bit of his belongings or reminder of him.

During the trip, Crowley’d taken them through five days of museums, gardens, castles, walks along the cliffs - all while Aziraphale processed and let himself be pulled along by the current of Crowley's steady insistence on keeping him occupied. But, eventually, Crowley’d had to return to Edinburgh for work, promising profusely as he left that he’d come back as soon as he was able. And then, before he could, Aziraphale had almost immediately taken up with Leo. A brief, somewhat manic, and ultimately unsatisfying mistake of a rebound. Apparently it had been incredibly efficient in its destruction though - as Crowley had, to his now enlightened recollection, ended up making weak excuses about his return prospects and then going radio silent. Afterwards, he hadn’t seen him for almost two years. Their longest time apart by far.

What an absolute fool he’s been.

He grips the box harder, afraid to open it. “But, Crowley, that was sixteen years ago. It wasn’t even legal yet.” He looks to him for confirmation. 

Crowley’s face does something weird, scrunching before looking distressed, “Fuck. Yeah. You’re right. It was a long time ago. Uhhh, I’ll get a new one, don’t, don’t look at it.”

He reaches to pull the box back, getting his fingers on it, but Aziraphale is stronger and pulls it to himself protectively. “No. That isn’t at all what I meant.”

“Give it back. I’ll get you a better one.” Crowley leans over him.

“No. I want this one.” Aziraphale says, with finality. Crowley sits back into his former position, recrossing his legs. 

Their knees are still touching, and when he moves to open the box he can feel Crowley start to jiggle nervously. Aziraphale lifts the lid, and pulls out the ring. It’s a thicker gold band, stylised with intertwined feathers and leaves all the way around, clearly vintage. The leaves are inset with small emeralds and are separated by round cut rubies at intervals. It's gorgeous and understated at the same time. He looks up to Crowley, but he’s pretending to be very interested in something invisible on the ceiling. He keeps his head up, pale throat exposed, and swallows hard.

Aziraphale turns the ring around, inspecting it. There is an engraving on the inside of the band, a date. He nearly feels his heart stop.

“26 - 7 - 1995”

It’s the day they’d met, the day Crowley’d fallen from the apple tree.

“Crowley, it’s perfect.” He says, and slips it on, overcome. He looks up, tears gathering, and sees Crowley looking at him again, amber eyes searching for the truth of it. Aziraphale holds his hand out, showing him the ring on his finger and smiles, eyes shining. “We’re getting married.”

Crowley’s face breaks into an exuberant smile and he grabs Aziraphale’s hand, encouraging him forward and onto his lap. Aziraphale straddles him and they rub their noses together before Crowley tilts his head back and yells, “WE”RE GETTING MARRIED!” before bringing them back together and pulling Aziraphale tight to him; kissing him all over his face until Aziraphale fends him off. “Fuck. I love you.”

“I love you too. So much.” Aziraphale says, before putting some space between them. He reaches up and cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “My soon to be husband.”

Crowley gasps and pulls him into a kiss, murmuring into his lips, “husband, I really like that.”

Aziraphale cups him by the jaw and deepens the kiss, pressing down on his lap with a couple of short gyrations. Crowley takes the hint and tilts them, pushing him over onto his back on the rug, settling between his legs and rolling his hips down on him. They’re both still in their sleepwear, pantsless underneath (see: the tree), and the two layers of fabric don’t separate them by much. 

Very quickly they are both breathing heavily and Crowley is dragging the hand not holding himself up down Aziraphale’s chest and starting to slide it under the band of his pajama bottoms. One of Aziraphale’s hands is clutching Crowley by the back of his neck, gripping his hair at the nape. The other is palming him across one buttock, controlling their rhythm and encouraging Crowley’s rocking body to stay pressed to him. Aziraphale’s toes are all but gripping at the rug to give him the leverage to push back up.

Just then, the grandfather clock in the corner chimes, reminding them they have somewhere to be relatively soon, and they both come to a stop. Aziraphale groans and lets his arms fall to either side of him.

Crowley lifts himself off him to sit back on his knees and whines. “I don’t wannnnnaaaaa….”

“Dearest, darling, I think we have to.”

“Why.”

“Because they are your family and I’m sure when we don’t appear someone will come looking anyway.”

“Ugh. I hate that you're right.”

“You should be quite used to it by now.” Aziraphale replies. Crowley gives him a glare and full head eye roll, but softens it by leaning down to deliver a peck to his nose before popping back up.

“We need to shower and get dressed.” He says, grinning.

“Oh, yes, well, you go first. Use the main en suite and take anything you need.”

Crowley leans back down on him; nips him on his neck, under his ear, then pulls the lobe of his ear into his mouth and sucks. He licks up the outer rim of his ear and back down before breathing into the pink conch shell, “I’m not sure what part of that you took to mean I planned for either of us to shower alone. I’m not done with you.”

Aziraphale turns on the water and waits for it to warm while behind him Crowley strips down, tossing his clothing into the far corner. He then sneaks up and snakes his arms around Aziraphale, unbuttoning his pajama shirt from behind and kissing his shoulders as he pulls it away, throwing it in the general direction of his own discarded clothes. Steam is starting to rise from the shower enclosure.

Crowley continues his undressing of Aziraphale, running his hands slowly, teasingly, around the front of his chest, then down and around his sides, pushing down his loose pajama bottoms. They fall to the floor, and Aziraphale steps out of them, kicking them to the side, while Crowley’s hands start to wander. He rubs both sides of Aziraphale’s thighs then brings his hands around to squeeze and knead his arse before sliding back around and dragging his fingers symmetrically down and up both creases of Aziraphale’s hips while he presses his cock into his cleft. Aziraphale moans and presses back to meet him.

“Crowley.”

“Hmmmm” Crowley moans in response, sucking at his pulse point and giving him a bump of his hips in appreciation.

“Get in the blasted shower.”

“Right.”

A return to mission lasts only as long as it takes for Aziraphale to start soaping himself up. Crowley snatches the flannel and bar of soap from him, “I get to do that for you.”

“Well then, I get to do it for you too.” Aziraphale retorts, taking hold of a second flannel and holding his hand out for Crowley to give him the soap back.

After attempting a dual soaping, both flannels are almost immediately discarded, and they soap one another with their bodies, ungainly and ridiculous, sloppily kissing and rubbing all over one another, the soap having fallen to the floor.

“Let me wash your hair?” Aziraphale asks, pulling back to look at him with something almost vulnerable. Crowley nods, “Please,” and allows him to add shampoo to his hands and start working it through his red locks, gasping as Aziraphale’s fingers massage his scalp. “Garaadkhkk, Angel.” He tries to rut up against him, but Aziraphale pulls back his own hips, denying him the friction.

“Here, turn for me, dear,” He says and rotates them, putting Crowley's back to the spray. He tilts Crowley’s head backwards and combs out the shampoo with his thick fingers, watching it leave bubble traces down Crowley’s shoulders, running through his sparse chest hair and down around his still hard cock.

“My turn.” Crowley raises his head, looking devious. He takes up the shampoo and starts to work it into Aziraphale’s hair before turning them again so that Aziraphale is in the spray now, hitting him in the back. Once he’s gotten a good lather, he presses himself against him again, rutting. “Close your eyes…time to rinse.” And pushes them both under the fall of water. He pushes the water through Aziraphale’s hair, running his palms across his whole scalp, front to back, over and over. “So beautiful.”

He drops one hand and with his fingers traces Aziraphale’s neck, his collarbone, his sternum, and farther down, moving around and avoiding his cock to linger on his hip, before dragging his thumb under his balls and running his fingers around them to tug lightly.

Aziraphale comes out of the trance-like state he’s been in and, without opening his eyes, gives in, pulling Crowley’s face to his. The water runs down the back of him while they kiss.

Crowley’s started stroking him again and rutting up against him, slipping his own hard cock up and down against the crease of his hip as the water sluices over them.

“Do you have, um…something to make this a little bit, you know, nicer?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale makes an adorable little face of concentration, his eyebrows coming together before he brightens and twists a bit to fumble around in the corner caddy. He comes back and shoves a bottle of argan oil into Crowley’s hands. Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “Lots of use for this in the shower then?”

Aziraphale turns affronted, scowls at him. “It’s for my hair! My curls!”

“Right. Course it is. What’d’ya think about in here, when you use it? Ever think about me?” He smirks and rubs himself against him luridly. “While you’re doing your hair?”

Aziraphale’s face takes on a guilty look, and he does an excellent imitation of a goldfish, mouth opening and closing a few times without sound. “No. You… you insufferable…”

“Ohhhh, you dooooo!” Crowley cackles, eyes sparkling.

“I refuse to discuss this.”

“Why? I think about you all the time.” Crowley leans in and practically shoves his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth, licking at him until Aziraphale responds, kissing him in kind. He pulls away, once he’s softened him back up, his grin wolfish now. “You’re going to tell me about all the filthy things you’ve thought about doing to me while you were touching yourself.” He slips his hand back down, having distracted Aziraphale enough with the kissing to fill his palm with oil, and takes him in hand again. “And then I’m going to tell you about allll the filthy things I’ve thought about doing to you.” He gives his wrist a twist and Aziraphale groans, bucking into his fist. “And then, we’re going to do them all. One. By. One. And then we’re gonna think up some new ones and do those too.”

Aziraphale opens his eyes to look at him again, his lingering embarrassed expression turning challenging. “Well, then, which one of yours are we starting with now?” He pushes into Crowley’s fist with a pointed movement. Pulls back and does it again.

Crowley’s eyes widen, and he sputters, hand faltering in its movements. Aziraphale runs his hands up and down Crowley’s chest before wrapping them around his neck and pulling them together and kissing him again. “Tell me.”

“Can I fuck your thighs?” Crowley blurts out. “I wanna fuck your thighs.”

Aziraphale nods with an increasing smile, “Yes. Anything. Anything you want.” And without further discussion turns them yet again so that the spray is to Crowley’s back now before spinning away from him, bending forward against the other side of the shower with both hands up on the tile. He looks over his shoulder and reaches a hand back, grabbing Crowley by a hip to pull him closer. “Go on.” And then he wiggles.

“Oh fuck. Yes. Yes.” Crowley scrambles behind him to retrieve the oil again and coats his palms before crossing them and rubbing them between Aziraphale’s thighs. He rubs up and down, then forward, flipping one hand to tease at Aziraphale’s balls before coating the whole underside of him luxuriously. He leans forward to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “My gods.” He’s so soft, the skin between his thighs silky and tender. “You’re so beautiful.”

He kisses the back of Aziraphale’s neck and takes himself in hand, further slathering himself before guiding himself into place and sliding in between those milky thighs. He shudders when he pushes through; how can it be so soft? So hot?

“Angel, I…”

Aziraphale only moans in return and drops his right hand to catch the tip of Crowley’s cock as it pokes out from between his legs. Crowley thrusts again and drapes over him, throwing his left hand up over Aziraphale’s on the tile and winding their fingers together. He wraps his right arm around him and takes Aziraphale’s rock hard cock in his hand and starts to move, pumping him in time with his thrusts. “You feel so good, Angel, so fucking good.” Aziraphale’s hand continues to catch and hold him at the apex of every push, rubbing around his cockhead. “Fuck, yes, yes.” Crowley chants, his thrusts getting harder and more erratic.

Aziraphale can barely keep himself upright. Crowley’s hard cock sliding between his sensitive thighs, nudging across his perineum and balls, the feeling of the pink head poking out and filling his palm, Crowley’s hard grip on his own cock - he’s going to come soon, very soon.

Crowley looks up and sees their entwined hands, the rings on their fingers next to one another against the tile, and with a final series of jerks he climaxes and splashes messily between Aziraphale's thighs and through to his palm with a choking gasp before going still and breathing hard. 

For a long while, the only sound is the running water behind and around them until Crowley whimpers in Aziraphale's ear, “I love you. Now turn around.” Aziraphale obeys, slowly, and Crowley kisses him briefly before sliding down his body, kissing all the way before stopping to arrange himself on his knees in front of him. He looks up into stormy blue-grey eyes, dark with arousal, and opens his mouth wide, extending his tongue, an invitation. Aziraphale doesn’t move fast enough, not sure exactly how to proceed, so Crowley takes him by the base and pumps him a couple of times before surging forward on his own and pulling him into his mouth as deep as he can on the first move. He then wraps his hands around the backs of his thighs, right under his buttocks, and pulls him in farther. 

Aziraphale nearly buckles in half and has to rest one hand on Crowley’s shoulder to stay standing. Crowley, taking this as encouragement, pushes his head down to take him deeper and swallows hard, over and over again, from the back of his tongue, milking him. It takes only half a minute of this before Aziraphale cries out and thrusts all the way to the back of his throat, coming in hot spurts and grabbing Crowley by the hair with both hands. Crowley pulls back once he's determined he's finished and bordering on sensitive, continuing to lick and lightly suck at his cock until he lets it pop out of his mouth, trailing saliva. Aziraphale meets him on the floor of the shower, the spray now threatening to drown them both.

“Good god.” Aziraphale struggles out.

Crowley pulls him to him and languidly kisses him so he can taste himself. He thinks he can probably still taste some of Crowley from before too, even with the water still splashing over them. Normally, this would be an absolute no for him, but here, with Crowley, like this, it’s insanely erotic.

“Was that one on your list?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale smacks at him limply, “...not exactly…”

“Good. means we’ve still got plenty to go on.”

“Menace.”

Freshly showered and now appropriately dressed, they’re getting ready to depart, girding themselves to make the unavoidable trek next door for Christmas dinner. They’re about to gather their jackets and leave by the front door when Crowley spies Bea’s gift, still sitting under the tree. “Oh, damnit,” he stops Aziraphale from donning his jacket, pulling back from where’d he’d been helping him on with it and re-hanging it on the rack. “You should open that first” He points to the box. “I know you’ll be disappointed if you don’t have some exuberant and unnecessary thanks prepared for whatever’s in there.” He pauses. “Even though we all know it’s a fucking fruitcake.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Fine.” He gathers the box, which is surprisingly heavy, from under the tree and walks to settle in his armchair. Crowley flops on the sofa across from him. Aziraphale undoes the ribbons and tears off the wrapping, leaving the tatters on the coffee table, opens the box…and then freezes.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” Crowley asks, sitting up.

“Nothing…”

“If it’s nothing, then why do you have that look on your face?”

“I don’t have a “look.” It’s just a fruitcake.”

“Alright, then give it to me, let me see. What’s wrong with it.” Crowley leans over the table and holds his hand out to take it from him but Aziraphale leans back and clutches it to his stomach.

Intrigued now, Crowley leans fully over the table and grabs at him, “Gimme.”

“Wait. WAIT!.” The outburst manages to stop Crowley grasping for the box. “It’s just that….there’s, well there’s an envelope on top, first of all, addressed to me, but it also says to open it first and to not go any farther.” He leans forward and pushes Crowley back to his sitting position on the couch with one arm, without releasing the box. When he’s convinced Crowley is going to stay there, and won’t try and snatch it again, he settles back and holds up the letter so Crowley can read the writing. “It also says it’s not for you to see.”

Crowley scans the writing and recognises Bea’s scrawl.

Aziraphale - 

Open this first and don’t open anything else until you’ve read it. And don’t let Anthony read it either.

“Bollocks,” Crowley pouts, picking up a bit of wrapping paper to ball up and throw at him. “You’ll let me read it.” The ball of paper bounces off of his shoulder and to the floor.

“Shan't. Now you stay over there. Hands to yourself.” He slips a finger under the tucked flap and opens the envelope to pull out a single sheet of cheap loose leaf paper folded in half.

Aziraphale, 

If you’re reading this Anthony is most likely with you. If he isn’t, don’t know what he fucked up. If he finally told you how his dumb arse is wildly in love with you, then you can open the next envelope now. If he hasn’t, tell him how your dumb arse is in love with him or I’m coming over there as soon as I find out you’re both still idiots and you’re not going to like what happens. Before then, if you have not finally confessed your sickening disgusting love for one another, don’t look at the rest of what’s in this box. Confess. Or else.

 XOXO 

- B

p.s. Don’t tell anyone about this. And if anyone asks, this is not cheating and I still win.

“Oh,” he says softly, “my word,” dropping the note back into the box and sliding out the one underneath. It’s addressed, he assumes, to the two of them, still in Bea’s writing. He isn’t sure what the worst part of the first one had been. No, he’s sure. It was the confusing post script. Definitely the post script. He hopes this isn’t somehow worse. Could it be?

Crowley raises one eyebrow at him. “Anything to share?”

Aziraphale waves the second envelope in the air before getting up to join Crowley on the sofa. “Alright, you can scoot over now, I’m fairly certain this one’s for both of us.” Crowley shuffles over and Aziraphale settles next to him, handing him the envelope. It just has “A + A” written on the front.

Crowley tears open the flap and pulls out a cheap Tesco Christmas card with a kitten in a Santa hat on the front. Inside it reads:

You’re still morons.

It’s about time you figured it out.

Enjoy the gift.

    - B

“So, what did the first one say?” Crowley asks, with a creeping sense of dread.

Aziraphale hedges, “Um, well, it was a kind of, it was, oh, bother, what’s the point, just read it. You’ll get it out of me eventually.” 

Crowley grabs it gleefully but within seconds has turned a very dark shade of crimson. “I can’t believe…I’m going to kill them. You’ll have to help me hide the body.”

“Now now my dear, it’s all worked out hasn’t it, and -” Crowley interrupts him with a long groan and slides off the sofa and onto the floor, flat on his back. “You don’t understand.”

Aziraphale reaches over and pushes his hair out of his eyes, “Oh, but of course I do, dearest, Bea is never, ever, ever, letting you live this down and isn’t that just awful?”

“I hate you.”

“Going to be an interesting marriage then.”

Crowley opens one eye to glare at him before a mischievous grin spreads over his face.  Popping upright, he bodily launches himself, tackling Aziraphale from his sitting position flat to the cushions in a filthy kiss. While he has him distracted, he sneaks an arm over and snags the dropped box before jumping to his feet with a victorious, “HA! Let’s see what else is in here!” 

“Fiend!” Aziraphale exclaims from where he’s pulling himself upright, straightening his shirt cuffs and pulling down his waistcoat.

Crowley looks down at what’s in his hands. It’s a fruitcake. “What, that’s it? After all that? Lame.” He tosses the box back to Aziraphale, poorly, who misses it. It glances off the arm of the sofa, bounces to the floor, and rolls across the rug a few times - disgorging the rectangular fruitcake and, like a sex shop stuffed piñata, what had been hidden underneath of it. Multiple bottles of colourful edible lube, dozens of loose condoms, a heart shaped tin of ‘pleasure balm,’ something called ‘orgasm spray,’ and a cloud of glittery red, green, and gold penis confetti scatter across the rug. They both look at the mess in horror.

Aziraphale moves first, bending over to pluck up a square foil pack containing a neon yellow condom covered in interesting nubs. He flips it around to show Crowley, “I didn’t think they made french ticklers anymore.” 

“I didn’t think they made Christmas themed penis confetti,” Crowley adds in bafflement.

Chapter Text

(July, 1995)

Frances is unpacking boxes in the living room when she hears the scream. Dropping the stack of books in her hands, she rushes through the back door, “Aziraphale?!” She spots him, crouched at the back of the garden, leaning over something on the ground. She’s running towards him, but to her astonishment, before she can get to him, he bends down to pick up what appears to be a young boy, cradling him in his arms, and comes running towards her. She meets him in the middle of the space and gets on her knees to help.  

The boy he’s carrying is incredibly slight, probably around Aziraphale’s age or more likely younger, with a shock of dark red hair and freckles across his cheeks. He appears to be unconscious and there is a lot of blood coming from a head wound somewhere. It’s all over Aziraphale’s shirt as well.

“Oh my God, here, give him to me.”

To her shock, Aziraphale gives her a fierce look, very unlike her normally mild mannered child. “No. Don’t touch him.” And pulls the boy closer to him protectively.

Not the time to push, “Alright, alright,” she soothes, “Let’s get him inside. Then we can figure out who he is and get him to A&E. Maybe not in that order.”

They push inside and Frances looks around. The moving company had only departed an hour ago. There is nothing but dustcloth covered furniture shoved into one jumbled mess to the side of the living room and boxes everywhere. She eyes the sofa. It isn’t exactly sanitary, but it will do. “Over here.”

Aziraphale lowers the boy onto the cloth covered cushions with extreme care, pushing his hair back from his brow and out of the sticky blood. Frances has gone to get some supplies and when she returns she finds Aziraphale perched next to the redhead, budged up against him and holding one of his slim hands in both of his. She nudges his shoulder and he looks up at her with tears in his eyes. “He fell. He fell out of the apple tree.”

She hands him a wet flannel without a word, deciding not to insert herself into whatever strange feeling of possessive protection has overtaken him, and he takes it, gently cleaning the boy’s face and around the bleeding wound. At the touch, the boy's eyes flutter and he groans, squirming. Aziraphale continues his ministrations and finally his wriggly patient opens his eyes, revealing them to be a strange light honey brown colour, rather like amber. They seem to take a moment to focus, but zero in on Aziraphale nearly immediately. “Am I dead?” Aziraphale gives a little gasp and drops the cloth to pick up his hand again. “Dead?! Of course not!”

The boy smiles and reaches up with his other hand to cup Aziraphale’s face, “But you’re an Angel…”

Frances’s eyebrows nearly reach her hairline. Okay, maybe now is the time to intervene. She crouches down next to them and tries to get a better look at the gash near the redhead’s temple. It is jagged and deep, in definite need of stitches. “Hello,” she starts, and the boy’s eyes turn to her for a moment, “I’m Frances, and this is Aziraphale,” she indicates with a tilt of her head. His gaze immediately goes back to her son, and he slurs out dreamily, “Aziraphale…”

“You’ve hit your head, and you’re bleeding. Can you tell me your name? Where you live?”

Without looking at her, still only at Aziraphale, he murmurs, “Anthony…next door.” Then something seems to come over him, bringing him back to reality. He blinks a few times and tries to sit up, grimacing then scowling, “My da’s gonna kill me.”

“No, no!” Aziraphale places his small sturdy hands on his shoulders to ease him back down on his back, “I don’t think you’re supposed to move!” With another extended groan the boy, Anthony, lets Aziraphale guide him back down, squeezing his eyes shut in an extended wince. “Shiiiite. My bloody head hurrrrts.” Aziraphale startles at the unexpectedly coarse language and Frances has to cover a laugh with a cough at the words coming from such a slip of a boy.

“Alright, you two stay here, I’ll be right back. And he’s right, Anthony, you shouldn’t move yet. Stay still.”

She leaves by the front door and looks right, then left, spying two children in the front garden there. She strides in their direction and as she approaches they look up from their game of hitting one another with sticks to watch her with calculation; the taller one attempts to hide theirs behind their back, while the smaller child, dark hair swinging in two thick bunches, takes the open opportunity to get in a nice hard thwack to their opponent’s arm.

“Hello there,” she says, approaching the duo cautiously, “do either of you know a boy named Anthony?”

The obvious elder of the two, of indeterminate gender, rolls their pale blue eyes, and says, “What’s he done now?” At the same time, the younger one throws their stick into the hedge and asks brazenly, “Who wants to know?” Given that the taller of the two has messily hacked off red hair, albeit of a much lighter shade than Anthony’s, and freckles; and the younger, dark haired girl bears an uncanny resemblance to Anthony in scowling countenance, she assumes she has found the right place on the first try.

She answers them quickly and without pleasentries. “We just moved in next door, I’m Frances. Anthony is badly injured. I’m afraid he fell out of our apple tree. Are your parents home?” 

Like a shot, the younger one runs up the front steps and disappears into the house while the elder laughs loudly, swinging their stick around in the air gleefully. “Oh he’s in such deep shite.”

Yes, this is certainly the right place.

A moment later the young girl runs back out, followed by a strikingly handsome towering man with jet black hair and an imposing demeanor rushing out the front door and down the steps. His dark eyes land on Frances, and measure her up and down before he says in a steely low voice, “Where is he?”

“Right this way.” She turns, beckoning him to follow.

Moments before, Shax had come bursting into his study, interrupting a very satisfying nap, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Anthony’s hurt! He fell out of a tree! Some strange lady has him!” Suddenly wide awake, he’d jumped to his feet and followed her out the front to find an unusually tall and imposing woman of around his age outside his front gate. She was still as a statue, with a twisted up mass of wavy blonde hair shot through with a few strands of early grey, standing with hands on her hips, poised and waiting impatiently. Clear blue eyes focused on him expectantly, seeming to ask what was taking so long.

The two of them make haste back to her new home, her easily keeping pace with his long strides. “Frances,” she says, succinctly. “Lucas," he replies, before adding, flatly, “Welcome to the neighborhood.

They come in the open front door and the first thing Lucas notices is the absolute chaos of boxes and furniture before he homes in on Anthony. He’s laid out on a dust cloth covered sofa and hovering over him, holding his hand, is a cherubic looking blond boy with enormous blue eyes. He stops dead in his tracks, shocked at the soft look his son is giving the other child, gazing up at him with wonder. Well, well, that’s new.

He creeps towards them, trying to hear what the two of them are saying but it just sounds like murmurs. Before he can get any closer in his eavesdropping though, his movements catch Anthony’s attention. His son turns his head in his direction and his eyes go wide, his mouth dropping open, too slow to spit out an excuse for his predicament. Lucas crosses the rest of the distance in two angry strides, “Anthony Crowley Jameson, were you in that damned apple tree again?”

Frances notes that his words seem harsh but their tone isn’t, not really, and he’s already kneeling by the sofa checking Anthony over with surprisingly gentle fluttering hands. Frances comes up behind him. “He needs stitches. That’s a pretty frightful gash he’s managed. And, he was out cold for a minute or so, so he should definitely be checked over.”

“Anything broken?” Lucas directs the question at his son, hands still running over his arms and legs with a light touch.

Anthony gives a little shrug and the blond answers for him, “I don’t believe so, Sir, he just hit his head.”

Lucas takes a moment to redirect his attention, and looks over to examine the boy, who doesn’t shy away from his calculating scrutiny at all, just meets his eyes with two overperceptive wells of hazel blue. Interesting. He turns back to Anthony and sighs, “alright hellion, up we go. Good thing your head is the thing you use least. Let’s get you taken care of  - and then we’ll discuss your punishment.” He slides his arms under Anthony to pick him up but the boys’ hands are still clasped together, tethering them. Anthony looks at Aziraphale beseechingly and Aziraphale doesn’t let go. “Aziraphale,” Frances says softly, “Anthony needs to go to hospital. You can see him again when he gets home.” Reluctantly, he drops his hand, allowing Lucas to stand with the boy in his arms. 

“Thank you,” Lucas nods at Frances as he moves for the door. “I’ll… I guess I’ll let you know when we’re back. My apologies for this.” She gives him a silent nod in return. 

As the door closes behind them, she turns and begins collecting the dirty flannels and bloody gauze, the bottle of antiseptic. From the direction of the mudroom side door, back near the kitchen, the quiet is interrupted by the sound of a long squeaking hinge, then a rattling bang. “Aziraphale?” she calls out. No answer. “Aziraphale?!”

Lucas is laying Crowley across the back seat when he’s startled at the sound of the front passenger door opening and then firmly closing. He realises the blond boy has followed him and taken some liberties. He’s climbed into the front seat and is already buckling his seatbelt. Settling himself in.

“And where is it you think you’re going?” He asks, sternly, hiding his impressed amusement at the audacity.

“With Anthony.” Is the straightforward and succinct answer he receives.

He stands and looks back over the top of the car to see Frances come running out from the side of her house looking a little frantic. He gives a little whistle and points to where Aziraphale is mulishly sat, arms crossed like he’s daring someone to challenge him. Her posture relaxes and he gives her a resigned two arms up, what do we do, gesture. She facepalms for a minute, burying her head in her hands and pressing her fingers hard into her temples. She drops her arms to her sides and takes a deep breath before shaking her head and calling out, “Go on. I’ll follow you.”

From their half hidden point of observation in the hall next to the small recovery room, Lucas and Frances can overhear only snippets of the boys’ conversation. Anthony is propped up in the bed, with a bandage around his head and Aziraphale sits close next to him. In between the boys' floating fragmented words, they start to share a tense conversation of their own.

“What were you doing in my tree?”

“How was I to know it was your tree? Been climbing that tree for years. I’m good at it.”

“If you’re so good at it, why did you fall out of it then?”

“Ngk.”

“He’ll be alright then?” Frances tentatively starts.

“Minor concussion, nine stitches, nothing broken… but plenty of bumps and bruises in addition. I suspect his ego is the biggest injury, which… could use a knock. He’s been scolded about that bloody apple tree a hundred times or more. Old Mr. Tyler even threatened to call The Met on the last occasion he caught him up it.”

They remain standing outside the room, watching as the two boys huddle closer together, hands again clasped. Frances starts again, more conversationally, “How old is Anthony?”

“Just turned twelve. And Aziraphale?” Lucas returns the question, still monitoring the two children guardedly.

“Also twelve, in early May. They’re only two months apart then… Anthony’s small for his age?”

“Oh, a bit, but he more than makes up for it in mischief. And he’ll have a growth spurt soon no doubt. He’s due for it.”

“That is not how the legend of Camelot is told at all!” Azirpahle’s indignant voice rises in volume enough for them to hear clearly.

A peel of impish laughter follows from Anthony. “I know. But it would be funnier if it was.”

“The other two children, the ones with whom I spoke earlier, are they his siblings then?”

“Ah. Yes. Bea is the eldest at thirteen, then Anthony, and lastly Sharon, or Shax, is ten.”

She doesn’t want to ask, thinking she may already know the answer if not the exact reason, but girds herself and does so anyway. “And…their mother? Do we need to call her? Let her know his condition?”

Lucas’s face clouds, jaw tight. “I’m a widower. Ten years now, complications from….” he doesn’t finish and doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry,” she swiftly averts his eyes, feeling a stab of guilt for having brought it up after all.

He waves her off before she can add anything more, “It’s been many years now, a decade,” before turning similar questions back on her rather bluntly. “Aziraphale. Any siblings, father in the picture?”

“No, and No. I’m quite married to my work,” she answers with equal frankness, having turned to meet his piercing eyes directly. “Always have been.”

Lucas is put off balance by her candor, not used to being so directly challenged. Her forthrightness is a rarity and so he doesn’t have a retort at the ready, is forced to turn back to observing the ongoing interaction in the small room.

“I would be a GREAT Robin Hood.”

“If Robin Hood’s neatest trick was falling out of trees.”

Frances tilts her head, also back to watching the two boys as well, “They’ll be starting year eight together then…”

“Seems like.”

“That's…good. Aziraphale could use a friend. He’s, well, he’s extremely solitary. Normally.”

“So this isn’t…”

Frances shakes her head minutely, “Absolutely not. I’ve never seen him take to someone, anyone at all, really. Overall, he prefers books to other children. Lives in his own world.”

Lucas considers before responding in kind. “Anthony as well. Not books…. lord, no. But, solitary, in his own world, yes. Just… in a different way.” He pauses, before deciding to elaborate; an olive branch to his new neighbor - the mother of the boy his own son seems so immediately stuck on. “He’s got dozens and dozens of acquaintances, loads of fleeting “friends,” but none of them are what one would consider close. He acts the class clown, troublemaker for sport.” He glances to his side but she’s still watching the two boys, so he continues, letting down a little more of his guard.  

“Mostly it’s that he’s much too easily bored and gets into all manner of devilry to entertain himself - really, it’s just silly pranks and the like. Mostly harmless antics. Not that you can ever let on your own amusement at what he’s been up to. It would only encourage him.”

He shoots another glance her way, but she’s still focused on the boys. “Last week he pilfered £5 in 50p coins from me and glued them up and down the pavement in front of the house. All so he could laugh at people trying to pick them up.” At last, the anecdote has provoked a raise of eyebrows and the twitch of a smile, however miniscule. “This,” he indicates the manner in which the two boys are huddled together and the way Anthony is obviously enamored. “This?” he repeats. “This Is something entirely new.”

“I see.” Frances is still, her watchful observation of the scene taking measurement. 

“And then, I hid the snake in my shirt and…” his voice is too muffled to hear the rest.

“You never!”

“Ha! Did!”

“You know, I believe I’ve thought of a punishment that could suit,” Lucas announces. Frances stiffens for a second, wondering what this stern man is going to dole out. He puts his hand to his chin, tapping a finger on his lips. “Do you need help with your garden? Weeding, pruning, planting? General lawn work or the like?”

She recalculates, considering, “Possibly… I am quite meticulous though.” 

“Perfect.” A corner of his mouth twitches up into an almost smirk.

“So what you’re saying is…”

“Oh, we can’t ever let on we know. He’ll love it, so we’ll need to frame it as a beyond cruel punishment, really drive home how burdensome, how gruelling it will be. A compensatory hard labour sentence for causing such a ruckus -  and of course, for the attempted scrumping.”

A sly smile comes to Frances’s face, as she realises what he is actually suggesting. “I think that can be managed.”

“Multiple days a week, I think. After school…and definitely on weekends, too. You’ll have to be stern with him. I warn you.”

She looks up at him, a head taller than her on her left, looking down at her with a matching sideeyed conspiratorial countenance. Her smile widens and she turns to face him fully, reaching out to shake his hand, “I believe we have an arrangement.”

Over the next five years, half of the time Frances looks out the back window, she catches Anthony, rather than weeding or pruning, leaning against whatever garden tool he’s supposed to be wielding and instead staring dreamily at Aziraphale, who, deep in whatever book he is reading is too distracted to notice. If he does look up, Anthony looks away and feigns some half hearted attempt at keeping busy. 

Lucas had been right, on both accounts; that Anthony would love it, but also that he would be a right pain. She absolutely had to chivvy him along in the beginning - he complained incessantly, grumbled at her openly, and was so easily distracted she inevitably spent more time steering him back to the task at hand than what time he’d have needed to spend on the initial task itself in the first place. And true to her word, she was stern, exacting. He earned himself a litany of scoldings and lectures and the forced repetition of labours until they were done to her satisfaction. But, underneath it all, he was obviously keen and all of the grousing he made was a poor mask for it. He could put up pretense all he wanted, but he soaked up knowledge like a sponge and had such obvious care for every last flower and branch that he couldn’t possibly hide it behind his surly teenage attitude with any measure of success. He also showed up unfailingly, transparently ardent for more than the company of some plants. Outside of the garden, the two boys were inseparable regardless, this was just additional time where they had an easily ready excuse.

The two of them bickered constantly. About anything and everything. If pressed to describe it, Frances would have likened them to an old married couple. As strange a relationship for two, on the surface, polar opposite teenage boys as it was, they were happily insular, a group of the two of them, extraordinary in their ease and comfort with one another. Her otherwise unfailingly quiet and polite son gave no quarter when it came to Anthony (who’d by the age of fourteen begun going by Crowley. “Too many other Anthonys around,” he’d said), a unique confidence he only displayed between the two of them. On Crowley’s side, she could guarantee Aziraphale’s influence had kept them out of far more trouble than Crowley’s nonsense had gotten the two of them into, which wasn't an insignificant amount, to be fair, albeit most of it was in fact relatively harmless. 

She’d thought them entirely indivisible. That was until the beginning of their last year of school when, without explanation, Crowley abruptly stopped showing up - except for a few weekends when Aziraphale was not at home. He’d offered nothing in the way of excuses; simply materialised in the garden, put his head down, and got to work. She wasn’t able to put two and two together until weeks later, when Aziraphale introduced her to a nice enough (she supposed), shaggy haired and awkward boy named Noah - confirming something unsurprising that she had always known. What she was surprised by - was the person, shocked even. Her heart silently broke for Crowley, but her son had made his choice and she decided she would not interfere, never inquiring after additional information from either of them. Instead, she left Crowley to his own schedule from that point forward without question, understanding that it would be to no one’s benefit to press on so deep a wound, agitate so delicate a situation. 

The two had still gone off to Uni together, for all appearances remaining thick as thieves. Crowley continued to orbit around Aziraphale, following him anywhere he wanted them to go. They’d roomed together, and even moved into a shared flat together after graduation. By this time, Aziraphale and Noah had long since parted, a couple other unserious boyfriends had come and gone, and for the past two years he’d been dating a too-full-of-himself young man named Tristan that she didn’t care for in the slightest. For a while, Crowley would still come out, alone, on the odd weekend, and quietly help her in the garden - right up until he abruptly announced he’d taken a job in Edinburgh and would be departing imminently. He had relocated within a fortnight and to her deep disappointment, Tristan had moved in with Aziraphale in his place.

After that, she saw Crowley only a handful of more times; various holidays, birthdays, and celebrations, when he returned to visit his family; and for brief stints during the summer months - in between his solo traveling. He  always set himself to work in the garden, asked after Aziraphale if he wasn’t there, and when he was, they would pick up like no time had passed at all; the exception being if Tristan was there as well, in which case Crowley would keep his time with them brief and retreat back to the house next door until departing without so much as an adieu.

She’d taken ill so quickly, Crowley’d been able to visit her in hospice only once, and he’d never told Aziraphale he had come down to do so. The nursing attendants had allowed him to curl up in the mechanical bed next to her and he’d cried into her frail shoulder for a while before telling her, “I’ll miss you, mom, and I’ll take care of him, I promise you I will. No matter what.”

He’ll never know if she heard him. She did.