Chapter Text
"I'm sorry about him," said Madame Tracy in a stage whisper, pointing discreetly at Shadwell, "he gets a bit uncomfortable in social settings."
The man was pouring something that smelled suspiciously like lighter fluid into his coffee, which had previously been a rather pleasant Americano and was now something Shadwell referred to as a "Glaswegian Handshake."
Or, at least, that was what it had sounded like. Aziraphale was never a hundred percent sure he was speaking English.
"It's quite alright," he said, tactfully, "I'm sure if Crowley were here he'd be turning the table water into wine for the sheer irony of it. "Rebellious streak" doesn't even begin to cover it."
Aziraphale had tried to coax Crowley into joining him for tea with Madame Tracy - who was charming company and only lived three stops away on the tube, and had quite literally saved Aziraphale's skin during the whole Apocalypse debacle, which surely made her at least a friend - but Crowley had emphatically dug his heels in and refused.
He was a demon, he said, and demons didn't have tea and biscuits with women who wore too much beaded jewelry in little cafés in Lambeth. Aziraphale had countered that the two of them had tea in little cafés all the time, and that surely supping with a Lady of the Night (or, in Tracy's case, due to her knees and the age of her clientele, the Mid Afternoon) counted as exemplary demonic behaviour. She was retired, Crowley had countered, basically reformed, if you thought about it, and married to boot. At this point, by his logic, Tracy was practically a saint.
It had gone back and forth like that for a while, until Crowley had finally admitted there was a James Bond marathon on Channel 4 and he'd been planning on watching them all back to back. Nobody could do a movie marathon quite like Crowley, who didn't technically need to eat or sleep and didn't even blink except during advert breaks.
Aziraphale had given Crowley his best put-upon sigh, but his heart wasn't in it. The battle was over as soon as Crowley spilled the beans. One embarrassed, pleading look and Aziraphale folded like a cheap card-table. These days, he could never deny his demon anything.
Not anymore. Not now that he could do things like kiss the top of Crowley's head and tell him that it was fine, really, he should stay and enjoy himself and did he want Aziraphale to pick up any snacks on the way home?
Not now he could finally show Crowley how much he loved him.
Aziraphale jumped when Tracy put a hand on his and smiled. Belatedly, he realised he must have been miles away, thinking about Crowley.
"So," she said, meaningfully, "how are things with your young man?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again. Not only had he been daydreaming about his demon, it'd been obvious for all to see. How embarrassing! Crowley was neither young nor a man, but he was wholeheartedly Aziraphale's. He supposed one out of three wasn't bad.
"Um. Very good, thank you. We're very happy."
"I can see that, dear," said Tracy, squeezing his hand and giggling, "you have that look about you. Like you're so in love you're practically drunk with it. Oh, it's just darling. I remember how that feels."
"Cheers, to tha," said Shadwell, and upended his adulterated coffee.
"Thank you, I think," said Aziraphale, choosing to ignore the way Tracy was looking adoringly at Shadwell. The man was sitting in sullen silence, trying to drink discreetly from his hip flask and failing utterly.
"And you must be having so much fun in the bedroom, what with him being a demon! He looks the sort to be very creative." She clapped her hands together excitedly.
"I suppose he is," said Aziraphale, thinking fondly of the time Crowley had explained his little trick with the M25. It was horrible, of course, but definitely creative. He hadn't seen much evidence of creativity when Crowley was decorating the bedroom in Aziraphale's little flat, but there was only so much you could do with such a small space.
"Not to mention flexible," said Tracy, lowering her voice to something approaching sultry, "I hope you don't mind me saying so but those legs of his! I haven't seen trousers that tight in decades!"
They were, indeed, very tight. Aziraphale was convinced that he miracled them into being only a few millimetres larger than his legs, and he hadn't yet seen the demon try to take them off. That would be a sight to see, he was sure, with a lot of red-faced hopping about if he wasn't allowed to banish them demonically. Aziraphale felt his face heat up in sympathy, and because Tracy was waggling her eyebrows in a way that made it impossible not to finally catch her drift.
"Ah, um, I'm afraid you've got the wrong end of the stick, as it were. We don't, er. Do that. Angels and demons don't, generally. It's frowned upon, to be honest, since the whole business with the nephilim. Those poor women had a terrible time of it."
Tracy's face fell a little, possibly in disappointment that she wouldn't be getting any juicy stories, but she recovered admirably.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything inappropriate. It's just that you seem so in love and, well." Tracy smiled at him warmly, "You're not what I imagined when I thought of an angel. You like a bit of fun, for starters, and you cheat at whist."
"I do not!" Aziraphale huffed.
"Whatever you say, dear." Tracy winked.
Aziraphale tried to look affronted, but only half managed it. He maintained, privately, that using angelic miracles when the other player was clearly cheating herself was merely levelling the playing field.
"However you choose to love each other is wonderful. All I'm saying is that you shouldn't hold yourself back because you think something's not allowed."
"No." said Aziraphale, thinking of every time he'd wanted to hold Crowley's hand over the millennia, "no, I suppose not."
Tracy smiled mischievously and nudged her husband with one sharp elbow.
"And if there's one thing I've learned from all my years of experience, it's that you never know if you'll like something unless you try it."
"Away, we ye, Jezabel," said Shadwell, blushing furiously.
"I'll bear that in mind," said Aziraphale.
He did, for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Crowley had his eyes glued to the action when Aziraphale got back, flat out on the sofa with magically replenishing martini. The TV had been one of the first things to migrate over from Crowley's cavern of a flat to the snug little space above the bookshop. It took up most of one wall, but Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley's nature documentaries looked stunning and it was well worth the disruption to his decor to see his yellow eyes light up with excitement.
Aziraphale waited for a commercial break, watching Crowley's subtle reactions to the current car chase and plating up the slices of cake he'd picked up at the café. To most people, Crowley would have looked like off-puttingly still, but Aziraphale knew what to look for. He was enjoying himself immensely. Soon, the car chase cut to a dejected-looking woman with a filthy kitchen, and Crowley suddenly noticed he was there.
"Hello, angel. When did you get back?"
"Oh, not long ago. Here you are, dear," he said, passing Crowley a slice of coffee and walnut cake,
"I had a very nice lunch. Tracy is quite the character. She did seem rather interested in our sex life, however."
Crowley almost spat out his martini.
"We haven't got a sex life," he said, chuckling, "she must've been disappointed."
"Well, not really. She's very open minded. I suppose you'd have to be to marry someone like Shadwell, after all. But she did get me thinking, I suppose."
"Hmm?"
The cars were chasing each other again. Some of them had men leaning out of the windows, shooting at each other. Aziraphale couldn't have identified which film it was if someone had held a flamethrower filled with hellfire to his head.
"I'll talk to you about it later," he said, patting Crowley's knee, "I'd hate to make you miss something exploding."
To his surprise, Crowley muted the TV and looked at him instead. Aziraphale 's heart leapt at the sheer romance of it; of Crowley choosing him over his favourite piece of media in all of history, and his mood was only dampened slightly by what Crowley said next:
"S'alright, it's only the Lazenby one. Awful acting and way too maudlin, you know I can't stand the gloomy ones. What were you going to say?"
"Oh, well," Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly anxious.
This wasn't how he thought this would go. He thought it would be easier. He'd just breezily ask Crowley if he felt like trying sex, as if it was a new sushi restaurant or a bottle of Peruvian red. In reality, with Crowley's yellow eyes softly meeting his own, it was never going to be that simple.
"I just wondered if you'd like to. Have one, that is. With me, I mean. Obviously."
"Have one what?" Crowley asked.
"A sex life."
Crowley had made the sensible decision to put his Martini down as soon as Aziraphale started talking, but he still had his piece of coffee cake which he dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. Aziraphale tutted loudly and miracled the whole lot, cake and broken plate alike, into the bin.
"I carried that here on the tube, you know."
"Angel," said Crowley, blinking slowly, "not that I'm not interested or flattered, but where the heaven did that come from?"
"From the café, of course. The tea wasn't up to snuff but somebody working there really has a knack for baking."
" Angel."
"Oh, alright," said Aziraphale, huffilly, "I was just curious, that's all. Tracy implied that it was, well, fun. And from what I've read, very intimate and satisfying." He looked away, unable to handle the look Crowley was giving him. There was concern in there, and hope, and a little bit of pity.
"And I've never really explored any sort of sexual affection. I do love being with you, my dear, in every way we've tried so far. Would it be so different to try another?"
Crowley's brows had been knitted together like amorous caterpillars, but when Aziraphale smiled at him all the tension fell away.
"'Course not," he said, taking Aziraphale's hand and drawing him closer, "If that's what you want, angel, nothing would make me happier than trying something new with you."
A wave of relief broke through Aziraphale, carrying his worries away. He rested his head on Crowley's shoulder happily.
"Oh, good," he sighed, "I'm so lucky to have you, my dear."
"Mmm."
The film seemed to have finished, replaced with images of diamonds and silhouettes of women dancing. It was difficult to tell, but Aziraphale thought they looked a bit chilly dancing about naked like that.
"You really are very good to me, Crowley," he said, smiling wickedly.
"Shut it, angel," Crowley snapped, and turned up the volume on the TV.
Aziraphale ate his cake quietly and watched Crowley again. He was smiling now, and Aziraphale wondered how much of it was Crowley secretly pretending that he was chasing down villains in his Bentley and how much he could take credit for himself.
Judging from the way the smile stuck around during the adverts, it was quite a bit.
***
Crowley passed out for three days straight after his movie marathon. If he hadn't been snoring, a strange hissing little sound that Aziraphale found uniquely endearing, the angel might have taken him for dead. It wasn't quite long enough for him to need dusting (something that Aziraphale had grudgingly begun doing after Crowley woke up from a week long nap in a fit of sneezes), but it was long enough that Aziraphale began to miss him.
"My sleeping beauty," he said, softly, running a hand through Crowley's gorgeous hair. The demon snuffled deeper into his pillow, and Aziraphale had to admit that sleep did look very comfortable. Particularly in their bed, which Crowley had forced Aziraphale to visit fifteen different boutiques to shop for and had paid a small fortune for. Crowley maintained that the feathers in it were from a bird so endangered that its name was known only to a secretive cabal of mattress makers, who made beds for all of the European royal families. Aziraphale had checked the tags and found it to be filled with ethically farmed goose down.
Aziraphale changed into his pyjamas, got under the covers and let himself sink down into it, shuffling close up against Crowley's back. The mattress held them in a warm embrace, a bone-deep softness that tugged at the loneliness in Aziraphale's chest and unravelled it. He put an arm around his beloved and told himself that a little nap wouldn't hurt. Maybe, when he woke, Crowley would join him in the land of the living.
It felt like no time at all before Aziraphale felt Crowley shift in his arms, stretching his long legs out until his feet were off the edge of the bed. Aziraphale blinked blearily awake, watching owlishly as Crowley arched his back against the mattress. Sleeping for so long was murder on the vertebrae, no matter how soft or expensive the bed.
"Mnuh?" He said, stupidly, eyes unfocused but looking in the general direction of Aziraphale's face.
Of all the things that had changed between them in the strange, unexpected continuation of Earth's story, this was one of Aziraphale's favourites. Crowley was never more confused or disheveled than when he'd just woken up, but he was always completely, languidly at ease. There was nothing of the perpetual tension that had haunted him for six thousand years, sharpening his edges and setting bone and sinew as a shield for his soft heart. Like this, the softness in him shone bled through, crawling like ink across the pale parchment of his skin.
"Good morning, darling," said Aziraphale, kissing his surprised lips thoroughly.
"Wha?" Crowley replied, when the kissing was finished, "W're you asleep?"
"I was, for a bit, yes. And I say "good morning" but I haven't a clue what time it actually is."
Crowley snuggled up against him, apparently satisfied that he wasn't dreaming and Aziraphale really had joined him in bed. Usually if he woke up next to Aziraphale, the angel was reading or doing a crossword. He was seldom wrapped around Crowley like this, and Aziraphale hadn't fallen asleep next to him since the night the Apocalypse had failed to happen.
"S'nice. You should sleep more often, angel. Like waking up next to you."
"Mmm," Aziraphale hummed, smoothing Crowley's back through his silk shirt, "I like it too. Your hair is all over the shop, dearest."
He brushed a wayward strand out of Crowley's eyes. Before Crowley could make a snarky comment he cut him off with a kiss.
"I like it." He reiterated, "Its a privilege to be the only one who gets to see you au naturel."
"Typically that means naked, not without hair product."
"It can mean either, and you know it," said Aziraphale, "although I'd be amenable to the other meaning as well."
Crowley's eyes widened a little. Aziraphale smirked; his offer had done an admirable job of waking Crowley up completely.
"Yeah?" he said, tentatively.
"Yes, my dear. It would be lovely to touch all of you, and we've seen each other naked before."
"That was in Rome, angel. It didn't mean the same thing, then."
Crowley grinned, raising one lascivious eyebrow.
Aziraphale laughed.
"No, it most assuredly did not. I wouldn't have appreciated the presence of the other people in the baths if it did."
"I wouldn't have minded."
"Foul fiend," Aziraphale said affectionately, as he helped Crowley out of his pyjama shirt, "Why am I not surprised that you're an incurable exhibitonist?"
"Cause you know me," said Crowley, simply.
It was true, and the truth of it caught in Aziraphale's throat and made an odd little sound. There were no two beings in all the universe who knew each other as completely as he and Crowley. As he had been many times since the world hadn't ended, Aziraphale was overwhelmed by the depth of feeling between them. They loved each other completely, as no other beings ever had.
"Thinking about the six thousand years again?" said Crowley, brushing away a tear Aziraphale hadn't realised he'd shed.
Aziraphale nodded.
"Me too, love. But it's been at least four thousand since I've seen you with your clothes off, so I'd like to get on with it if you don't mind."
He snorted and shoved Crowley's bottoms down, leaving him with a very happy, very naked demon. Crowley retaliated by snapping his fingers and miracling Aziraphale's pyjamas away into the corner of the room.
"Hey!" Aziraphale gasped.
He wanted to be annoyed at the treatment of his things, which were over a century old and absolutely irreplaceable, but then there was an awful lot of warm, warm skin pressed up against his and he forgot all about it.
"Hmm, you've made an effort, angel."
Crowley ran a hand over Aziraphale's hip, his thumb dipping close to the soft cock nestled between his legs.
"Well. I've always felt comfortable without, but I thought it might be time for a change."
"S'always good to try new things," Crowley agreed.
Lazily, he draped an arm and a leg over Aziraphale's side and pulled them flush against one another.
"Thisss, for example."
It was almost too much, Aziraphale thought, as a shiver ran across his skin. Crowley was wiry muscle and lean perfection, uneven patches of chest hair glinting in the morning light. He was everything Aziraphale remembered from all those centuries ago but now he was allowed to touch, to taste. He was allowed to truly appreciate every part of this creature he'd loved for the better part of eternity. He pressed his lips to Crowley's collarbone, so sharp it seemed about to cut itself free, and smiled.
"I quite agree."
They lay like that for a while, lost in the bliss of skin against skin. After a few minutes, though, Crowley began to get fidgety. It was clear that Aziraphale was having a certain effect on Crowley's corporation, and the same could not be said for Aziraphale's.
"Er," said Crowley, awkwardly.
"It's alright, my dear. I haven't put in the, um. Plumbing. You know, glands, hormones, that sort of thing. I thought I'd get used to it existing before I put it in the driving seat."
Crowley relaxed, relieved, and began kissing along Aziraphale's neck. It felt divine, especially when Crowley reached his pulse-point and stayed there, sucking gently on the skin.
"I didn't mean to worry you, darling. I should've said something."
"Nah," said Crowley, detaching reluctantly from lavishing Aziraphale's neck with kisses, "wasn't worried, just a bit confused."
The line of Crowley's own effort was pressed against Aziraphale's stomach, firm and delectable.
"It suits you," said Crowley, swallowing thickly.
He cleared his throat, and Aziraphale felt his demon's heartbeat quicken against his chest.
"The cock, I mean. Wasn't sure if you'd go for something else, considering what a little hedonist you are."
"I have no idea what you mean," Aziraphale said primly, "and well. I did a little research while you were sleeping. This configuration appears to be the easiest to handle for, um, beginners."
"Ha!" Crowley laughed, "Yeah, you could say that. Practically comes with an instruction manual. Really big font. All caps."
"Yours certainty seems to like me," said Aziraphale, almost overflowing with pride. It was extremely flattering to be the centre of Crowley's focus like this, to be causing such a beautiful physical reaction. To be eliciting little gasps with every kiss to Crowley's overheated skin, every movement of his hips.
"The damn thing does have a bit of a fixation," Crowley admitted.
"Oh?"
"Mmm. It's only ever been interested in one person, to be honest. Must be a manufacturing error. I ought to complain."
"Still got the receipt, have you?"
Aziraphale shifted his hips again and treated himself to a glorious handful of Crowley's arse. The noise he got in response was something between a sigh and a moan, and he dearly wanted to hear it again as often and as loudly as possible.
"Six thousand years is a long time for a warranty, dear boy. I think you're probably out of luck, I'm afraid."
"'Ziraphale," said Crowley, somewhat breathless, "you should probably stop that if you don't want me to..."
In answer, Aziraphale pulled Crowley on top of him. And, oh, if he'd thought simply embracing had been ecstasy, it had nothing on being surrounded by the lean weight of him, hips spasming involuntarily as Aziraphale explored every inch of his back.
"Darling, why wouldn't I want that?"
"S'not, you're not," Crowley stammered, "y'know, not very romantic, is it? Want it to be sssspecial, your firssst time."
"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at the face he had studied for six thousand years, and had loved for almost as long. His eyes were squeezed shut, eyebrows drawn up in an expression that could have been mistaken for pain if Aziraphale didn't know him so well. His hair was damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. Breathtaking, Aziraphale thought, as he brushed some of it out of Crowley's eyes, he was breathtaking, There wasn't a painter alive who could've captured half a fraction of Crowley's desperate, fragile beauty as he shuddered his way towards the precipice. His fall would be so sweet, this time, and Aziraphale would be there to catch him when it was over.
"I've waited so long to make you happy, my love," said Aziraphale, working a hand between them to touch the velvety skin of Crowley's cock. Crowley hissed as he wrapped his fingers around it, his body bowstring taut and shaking.
"Don't make me wait another second," Aziraphale murmured, his heart fluttering in his chest at the way Crowley squirmed, "I couldn't bear it. How could this not be special?"
He stroked Crowley a few times, enjoying the slide of skin against skin and adding just the right amount of heavenly lubrication to elicit a long, drawn-out whine.
"Angel!"
Crowley was holding himself back, Aziraphale could tell, and that wouldn't do at all. Carefully, he rolled the demon onto the bed and climbed on top of him, pinning him down protectively, possessively. Aziraphale had been built to protect, after all, and there was nothing he could think of that was more precious than this, Crowley's final loss of control after keeping himself agonisingly, punishingly in line for millennia. He quickened his pace, stroking fervently as Crowley's back arched under him, his hands scrabbling at the sheets.
"Angel, angel, I can't," he was whispering, now, as Aziraphale kissed along his jawline, sucking little marks into the skin underneath.
"You can, my dear. I want you to."
"Aziraphale," Crowley gasped, a warning and a prayer, throwing his arms and legs around the angel as if he was the only solid thing in the universe.
"I love you," said Aziraphale, softly, just like he had every day since the end had failed to come.
That was enough to set Crowley tumbling over the edge, apparently and he came with a shout, a loud "Fuck!" that made Aziraphale laugh in spite of himself.
Everything was still, afterwards, as Crowley got his breath back and his sweat cooled in the humid air. It was all a bit sticky, Aziraphale found, examining the mess coating his hand and both of their stomachs, but supremely worth it. He tasted a little bit of it, made a face, and miracled it away.
"I think semen might be an acquired taste," he said, "although I'm sure I'm going to enjoy the acquisition process a great deal."
Aziraphale smiled beatifically at Crowley, who was blinking a lot more than was normal.
"Who are you?" He asked, weakly.
"Oh, darling. I think I'm who I was always meant to be, don't you?" said Aziraphale, happily.
"Ngk," Crowley replied, and kissed him fiercely, stealing the oxygen from his lungs as if he'd die without it. He wouldn't, of course, but Aziraphale gave it willingly anyway.
"Ooh, I am looking forward to trying that again with hormones, Crowley," he said, later on, once his demon had been gently persuaded to let him use his mouth for speaking again, "it looks delicious."
"It will be, angel, I can promise you that."
Crowley smiled at him like a sunrise, big and bright and glorious, and Aziraphale found he believed him completely.