Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Shit,” Crowley said. It wasn’t the sort of town a man should swear in, probably, looking as picturesque as a postcard. The only things which had probably changed in the last fifty years were one or two business names and the colour of the brick. There was an ice cream parlour that still advertised a damn soda fountain. Stepping back in time had not been a part of the plan. No matter how many newspapers he read - behind bars or in front of them - it still felt like 2005. This place, though, felt more like 1955.

Yet this was where his car had decided to begin rattling. Had to be the transmission. He got out to check under the hood, unable to touch with the engine still hot, but a visual inspection gave him nothing. Sighing, he returned to the driver’s seat to turn the key. The engine sputtered, but it didn’t catch. “Shit,” said Crowley again, with blasphemous feeling. It only sputtered at the second, third, and fourth attempts.

For a third time, this one soft and miserable, Crowley said, “Shit.”

Then he got out of the Bentley. It would be a bitch to push alone, but he’d done it more than once in his life and he certainly hadn’t gotten soft and doughy in jail. Too much free time, not enough good food, and plenty of fear. It had been Hell.

Unfortunately, God didn’t seem to be done tormenting him yet. As he reached the back and began to push, there was a single crack of thunder. The clouds abruptly opened and he resigned himself to getting wet until he realized that he wasn’t. He looked up, baffled to find an umbrella held aloft. It was attached to a hand, which was attached to a person.

Behind dark lenses, Crowley blinked twice just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. It was a man who had nothing to fear when it came to becoming soft and a little doughy. He probably had nothing to fear at all just based on the small smile and their location. Between the clouds and his sunglasses, it was impossible to tell his eye colour, but comfortable lines crooked from them and Crowley could tell they were twinkling. And was his hair white? It was difficult to tell, but it was definitely fluffy and curly. He looked like a friendly little sheep in human form. A lamb with a halo, which was definitely a trick of the light. He’d long given up on something like angels.

He realized that he’d been staring too long when the man cleared his throat and those twinkling eyes glanced away, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. When the fuck had he last made small talk with anyone? 2005 probably.

“Seems to me you’re batting on a bit of a sticky wicket, there.”

“Christ,” was the only response he could think of. It wasn't quite as bad as “shit,” but just as blasphemous. “What bloody year is it? Swear I’ve gone back a good seventy.”

The friendly little sheep of a man looked a little less friendly at the blatant irreverence, still plenty sheep with the way he puffed up a bit, but he exhaled on a little huff and decided to cut him some slack. Possibly. “It’s the year 2020, my dear fellow. You haven’t perhaps injured yourself when your car stopped working? Didn’t hit anything did you?” If there was legitimate concern in his tone, it was hidden behind quite a bit of cheek for a man wearing a threadbare waistcoat and a tartan bowtie. And spats.

“Not that I remember.” He grinned, the curve of his lips almost foreign feeling. A bit of cheek wasn't unwarranted. “Just need to get the old girl over before some knucklehead comes ‘round not paying attention. Exactly what I need today.”

“Or worse. You might be accosted by our neighborhood watch.” The twinkle was back in his eyes, perhaps the grin doing its job in winning him over. “Self-appointed, of course. Might I lend you a hand in moving the ah… old girl?” 

He gestured to the Bentley with the hand not holding the umbrella, the sleeve of his beige coat covered in darkened splotches where the rain dampened it. He paid it little mind, hardly noticing that he was exposed to the rain by continuing to shield Crowley with his umbrella. If anything he made sure it covered as much of him as possible, without leaning too far into his personal space.

It twisted something in Crowley’s heart, something unfamiliar or long forgotten. He brushed it aside with a shake of his head. “S’fine, angel. I’ve been musclin’ her about as long as I can remember. Though if you wanted to go turn the wheel a bit, that’d be grand.”

It might have been a trick of the light through his sunglasses, but the faintest trace of colour etched itself across the man’s face for a moment. “Ah, yes. Right. Whatever will be of the most help to you, good sir.” He cleared his throat again and struggled a bit as he fiddled with the umbrella, realizing it would benefit neither of them in their respective roles. He closed it and tucked it under his arm. “Turn the wheel… towards the kerb?”

“Well, I don’t want her in the middle of the street, do I?”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” he agreed, and his face also agreed that it had been a ridiculous question, pinched the way it was. 

He went around to the front of the car and reached in through the driver’s side. The tyres squelched as they turned on the gravel-littered road, rough in patches and probably hadn’t been repaved since well before 2005. As soft and doughy as he’d seemed just standing there in the middle of the rain, he completely stiffened up as soon as he made contact with the car, as if he’d never touched a machine like it in his life. His grip on the steering wheel was ginger and cautious, though that could have been because he recognized how vintage the Bentley was.

“This is quite the old girl,” he mused. “What year is this model?”

“1933. She was my granddad’s originally and now she’s mine. Only about twelve hundred 3 ½-Litres like this were made, but the way they were built at the time makes her one of a kind.” There was pride there and a deep well of affection even as he pushed the sleek lump of metal as close to the edge of the road as he could, wary of any scrapes or scratches from passing motorists. “There we are. Think that’s alright. Put that umbrella of yours back up now, angel. You’ll get soaked through.”

“Were you heading anywhere in particular?” he asked, effectively ignoring him as he did put the umbrella back up, but made sure it covered more of Crowley. “Somewhere to wait out the rain and telephone for assistance?”

Crowley hooked his thumbs in his pockets, giving in with a brief shrug. “The plan was to drive until I ran out of petrol and see where I was, so I was supposed to be waiting out the rain on the road. For the other, nah. No one to call. I've got tools in the boot, so I'll... wait in the car. Tinker when it lets up.” 

“Oh, good heavens, no.” He looked offended by the very idea. “Come with me. I’ve got a shop just down the lane here. You can wait there and- wait, tools you said? You- you maintain this lovely little thing yourself?” His eyes widened, more of an awed sparkle in them than a twinkle now. 

“'Course. Redid the whole engine a while back.” A long while, but it still got his chin to lift with a touch of pride. “The tune-up I did before heading out of London didn't really cover everything like I'd thought, though. Obviously. Sounds like the transmission, but she won't turn over so could always be a battery issue or any other thing. And you've gone all politely interested, so you don't know a thing about an engine.” 

“Not a single thing,” he agreed with a smile. “I’m afraid automobiles aren’t quite my specialty. But heirlooms and antiquities are, so the obvious care and love you feel for your car is something I am very much interested in, Mr.- oh, I’m afraid I haven’t caught your name.”

He'd been in the papers months back upon release, several pages in. Just a blip on the radar, no one championing his cause but himself, so there was no worry of being recognized by name in a town so small. “Crowley. What d'you mean you specialize in antiques?” 

“Well, you see, I- oh, but we should get out of this weather. It is a bit damp.” He glanced up and down the road, satisfied with the lack of traffic on this drizzly day, then motioned for Crowley to follow him. “It might be better just to show you. Come along, my dear fellow. My shop’s only a little more than a five minute’s walk from here. Your dear car will be quite alright until it dries up a bit. Then we can see about getting her into the workshop and give you a place to tinker that isn’t on the side of the road.”

The offer was too surprising, too genuine, for him to think better of following. Besides, he knew how to quickly judge character and the angelic sheep thing still fit. “Would you really? I'd... actually appreciate that.” 

If the man could soften further, he did, smile nothing but kind as he stepped close to keep them both under the umbrella as much as possible. He led the way to the edge of the small town - if town could even begin to describe wherever the hell Crowley had ended up - onto a country road. Verdant fields and rolling chalk hills stretched on ahead of them, and a wooded grove cropped up that seemed to have decided to grow around the village nestled near its trees. Before they ventured too far into the countryside, what appeared to be a little farm popped up around the bend, tucked behind some trees.

There was a sign posted near the road. “Divine Restorations & Repairs” was painted on worn, white wood in gold cursive lettering. There was a fence in front with a gate that connected with an old stone wall on the eastern end of the property that wrapped around the back. Also on the eastern side was a large, two-storey farmhouse built from flint and brick with charming blue shutters and a weathervane at the top. Beside it, a little footpath led up to what had once been a barn. It still looked vaguely barn-ish, save for the sign posted above the broad doors that matched the one off the road.

The man unlatched the gate and held it open for Crowley, making sure he was through before closing it up behind him. “Normally we leave the gate and doors open,” he said, gesturing to the barn. “But it’s the lunch hour, you see, so everything’s locked up for the time being.” He took an old keyring out of his pocket, fiddling with it one-handedly while the umbrella wavered unsteadily from side to side in a distracted grasp. “Oh. Er, would you mind?” He offered the umbrella to Crowley.

“Sure.” He held it, watching him flip through keys. “Were you coming from or heading to lunch?” 

“Heading to, but it doesn’t matter.” He waved him off, then let out a triumphant ‘aha!’ as he found the right key and fitted it into the padlock on the doors. “After you.”

Crowley stepped in, closing the umbrella as the lights were switched on behind him. They illuminated work benches, several stations covered in ghostly cloths to hide or protect the project beneath. There was a different level of clutter at each section, different tools and materials laid out and waiting for their owner to return. Every inhale was something new: old leather and sawdust, paint and polish. Definitely a busy business, but quaint and cosy. “Nice place. Sounds like I owe you lunch, though.” 

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave you out in the rain. It’s cold out. And wet.” He removed his coat and hung it on a rack near the door to keep from dripping all over the floor. “But I suppose if you’re offering… no, but wait. First things first. Tea. I’ll put on some tea, that should warm us up nicely. Please feel free to make yourself comfortable. Sit anywhere you’d like.” He gestured broadly to the various workstations. “Oh, and we do have a telephone; are you certain there’s no one you need to reach?”

“There's nobody,” he replied, a little flat and final as he shrugged out of his blazer and hung it next to the tan coat. “Where's your spot, angel? Wouldn't want to put anybody else out.” 

“Ah, do you see the antique, guillotine paper cutter over there? And the book press on the table? That’s my workspace. I restore and bind books,” he told him, a bit of pride puffing him up. “The workstation across from mine is also open at the moment. Right now it’s just sort of a hodgepodge of spare parts and tools. It was where our clockman, Mr. Milkbottle, used to work, but he’s since moved on to other opportunities. How do you take your tea?”

“Splash of milk when I get a choice.” He wandered over to the free station, more intrigued than he'd admit. He picked up a pivot reaching tool, phantom pricks of gears denting his fingertips. Sacrifices had needed to be made, and these tools had been among the last. Holding a stranger’s made a tiny ache blossom somewhere in his chest, suspiciously close to his heart and quickly banished. “Not enough work for him in this little place?”

Bustling over to a kitchenette area with a table and a few mismatched chairs, the angel of a man set about filling a kettle. There were two, an electric one and an old, copper bellied kettle that was set on a hot plate once it was full enough. The electric one went untouched.

“Small towns and villages aren’t suited to everyone,” he replied as he fetched two mugs and the milk from a mini fridge. “He enjoyed the work, but wanted to be closer to family, I believe. Far be it from me to begrudge someone that.”

There was something in the tone. Subtle, right at the edges. It made Crowley smile. “Left you in a spot, didn't he?” 

His shoulders sagged as he looked over at him almost helplessly. “You can’t imagine how many people need their clocks fixed. Or anything with tiny gears. Not to mention it’s such a specialized field. Not just anyone can read the witness marks to trace the original intent of the clockmaker, you know.”

He could absolutely imagine, trying for a sympathetic pout, but it was marred by an amusement obvious even with the sunglasses still covering his eyes. This angelic sheep had given up hiding his upset over it so easily and there was just something so bloody sweet about that. “And the older something is, the fewer things you can find on what to do. Don't have a replacement lined up yet?” 

“Not yet.” There was a very real pout in the set of his lips now, but the whistle of the kettle effectively distracted him from it. “I’ve suggested putting adverts in papers that have a bit more reach than our local news, but… I suppose the suggestion fell on deaf ears. Oh, but that’s not very kind of me, is it?” he sighed, mugs filled and milk added to both while the tea bags steeped and he considered how else to put it. “They did hear what I had to say, they’re just of the opinion that the only people who’d want to come work in Tadfield are people already living here. Despite the fact that two of our current employees are recent transplants to the area. That, and they want to exclusively advertise online. Apparently that’s what all the competitive markets are doing these days. But nevermind, I apologize. I don’t mean to bore you with ‘shop talk,’ as it were. Here you are. Splash of milk was certainly an option.” He handed him his tea, smile returning as Crowley took it.

Crowley leaned his hip against the worktable and took a sip, reevaluated. He'd assumed the man owned the shop from the way he'd spoken about it, but perhaps he was just a manager. “I don't mind, really. I did ask,” he pointed out. “Besides, not every thought needs to be nice, angel. It'd be a bland world if they were.” 

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t be much of an angel if I wasn’t thinking nice thoughts,” he replied, but something in what Crowley said set him at ease, the lines around his eyes losing some of their depth. “It’s really not as bad as all that though. I’m mostly left to my own devices here. Free to set the business hours as I choose and hiring is typically left up to me. And I still get to restore books and reunite them with their owners in tip-top condition. It’s not a bad arrangement at all.”

“Doesn't sound so bad,” he agreed. “Really is a nice place, y'know. Rustic and warm like this is kinda what you want from somewhere that fixes heirlooms. Like if an old barn can be restored, why can't the family Bible or whatever.” 

He lit up, the warm lights above creating another halo of sorts about him. “Yes, precisely. Oh, I’m so glad you think so. That was exactly my thinking when I spruced things up a smidge. It’s family-run, but there was a period of time where it did… languish, a bit. When changing hands, you see. But with a little care and attention to detail, it’s as if it came back to life. Good as new!”

Oh, angel was definitely accurate. It was almost distracting. “Your family or...?” 

“Oh, yes. My grandmother actually started all of this. She had quite the knack for restorations. There wasn't a single thing she couldn't bring back to its former glory. Even clocks.” He smiled wistfully, considering the workspace. “She was very proud of it. I can only hope she'd feel that way still if she saw it today. I think she would.” He sipped at his tea, pleased with the flavor and strength of it.

“I haven't seen it bustling with all the workers, but I can see there's plenty of projects. And you're obviously in love with it. I can't imagine she'd be displeased.” He didn't quite know where the reassurance came from, not normally one to jump to soothe anyone. Something about this man... “Giving a damn goes a long way.” 

“Oh, really?” As if those simple words had been all it took to brighten his entire day, the man smiled like he'd been given the sun. “Well, thank you. It does bother me, from time to time, but that's very kind that you think so.” His gaze darted away when he realized it had been lingering for a second or two too long, hiding the remnants of his smile behind his mug. “Mm. Oh, right, well as you can see there's plenty of workspace if you wanted to bring your car in. It's a ways to push, but I'm certain Newton and Sergeant Shadwell will be happy to help get her here. They're my woodworkers.”

“If the starting issue is just the battery, I might be able to start it with a jump. I've got a tester and a type of portable charger, but if it's more than that, yeah. Wouldn't mind an extra pair or two of hands.” He really hoped it was just a dirt issue. Gunk build-up in the transmission after sitting too long, battery corrosion from the same. He was running out of funds too fast to be able to afford too many parts. “I'll figure it out anyway. Always do.” 

 “You certainly do seem prepared, Mr. Crowley. We have some spare parts that we’ve collected over the years for older vehicles. They might not be what you need, but you’re welcome to look through them,” he offered. “We’re certainly not making any use of them now.”

It might've been polite to refuse, but Crowley had never been known for politeness. “Might take you up on that, depending on what she needs. S’pose I should've taken a better look before I left, but...” He shrugged and straightened, wanting to explore the space a bit more before lunch ended and the workers began to shuffle back in. 

“Well, it was raining. And from the looks of things, it's quite the downpour now,” he pointed out, heading back over to the kitchenette while Crowley glanced up at the skylights. Rain pelted onto them in a thick, consistent sheet. Grand. The book binder rummaged around for a bit, putting together a plate of crackers and two kinds of cheese he found in the mini fridge. A pear was also cut up, then a small bunch of grapes were added for colour and a tiny dollop of sweet onion jam. 

He set them at the spare workstation with a “help yourself,” nibbling on some West Country Farmhouse Cheddar to start. “It's likely for the best you found shelter when you did.”

Crowley had meant the check should've happened before he left London, but didn't correct him. No need to get into it. He returned to the table to steal a cracker, glancing over with a wry smile. “Right. Make me feel worse about making you miss a meal,” he teased. “D'you always fuss so much over strangers, angel?” 

“Well, it's rude to eat in front of guests without at least offering,” he huffed, though he wasn't too put out as he popped a grape into his mouth and hummed appreciatively. “And I wouldn't call you a stranger, per say. We're well on our way to… acquaintances, I should think.”

“Oh, acquaintances. Impressive.” He ate as if he'd never seen food before, Crowley thought, watching him very carefully select another grape. Like every single bite was an experience. Maybe, for him, it was. “I still don't know your name. Probably should do if we're going to take such a big step.” 

He nearly choked on said grape. Patting his chest firmly, he managed to swallow past it. He was a little pink in the cheeks, though whether that was from the choking or embarrassment was anyone's guess. 

“Oh, I- Dreadfully sorry. I- ahem. I haven't told you my name?” He sounded absolutely scandalized. “I can't believe I haven't made a formal introduction. Well, better rectify that at once. I am- ah… Well it's a bit of an odd name… My family is quite religious, you see and- ah. Right, just get to it. My name's Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell.”

It was odd, yes, but it was the sort of angelic pomp that suited this man. “It's interesting. Very you, really. S'pose I should say my first name's Anthony, but I usually prefer Crowley. Without the mister, mind, and the only ones who call me Anthony are the ones I don't care much for.” 

“Oh. Well, then… Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke his name the way someone would try a new wine, letting the vowels flow off his tongue with care as he tested the name without the honorific, “it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offered his hand to shake it, apparently the proper way to seal a greeting in his mind. 

Crowley chuckled, but took the offering for a firm shake. “I've had more benefits than you have so far, so I'd say so.” 

“One doesn’t need to benefit from another to take pleasure in their company,” he replied, relinquishing his hand to pick out another cracker, this time with a bit of Stilton. “Besides… you have promised me lunch. I’d say that’s quite the benefit.” The smile that pulled at his lips leaned more towards playful as his gaze flitted away.

The sentiment alone made him so different from anyone Crowley had associated with since he'd been a stupid, aching teenager. The playfulness - the openness of it - was another layer, so far removed from the exhaustion of people who just plain refused to have experiences or emotions not mired in darkness. Enthusiasm was interesting and Crowley was so tired of being bored.

“You'll have to tell me what you like. And where to go, for that matter. You don't seem like the sort who gets simple takeaway. You probably have your seat, smile at servers, and somehow know all their business by the end of your appetizer.” 

From the way Aziraphale kept his gaze averted as he chewed more than confirmed that he was right on the money with that assumption. “I do get takeaway sometimes,” he defended eventually. “But it’s not the same experience as eating out somewhere. And yes, maybe chatting with the servers is nice, too. They do such hard work, they deserve some appreciation. More often than not I walk down to the pub in town and eat there. They make the most sublime pear and parsnip soup in the winter months, and their black pudding is positively scrummy.”

“I'll take your word on that, but I wasn't criticizing you. It's hardly a bad thing to be the sort of person others are willing to talk to, is it? And it's refreshing to be around someone like you.” 

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, eyebrows gently arching. “Oh… right then. My apologies for misunderstanding.”

“S'fine. Just didn't come out right, I s'pose.” He shrugged, setting his mug down. “Can I ask why you've got a sticker-covered Lambretta behind your station? It can't be yours.” 

“Hm? Oh!” Aziraphale looked over at it, the powder blue scooter just poking out from where it was wedged behind his guillotine paper cutter, half covered in a beige drape. “Oh that. You’re right, it’s not mine at all. It belongs to one of the other workers here - Madame Tracy. She specializes in our fabrics. Upholstery and leather and the like. It gave out on her on her way in to work one day, so we brought it in here. I’ve been meaning to contact someone to come out and fix it, none of us are particularly adept at repairing vintage vehicles. It’s a 1966, you see. Very delicate thing. But she’s had it throughout her youth and can’t bear to part with it yet.”

Crowley hummed, wandering over to peek beneath the drape. “A '66 Li 125 Special's probably got a, what, 49 cc engine? Guessing it's a three geared, two-stroke deal, considering the time. Biggest issue with a two-stroke engine is that they need the right mix of oil and petrol to lube up the piston and cylinder and all else. If you get the balance wrong, it can gum things up. Bet it's top speed was about twenty... four? kilometers an hour before it finally gave up, but the top speed should be double if the engine's treated right. Even nowadays.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, wide-eyed and very much intrigued by everything he was saying… Even if he only understood about- well, none of it. “I suppose working on your Bentley has made you quite familiar with these old machines. Is it still possible to salvage? In your opinion?” 

“Eh, possibly. I'd have to open it up and take a look. But it's not just the Bentley, angel.” Crowley looked back at him with a small shrug and pride tucked in the quirk of his lips. “I worked in a garage for a few years,” several different ones over several years, “so I've got a good amount of experience working with all sorts of things. If it's got a motor, I can fix it.” 

“Oh! Well, my dear fellow, perhaps if it wouldn't be too much trouble… would you mind taking a look? If you wind up staying in town long, that is. I'm afraid none of us are very knowledgeable about this sort of thing. Dear Newton would likely make it implode upon glancing at it, bless him. And the Sergeant…” He made a face like he'd eaten an entire lemon and shook his head as if nothing more needed to be said. 

“Right.” Crowley chuckled, uncovering the scooter. The colourful stickers were one thing, but it gleamed besides. A scrape here and there from time, but it was well taken care of. “I don't mind having a look now. It'll give me something to do until the rain stops anyway.” 

Aziraphale was practically beaming at him now. “Thank you. I honestly can’t tell you how long it’s been sitting there. Here, we can move it…” He turned around in a circle, surveying the workspace before landing right where he was standing at the unclaimed workstation. “Well, I suppose here is as good as anywhere.”

He went to help Crowley move the scooter so it was less crammed in a corner and more open to being examined. Once it was settled, Aziraphale started rummaging through the bins and boxes piled in a metal shelving unit that he called, “the supply corner.” It was more than overflowing with spare tools and parts, some relegated to piling up on the floor. Despite the chaos, he knew exactly where everything was, labels on the bins up to date and colour-coded. He found an extra toolkit among them and brought it over.

“In case you need a tool or two, you’re welcome to use anything in here.”

“Right.” He opened the kit, mostly concerned with screwdrivers and spanners considering the size of the scooter. “Wish I’d thought to grab my things out of the Bentley, but this should do. If it is an oil to petrol issue, the cleaning’s gonna be the most important thing. Clockman didn’t happen to leave brushes, did he?”

“He didn't, but I have my grandmother's set. I've kept them in good condition.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, obviously doing his best not to hover or fidget, but couldn't help observing him as he went through the tools, gaze lingering on his face curiously. The sunglasses finally must have registered, but he refrained from commenting on them when they didn't seem to impede his vision. “I keep them at my station. You're welcome to borrow them.”

“That normal practice here? Lending tools and parts between coworkers?” Crowley picked up a small spanner to start taking the old scooter apart, already dreading some of the inevitable corrosion on bolts and nuts and ignoring the gaze he felt on his shades. 

“Well, if one of us has something the other needs, it’s not uncommon to offer assistance. We try to have an open, friendly environment. But of course, there are certain things that are not to be touched. Some of my equipment is antique itself, so if handled improperly it could be disastrous. In those cases, I simply offer to help them out. Collaborate, so to speak.” Aziraphale tore his gaze away to consider his workspace, then fetched a cloth for him in case there was a mess of oil to be found.

“It's not the wrong way to handle a place like this. I'm sure you get projects that overlap.” Crowley smiled easily, and lifted the scooter up as if it weighed nothing so he could settle it on the table. He pushed down the kickstand, pleased when it stayed steady. “If I do need the brushes, I'll treat them well. You wouldn't happen to have hemp seed oil handy, would you?” he asked, taking the offered cloth and immediately fitting it into his back pocket. “I've got my own recipe for a solid gear and engine cleaner. That's the only ingredient that's a bit...” He waved a hand, the word slipping away from him as they too often did. At least he hadn’t started stuttering or hissing at him.

“Ah, it’s quite possible that it's one of the assortments that Sergeant Shadwell and Newton keep on hand. They’ve garnered quite the collection. Madame Tracy and Anathema are always recommending new oils and techniques for them to try. Sometimes one would think they’re the experts,” he chuckled to himself, then gestured towards the woodworking station. “I can check. Of course we’d have to ask permission before using it, but just to see if they have it.”

“Alright. Need four other things. Could write them down if you'll check? Some o'these are bound to be rusted on, so the sooner I can get them cleaned, the better.” 

Aziraphale fetched a notepad from his desk, the 19th century restored roll top crammed beside his work table to create an L-shaped sort of nook. The fountain pen he picked up to write with looked even older than the desk. He jotted down the quick list and was pleased to inform him that they did have all he required. There was a bottle of Fairy dish soap in the kitchenette and plenty of rubbing alcohol used between the entire shop. The baking soda and white vinegar would also be easy enough to obtain.

“I’m certain there’s some over here, but if I can’t find it, then I’ll just pop over next door and grab some.” He waved idly in the direction of the farmhouse on the property as he picked through the containers in the supply corner. “I know there’s some in the kitchen.”

“Alright.” He was amazed that Aziraphale was actually trusting him. All he'd seen of him was a broken car, which just made him want to sigh. He'd likely need the cleaner for the Bentley’s transmission too, but he'd worry about it later. For the time being, he'd do what he could to repay the kindness and unexpected measure of trust and get this old scooter running again. 

By the time everything was gathered, his vest and shoestring tie were on the stool, his sleeves were rolled up, and both tyres were set aside. “Looks like no one's done a bloody tune-up on this thing in twenty years,” he muttered. “Brakes need to be adjusted, but the electrical doesn't look bad.” 

“Oh! Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, flitting over to him. His gaze caught on the fabric bunched at Crowley’s elbows, then traced down an intricate tattoo of feathers and gears on his inner right forearm, to his bony wrists and long-fingered hands before darting away to inspect the scooter and its separated tyres.

“It means a lot less work anyway.” Thankfully. Electric work always took ages. “It definitely needs a thorough cleaning, probably a new air filter, and gear oil to lubricate nearly all of it. But I know I can get it running. The only thing that'll make it start tomorrow or in a week is the filter. One for a scooter this old would need a special order, but I'll clean the one she's got and we'll see.” 

A sigh of relief escaped him as he clasped his hands together. “How wonderful. Madame Tracy will be thrilled to bits to hear that. If it’s a part you need, I can place the order for you. I have made connections with various suppliers over the years, so one of my contacts should know where to get it.”

“Then I'll let you know once I get my hands on it. Got an air blow gun 'round here, by chance? Or the compressor, at least. I've got a gun in the Bentley.” 

“We have a six gallon compressor that should do the trick. It’s mostly used for spray painting jobs.”

Crowley looked over at him, grinning suddenly. “How many miracles do you have tucked into this little place, angel?” 

He returned the smile, preening a bit as he swayed from side to side. “One never knows when they might be in need of an air compressor.”

Just then the barn door opened, the sound of rain splattering against the grass and the whistling wind infiltrated the warm sanctuary as two coated figures hurried in. “Cooee, Mr. Aziraphale!” a woman’s voice rang out, high and melodic and cheerful as could be despite the downpour she’d just bustled in from. “Now don’t tell me you spent your lunch hour cooped up in here reading.”

“To be quite honest, my dear lady, I should say that would be time better spent than venturing out in that weather now,” Aziraphale pointed out, tone nothing but warm as he turned to greet the newcomers. “I hope you didn’t walk all the way from town in that.”

Vibrant red hair, too bright to be anything but synthetic, was revealed as the woman’s hood was lowered, relatively dry given the conditions outside. “Nonsense! Newton stopped by and picked us up. Bit of a tight squeeze, but we made it work. He’s still out with the car. The latch for the boot’s giving him trouble again, bless his soul,” she clucked, unfastening the buttons of her garish, checkered print cape coat, pausing as she hung it on the rack and noted the black blazer beside the familiar beige coat. “Oh! Well, who do we have here?”

“Some Southern wretch puttin’ ‘is ‘ands on ye’re two-wheeled death trap.” The man who’d come in with her drew himself up, impressive only in just how unimpressive he was with his battered and patched coat and suspicious gaze. “Sunglasses on insi’e. Like some sorta... sorta vampyre.”

“Not quite,” was Crowley’s dry reply.

“Sergeant, Madame, this is Mr.- er… this is Crowley.” Aziraphale glanced between the three of them, smile faltering for a moment only to quickly brighten as he shared the good news. “He’s had experience working in a garage, and he’s offered to take a look at your scooter.”

“Oh my, I didn’t know you had someone stopping by to work on it! See, isn’t that nice, Mr. Shadwell? No need for such hostilities, now.” She patted him on the chest in an attempt to soothe his hackles.

“No need?” He only looked more scandalized. “No doubt 'e ‘asn’t even been interrogated properly.” Aziraphale was sent an accusatory look as Shadwell marched his suspicious self across the floor, his coat dripping just a little. Crowley only swallowed a laugh because Aziraphale looked ready to protest and apologize before he’d made it three steps. “How many nipples ha’ ye got?”

His brows rose, as did a hand when he shrugged. “Who’s to say, really?”

The apology that had been poised on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue was silenced as his eyebrows lifted as well, impressed by Crowley’s quick response to such a forward question. Apparently he needn’t worry about his ability to handle Shadwell. “Well, now that that’s settled,” even though absolutely nothing was settled, “Sergeant, please go back and remove your coat before you form a puddle in the middle of the shop.”

“Settled?! He did nae answer the question!” His gaze and accusatory pointing both aimed at the intricate lines of ink on Crowley's inner forearm. “And he’s got a tattoo-”

“Three of them,” Crowley supplied unashamedly.

“Three?! So ye’re lettin’ some tattooed bellend touch the Jezebel’s death trap?! He’s probably ‘round town jes to seduce women into ‘is wicked ways. I won’t stand fer it.”

Crowley made a considering sound. “As long as men are still up for seduction, that’s alright.”

Shadwell spluttered, gearing up for more tirades when firm feminine hands began to wrest his coat away. “Fer God’s sake, woman!”

“You can still defend women’s virtues and the Lambretta without your coat, Mr. S,” she tutted, the look in her eyes all too fond nonetheless. “Don’t mind him, dear. I for one have no problem dealing with bellends.” Her long, false lashes fluttered meaningfully before a grin threatened to split ruby red lips. “Tattooed or otherwise. Now then,” she successfully tugged the coat free from Shadwell’s shoulders. “I really do appreciate you looking at that old thing. Have you figured out what’s wrong with it?”

Crowley grinned at her. This was not a woman who needed her virtues defended. “So far, I’ve found out that it’s dirty and under-serviced.”

“Well, isn't that odd,” she hummed, folding the coat over her arm as she considered that. “Usually, in my experience, if something’s dirty, they’ve been well-serviced.”

It shocked Crowley enough to have his laugh bursting free, head falling back and a hand pressing against the workbench in support as he just let the carefree sound go. It had been too long since he’d felt that real bubble of a solid chortle. He’d needed it, so Madame Tracy instantly cemented herself on his good side. “Just one of the things that makes mechanics different from our fellow man.”

“Oh, I like him, Mr. Aziraphale.” Madame Tracy grinned at him. “What a lucky find.”

“Yes, rather…” He almost appeared a bit dazed, gaze lingering on Crowley for perhaps a beat too long, his hands fluttering nervously as he tried to figure out what to do with them. “But, ah, right. Should we see how Newton’s getting along? It has been quite some time and with the rain and all-”

The barn door rattled again as two more people shuffled in. “Sorry,” the bespectacled man managed, wincing when the latch slammed a little too loudly in his attempt to close it. “Sorry…”

Madame Tracy was the first to look away from them. “No, I think he’s gotten along just fine, dear.”

Shadwell muttered something that could’ve been either “I need a drink” or “I freed the pink,” and Crowley really wouldn’t have been surprised by either, watching him stalk towards the kitchenette. Probably one of those “means well” types he normally stayed far away from, but the quirkiness was intriguing. No one had ever asked him about his nipples quite so... gruffly. He had yet to make a judgement on the new pair until the young man clumsily knocked off his own glasses in his efforts to take off his jacket. That judgement was a simple awkward.

The girl carried herself better at least, not nearly so apologetic as she tossed a damp umbrella into an umbrella stand. Casual, he thought, but then she looked at him and only decades of training to not give a damn kept his back from straightening. It wasn’t a normal look. It went around and through him, and he absolutely did not like it one bit. He wasn’t about to be judged by some girl that looked half his age even if she did seem satisfied by what she saw.

“His trunk’s leaking,” she announced with an eyeroll and some of Crowley’s apprehension slipped away. An American. Ah.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed, caught between sounding sympathetic and exasperated.

“I think I need to replace the hatch seal,” the man murmured, sheepish as he fiddled with his glasses, trying to clear the raindrops from them on his coat and only succeeding at smearing the wet around. “Well, not me, exactly. Just find someone who can. Shouldn’t be too expensive.”

“Roughly forty pounds depending on the vehicle and how much you need, but it’s never the parts. It’s the labour.” Crowley leaned against the worktable, unsure if he was willing to believe that he could possibly be steady enough to handle woodworking. He glanced at Aziraphale, a brow arching. He was a soft touch, perhaps, but would he hire incompetence?

“Oh- er… hello.” He blinked at him, then took Crowley’s presence in stride. “It’s a 1990 Reliant Robin. It’s called Dick Turpin.”

“Right, so... Maybe try taking it to a scrapyard and buying an actual vehicle.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, eyes wide and mouth forming a perfect, shocked “o.”

“Oh, but he is a bit right, dear,” Madame Tracy chimed in, trying for sympathy, but it definitely seemed more like pity when she looked at the young pair. “Wasn’t it just last month the windows stopped working, Newton?”

“Actually that was two months ago. And they’re fixed now.”

“One of them is. The other one squeals when it rolls down.” Anathema patted Newt’s side and wandered closer to the newcomer. “You’re working on Madame Tracy’s scooter?”

“Trying.”

“Where’d you come from?”

She was as direct as Shadwell, but her questions were logical. It was a different game. “England. Where’re you from?”

“America,” she shot back, and his lips quirked. He liked her. 

“How unfortunate for you.”

Her head tipped out of acceptance, amusement, or both, and she smiled at Aziraphale. “Where'd you finally find someone?” 

“Ah…” Aziraphale exchanged glances with Crowley, seeming to honestly consider, “on the side of the road,” as an answer, but ultimately decided against it. “It was just good timing. A stroke of good fortune that we crossed paths when we did.”

It had been that, Crowley quietly agreed. “Right. Since they’re your people, you can ask about the oil. Then I can get everything mixed up and get back to work.”

“Yes, of course. Sergeant? Might we, perhaps, borrow a bit of your…” Aziraphale looked around, in search of his notepad which he promptly found on the worktable. “Ah, hemp seed oil? For the scooter.”

“Ye mean fer the vagabond,” he grumped, pouring an indecent amount of condensed milk into a cup of sugar. If asked, he would call it tea. “Bet he’s in the mafia.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Now that is rather uncalled for.”

“It’s ah… actually Anathema’s?” Newt piped up, raising his hand as several sets of eyes turned his way, none quite as intimidating as the pair he couldn’t see behind tinted lenses. “Well, it was. She gave it to me to use on the wood… yeah, he can use some.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, my dear boy.” Aziraphale sent another sour look at Shadwell while the man slurped at his abominable beverage, then joined Newt to pick out the correct bottle from his workstation.

“Not a problem. If it’ll help get Madame Tracy’s scooter up and running again.”

Awkward, but harmless. He’d be an easy mark, a distant part of Crowley’s mind whispered. He didn’t think he’d ever completely get rid of that voice, but it was nice to know the impulse to do anything with it was gone. He just took the ingredient to his cleaning concoction when it was offered. Maybe, if only for the novelty of getting his hands on a legendary piece of junk, he’d have a look at his anything-but-Reliant Robin. 

But that was getting ahead of himself. Those were almost stay thoughts, and he had no intention of staying. He couldn’t just stick around and work on things for free with his funds dwindling. He didn’t even have a place to stay, though had to think of that fast considering the state of his Bentley. There was probably an inn in town. He could afford a few days, considering the size of the place. If he had to get the filter ordered for the scooter, he’d stay at the inn and then...

They’d just see. His life was very much in flux now, and he could frankly do anything he wanted. He could stay. He could leave. It was so bloody nice to not be scheduled down to the last minute of every day, but part of him was still struggling to get used to it again.

And maybe a lot of him was scared. At least in London there’d been crowds to get lost in, though it was the crowded nature of it that had helped drive him out. He didn’t really know what he wanted, he realized as the day wore on and Madame Tracy’s scooter started to show signs of gleaming silver rather than rusted browns. She’d pointed this out with a gasp and Crowley had caught Aziraphale smiling at him, looking up from his station behind tiny round spectacles that would’ve looked absolutely ridiculous on anyone else. The antique frames suited him, though. Crowley had smiled back.

Maybe he did know at least one thing he wanted, but that thought was dismissed before it could really take hold. He was different and that was all, the only draw. He’d ignored more than different in his life, so he continued to brush it away throughout the day until he had himself convinced that he was imagining any sort of attraction, deciding firmly that he was just interested on a basic level. Crowley’s experience was more along the line of one-offs and this small town fussy man wasn’t the sort for a one-off. He was misconstruing possible friendship. Aziraphale was this way with everyone and it was being in jail for so long that had warped his perception. Obviously.

Nevermind that he hadn’t been entangled with anyone in far longer than those fifteen years. Nevermind that this pull wasn’t quite what he remembered attraction feeling like.

He had himself convinced that he was imagining things by the time the rain finally stopped, clouds still looming when Newt and Shadwell were coerced into helping him move the Bentley. He may as well not have had either of them, though, Shadwell’s version of helping involving plenty of insults and vague gestures and Newt’s pushing ginger at best, nonexistent at worst - worst being all three times he tripped over his own feet and introduced himself to pavement.

Which Crowley was very happy to share, complete with sound effects, with Aziraphale as they walked through Tadfield afterwards. It took on a different hue at night, the stars brighter and more plentiful than he’d ever been able to see in London and the brick businesses closed with darkened windows. No need for security lights in such a small place, apparently. Easy marks, he thought, almost annoyed at them. But there was something warm and comforting in it too, in being in a place that thought itself so safe.

That, he didn’t tell Aziraphale.

“Are you sure it’s safe to let the boy handle things like hand saws? Shocked he’s got all his fingers, really.”

“I know it might not seem like it, but Newton does have quite the eye for detail and the patience to work on restoring some of the more intricate wood pieces that come in,” Aziraphale defended, lips pulled up in an amused smile. “As long as he doesn’t handle anything vaguely electric. He shorted out the entire shop once just by plugging in a phone charger for Anathema when she was in the middle of a project, and the whole house as well! And he’s not allowed to make tea. Even though we have a kettle that isn’t electric, the hot plate is, unfortunately.”

“Explains the car, then. Anything with all these modern gadgets I've heard about would probably never work for him anyway.” 

“Probably not,” Aziraphale agreed, slowing as they approached the inn. In a town this small, it and the pub were one and the same, the rooms tucked up above. The Discerning Duck was the only business left with its lights on, warmth spilling out into the fall evening alongside some hearty chuckling from pleased patrons. “Well, here we are. It’s small, but rather quaint. The owners are lovely.”

“I'll take your word for it.” Crowley gazed up at it, hands sinking into his pockets, but didn't go inside just yet. “Listen, angel, I'm absolute rubbish with gratitude and all that, but... Y'know. 'Preciate what you've done today. Kinda nice being trusted without fighting over it for once.” 

Aziraphale tore his gaze away from the pub and inn, studying Crowley’s profile in the dim light as it played off his angles and the sunglasses still perched on his nose. “Of course, my dear fellow. I can’t really say that I did much though. Offering you shelter from the rain after your car broke down is only the very least I could do. And you haven’t given me any reason not to trust you. You’ve done us a great favor as well, at least for Madame Tracy and I. It was very kind of you.”

He turned his head to try and hide the way his lips wanted to curve. “Shut up.” 

The pleased smile that shone on the man’s face let him know he took no offense. “Well, we open officially at nine in the morning, so you’re welcome to come by around then to start working on your Bentley. I don’t know how early of a riser you are, just if you wanted to get started on the old girl, as it were. I don’t want you to feel as though there are any obstacles. Time-wise, at least.”

“Right. I'll be there, then. I still owe you lunch.” Because his impulse control could only be rivaled by a toddler, Crowley took one of the hands Aziraphale seemed to constantly speak with unless he remembered to clasp them and kissed the back. “See you in the morning, angel.” 

A warm flush darkened his cheeks as he stilled, lips parted when his breath hitched. He seemed struck speechless for a beat or two, not even trying to find his words. Then he blinked rapidly and sucked in another breath, this time to steady himself. His fingers twitched, even after Crowley released his hand, his gaze dropping to it in wonder.

“Jolly good. Yes. Rather.” His wide-eyed stare snapped back up as he cleared his throat, hand jerking in an awkward semblance of a wave. “Tomorrow morning, yes. Good night, Crowley. Mind how you go.”

Crowley was at least seventy percent sure that was a good reaction, tempted to slip his glasses down to see the blush properly. “Right. ‘Night, angel,” he replied, stepping away instead, towards and into the inn. 

Alright, so perhaps he was a smidgen attracted to him, but there was something to be said about soft and sweet. He hadn’t had much of either in his life, after all, but he’d have to be careful. Soft and sweet likely meant easily hurt and that was something he genuinely didn’t want to cause. Not to him or to this small, sleepy town. He’d help with the scooter, get the Bentley running, and go.

Chapter Text

In the misty morning, grey haze clung to the fields and seeped into the earth. The green of the moors was hidden away, the shroud of winter’s warning blanketing what remained of summer’s grass. Autumn was coming to Tadfield, and with it the lonely winds would howl as daylight dwindled and evening walks came to an end.

All things come to an end though, it was the nature of things. It was also nature’s God-given grace that allowed things to begin anew, to start over, to enter a new season of life and all the wonders it brought with it. Yes, as there were endings, there were also beginnings.

Caught at neither the beginning nor the end of his own life but rather somewhere in the middle, Aziraphale Fell drew back the curtains and contemplated the morning outside. Beyond a stone wall and the cover of the trees, the village of Tadfield slept on, too early to stir and too cold to want to. A cold mug of cocoa laid forgotten on the end table by the sofa and the sputtering embers in the fireplace tried valiantly to fill the cosy sitting room with warmth leftover from when it danced and sang with crackling flames through the night. A book whose beginning and end had been consumed in a single sitting sat happily atop a cluttered antique coffee table, its bookmark unused.

The morning was quiet, as all mornings were, and all nights with them. Letting the curtain fall back, the man remembered his mug and put the embers out of their misery. In the kitchen, the mug was washed and the kettle set on the stovetop while his thoughts circled back to what had kept him up for most of the night despite his better judgment.

After all, people didn’t really get so hung up on a kiss to the hand, now, did they?

The kettle whistled and he prepared a cup of English Breakfast with milk and a half spoon of sugar. Aziraphale clutched his white angel wing mug with both hands as he watched the sun rise higher over the hills, sunrays slicing through the fog. His brow furrowed in contemplative concern, mind far from the picturesque scenery.

No, in fact he was quite firmly rooted in 18th century Spanish courts, where the origin of hand-kissing began. It had started out as a gesture of courtesy, the polite thing to do when mingling at high class functions. Traditionally the ladies would extend their hands to gentlemen, in invitation for them to gently take their fingers and draw them to their lips, heads bowed in respect.

The problem was that Aziraphale was very much not a lady. Another problem was that Anthony Crowley, from what little he’d deduced in the hours of knowing him, didn’t exactly strike him as the kind of man one would call a “gentleman.” And of course the biggest problem of all was that they were very much not in 18th century Spain - or the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, for that matter, which would have also been an appropriate setting for hand-kissing. They were in Tadfield, Oxfordshire, England, UK in the year 2020, and good God, Crowley had kissed his hand.

He didn’t even want to tiptoe near the fact that a man taking a hand of his own volition - without invitation - and bestowing a kiss upon it meant something else entirely. That was sure to make his face hot and have his pulse do things it hadn’t since he was a young man unless strenuous exercise was involved. Certainly nearing fifty he was beyond such twitterpated tizzies, right?

But Crowley had kissed his hand.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time someone held his hand, let alone kissed it. He was fairly certain it was at EuroPride London in 2006, and wasn’t that a bit of an embarrassment? He’d been thirty-six, caught up in the revelry and quite possibly a little desperate with his forties looming. Of course it wasn’t with a complete stranger. He’d been courting the young fellow steadily for two years before they took a weekend trip to London, and holding hands was hardly the only thing they did.

He’d still felt the occasional pang of religion-affiliated guilt in his twenties, but by his thirties he’d started to shed its constricting worldview. Aziraphale in his late forties was quite a different story altogether, as comfortable with his sexuality and presentation as he was with a good book and cup of cocoa, but there wasn’t much of a dating pool in a village like Tadfield, so his options were rather limited. That, and he still had standards.

But Anthony Crowley was meeting them all, somehow. Or rather, the man had seized that list of standards in his fist and crumpled it with a long-fingered grip, then promptly chucked it out the window of a speeding car on a windy day off a cliff and into the sea where it slowly disintegrated and the bits that flaked off ended up in the belly of a fish. Because quite honestly, if anyone had asked Aziraphale what his standards were the night prior, he would’ve dumbly pointed at Crowley and that would’ve been that.

Oh, but that was utterly ridiculous. He barely knew the man. Yes, he could say they were acquaintances at this point, but that didn't give him any right to ogle him. Or wonder what color his eyes were. Or try to think of something funny to say and make him bark out a laugh that buoyed him up as the sound filled his chest with something warm and aching. It should have been an absurd sound, more like a cackle really, but Aziraphale had been utterly charmed by it nonetheless.

He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to see his smile. He wanted to feel that feather-light kiss ghosting along the backs of his fingers so he could be sure he hadn’t imagined it. He did read a lot of romance. He read a lot of everything, but that was beside the point.

He regretted telling Crowley they opened at nine. 

He should’ve lied and said eight.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at himself, shaken from his reverie as he took a long drink of his tea. If he was going to be awake this early, he might as well do something other than his hopeless woolgathering. There was inventory to take stock of and orders to place for supplies. He could also compile the August expenses for review, there was a stack of receipts in his desk drawer in the shop that he’d been putting off now for a week, though that wasn’t entirely his fault. They expected him to get a cellular phone and download an app and take pictures of the receipts that way. What a silly thing to get a phone for. He’d fax them the old-fashioned way, thank you very much.

He went out to the barn with his fresh cuppa. Worktables and tool benches were clustered inside it, surfaces clean even while the rest of the space was filled with clutter. Tools hung on the walls along with antiques, photographs, and memorabilia, like an old sword mounted on the eastern wall and a vintage, double-side clock that had once belonged to a train station once upon a time. What was normally a bustling workshop was quiet and dark in the early morning hours, even the skylights above unable to catch the light of dawn through the mist.

He rolled up the top of his old secretary desk, papers and files and ledgers crammed into the crevices. “Let there be light,” he murmured to himself as he flicked on the yellowed bulb of an antique, brass bankers lamp, then sat down to go over the numbers for the month. The quiet was good for things like that.

It was good for the ledgers. Good for reading. Good for self-reflection and good for peace.

It had to be good, he assured himself as he worked. It was his life, after all. Day in and day out. No, it was good. He had a business, a home, a comfortable existence, and he worked with used books and other antiquities. He was grateful for every bit of it, so much luckier than most.

After finishing his tea, Aziraphale collected his clipboard and favorite fountain pen. As he made a list of the usual items they needed regularly stocked, he found himself adding a few things that might’ve catered more towards a mechanic’s interest. A creeper, for example, wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have around the shop. Surely they could find a use for it other than getting under cars. Maybe they could even start working on cars - older, classic models, of course. He certainly had the space to expand.

One thing at a time.

From the mess of his desk, he procured that month’s catalogue from his supplier based in Oxford. It was a little family-run business as well, by a man named MacKinnon, and he’d been working with them exclusively for the past decade or so. The owner’s son would deliver his supplies in a little van on Saturdays, along with a plate of jam tarts or a Victoria sponge that Mrs. MacKinnon had made - she’d tried her hand at running a bakery out of the home for a couple of years, but decided she much preferred baking as a hobby, and still liked to send Aziraphale something to thank him for his continued patronage. He circled the items, jotting down their numbers on the order form - including an inquiry on where he could find a good black cushioned car creeper, a jack, and a pair of jack stands - and called promptly at 8:30. He could have mailed the order in, or shopped online, but he made a point to use his PC with its newfangled windows or doors or whatever it was on it as little as possible.

At 8:36, any lingering feelings of twitterpation - tizzied, or otherwise - had all but faded as a new concern overrode that of kisses to one’s hand, hidden eyes, and red fringe. Pale, jaw set firm in a hard line, Aziraphale dialed a number he knew well on his old rotary phone and reminded himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, yes.

“Aziraphale!” An American accent rang out as the line picked up, lilting as though it was a pleasure and the man who owned the voice said as much. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? On a Saturday morning, no less.”

Aziraphale swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat as soon as his cousin’s words wormed their way into his ears, but his bowtie felt too tight. “Hello, Gabriel,” he greeted properly, hoping his voice didn’t sound as thready as it did in his own head. He was angry, darn it. “It’s me, Azirapha-”

“Yes, I know it’s you, Aziraphale. I just-” Gabriel cut him off, patience already worn thin and it hadn’t even been a minute. “It’s too early for this. What do you want?”

“Well, I just had the most…” Unexpected, embarrassing, upsetting-  “...interesting conversation over the phone just now. You see, I wanted to get an early start to the day and conduct inventory, as one does, and was preparing to place an order-”

“Does this story have a point?” Gabriel sighed, and Aziraphale could hear the way he looked at his watch on the other end of the line.

His patience, too, had worn thin. “When were you going to tell me you cancelled my contract with Mr. MacKinnon? I had the most humiliating exchange with him where he told me our supplier contract was not renewed last month! Now I know I signed the proper paperwork-”

“And you know we told you it was a bad investment,” Gabriel interrupted yet again. “Sandalphon went over the numbers with you last quarter. You were paying double what you needed to and with the holiday pay you’re insisting on doling out, costs have to be cut somewhere.”

“I understand that. What I don’t understand is why I wasn’t even consulted on the matter. You’ve been-” Ordering me to… “-suggesting that I change suppliers for quite some time now and you’ve known where I stand. Surely there could’ve been something-”

“It was the easiest call to make. I laid it all out for you in my last email. Projections and all. Haven’t you read it yet?”

Aziraphale’s lips thinned into a tight line to keep from trembling. He knew email was quite possibly the slowest way to get a response from him. He knew if there was something Aziraphale would object to… then it was best sent by email.

He glared at the sheet covering the PC he’d been so thoughtfully “gifted” in 2006. It had been turned on possibly twenty times in the years since. Certainly he’d had his fair share of web-based work he’d needed to get done in that time, but in those cases he’d pack up his files and board the bus to visit the library a few towns over, in Marlow or Henley-on-Thames. He’d quite honestly rather go the extra mile - literally - to avoid using the one gathering dust in his shop. He almost considered agreeing to Newton’s offer to take a look at it when the boy first started working for him, innocently thinking the sheet meant it didn’t work, just so he could have the satisfaction of watching the machine go up in flames. 

Obviously he’d decided against that. As much as he disliked it, it was still a gift, even if it was a presumptuous one. He might not have minded the machine so much if his old Amstrad PCW hadn’t been confiscated and disposed of in the process of “bringing the business into the 21st century.” They worked with antiques for Heavens’ sake.

“Just because we work with antiques doesn’t mean our business model should,” Sandalphon had told him once at a- well, they called it a board meeting, but it was really just the three of them at his dining room table, and Gabriel had gleefully latched onto it like it was the cleverest thing he’d ever heard.

“I suppose I might have missed that one,” Aziraphale replied softly, but his gaze was hard and brittle with no one around to see it.

“Well, check it when you get a chance? The link to the new supplier is in there. And before you ask, no you can’t call them to place the order. Just save everyone the time and do it online. You can even save your credit card on file so you can check out like that.”

He heard his cousin snap his fingers, Aziraphale’s own tightening into a fist. “But it’s so impersonal-”

“It’s business, Aziraphale. You don’t have to offer every person you work with a cup of tea and chat about the weather,” Gabriel said, exasperated.

He ignored that little dig, a flare of embarrassment shooting up his spine as he thought of what Crowley said the day before. Somehow know all their business by the end of your appetizer. But then… he did also say that it was hardly a bad thing, didn’t he? It eased the knot tangling itself in his gut, the way he’d shrugged and looked at him as if he was worth looking at. Like he was something to understand.

Though he’d been wearing sunglasses, after all. Perhaps it was all just in his head. Caught up in the company while he offered up a complete stranger shelter and tea and snacks...

“Well, are they at least local? Family-owned?” Aziraphale asked, trying to steer his thoughts back to task. “You know I like to support other small businesses like oursel-” 

“Just read the email, Aziraphale. Everything you need to know is in there. Now, is that all? I want to get back to my morning run, so if we could wrap this up?”

“Of course. No, that’s… that’s all. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” he tried his hardest to mean it, though the part of him that sometimes expected his calls to be ignored did truly, “I know you’re very busy.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m a miracle worker,” Gabriel chuckled to himself. “Great talking to you, Aziraphale. Check your emails.”

“Right. Will do. Have a good day. Pip-” The line disconnected before he could finish. “...pip. Oh… bugger.” The only thing that kept him from slamming the receiver into the cradle was that Gabriel certainly wasn’t worth damaging his antique rotary phone over. “‘Check your emails.’ Why don’t you check that- that- hmph!” He tugged hard on the hem of his waistcoat, then rubbed his hand over his face.

It was fine. It was fine. Gabriel meant well, he only wanted to help see the family business succeed. His heart was in the right place, obviously, his vision was just… different than Aziraphale’s. He tried to remind himself of this as the tension stayed tight in his shoulders, almost too distracted to hear the creak of the barn door.

In a flurry of motion, he slammed his catalogue shut and shoved it in the first crevice he could find and frantically folded up his inventory list to tuck in his pocket for something to busy himself with so whoever came in didn’t see him so completely rattled and out of sorts. Perhaps it was a mistake to call Gabriel right before business hours started. This was hardly the energy he wanted to exude this early in the day.

“Hello! Good morning!” he called out cheerfully, back to the door so he could make sure his expression matched.

“That didn't sound as sincere as you probably meant it to, angel. Bit early to be upset.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, breath catching as he spun on his heel to face the figure slouched in the doorway. “Crowley!” His name slipped from his lips unbidden, actual pleasure slipping through as well. “Oh, well, I- wait. What have you got there?” His gaze, which had been helplessly flitting over Crowley to take him in, honed in on the pink pastry box he had propped up with one hand.

“Doughnuts, obviously. I popped into a little spot I was told you liked, gave 'em your name, and they filled the thing. S'pose that's the good thing about little towns. They know your usual.”

He called him angel. He kissed his hand. Now he brought him doughnuts. Dear Lord, was the man attempting to court him? Aziraphale pressed his hand over his heart, trying to still his pulse or like he needed to catch his breath. Of course not, no. He was just being kind. Obviously.

“Oh- oh, well, thank you, my dear,” it slipped out as easily as Crowley’s name had and he told himself it was because he said it to everyone in some fashion, “Please come in. We can set them down on the counter, here. Would you like me to put the kettle on?” He gestured for him to join him in the kitchenette.

“Sure.” He straightened, leaving the doorway to cross the space. He walked how a snake might if one suddenly sprouted limbs, his saunter loose and easy, hips constantly in motion. “Then you can tell me what's managed to annoy you so early before anybody else comes 'round."

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m… annoyed, per say.” Aziraphale filled the kettle and set it on the hot plate to boil, enough for two cups. He’d certainly need another himself to settle his nerves, itching just beneath his skin with their static electricity. “Just some- some minor adjustments I need to wrap my head around that I wasn’t expecting. It’s hardly a thing to trouble yourself over.”

“I've been angry and hurt most of my life, angel. I know the value of venting.” Even with those sunglasses still shielding his eyes, his face managed to be expressive. Concern knit his brow, a stubborn version of the same twisting his mouth. “What's happened?” 

Aziraphale glanced his way as the water boiled, twisting the signet ring he wore on his pinky. It was likely overstepping to unload on Crowley, he was simply doing the polite thing by offering to lend an ear and listen, surely that was it. And yet…

“It’s silly, really. Nothing to be upset over, but… I’ve been working with the same supplier for over ten years now. He’s a local man, it’s a family business, like mine, and they do good work. Now I know I’m probably paying a little more than I would if I were to switch to an… online retailer, but at least I felt good knowing where the money was going and he would give me discounts from time to time. Customer loyalty and all that. Anyway, Gabriel- that’s my cousin, he’s sort of the… well, he manages the business side of things, he knows the ins and outs of it all. Well, Gabriel just- just dropped our business with him like the past ten years meant nothing and signed a supplier contract with someone else,” he huffed. “Which I didn’t find out until I called my man to place an order and how humiliating is it that I didn’t even know?”

“No, this Gabriel should've told you. You're the one dealing with orders and people, not him. Considering it's you, I'll bet you exchange Christmas cards and chat a bit when you call up. That much a rapport, he probably works a little harder for you, makes sure everything you need is right and fixes it quick when something slips by.” Crowley shrugged. “That's not the sort of thing a smart bloke just drops. 'Specially not for a business as specialized as this.”

They did exchange Christmas cards. He was on the money with that one. Aziraphale nodded, chest a bit lighter at having shared and received a sincere enough response. Crowley did make an excellent point, several excellent points, really. Though, in Gabriel’s defense, he had told him.

“That’s what I thought as well, but costs needed to be cut somewhere. And he did try to tell me. Apparently he- well, he did send me an email.” Aziraphale frowned, the tell-tale prickling of embarrassment at the back of his neck forcing him into motion again. Plates. They’d need plates for the doughnuts. He opened the cupboard and took out a stack of mismatched, vintage bone china tea plates. “He knows it's not the best way to get in contact with me, but I know he sends them anyway, so I really should check it more often… perhaps I could have intercepted this if I’d known sooner.”

“That’s not trying to tell you. If he knows you don’t check and he didn’t call you after sending it, that’s deliberate and manipulative. You’re clever; you know that. You’ve every right to be angry about it.”

Aziraphale was finally able to meet his gaze again - or what he thought was his gaze, it certainly looked as though their eyes were meeting. “Well, I suppose when you put it like that, it does seem a bit… not the best intentioned,” he settled on, still attempting to avoid speaking too badly of a member of his family. It was family, after all. “You… you think I’m clever?”

“Obviously,” he replied, quickly as if it was his own intelligence being questioned. “A touch naive, maybe, but that’s got charm in it.”

Aziraphale huffed, but couldn’t quite take offense. “Please, I’d hardly call willing to see the good in other people naive, but I suppose I appreciate the overall sentiment. Thank you. For that and for listening. And for the doughnuts.” He nodded pointedly at the box, the kettle’s whistle the only thing that kept him from opening it and making his selection. “Splash of milk? It’s still an option,” he asked as he poured for them.

“Yeah.” He ignored the gratitude, apparently as bad at accepting it as he was giving it. “So how do you fix it now that it’s been done? D’you know if the contract he signed with this new supplier is exclusive? If he’s hung up on cost saving, I doubt it would be.”

“I’ll have to read the email, I suppose. I’m of the same mindset as you though. It’s likely he simply created an account somewhere that had the lowest prices and expedited shipping,” he sniffed, handing Crowley his cup and gesturing to the sheet-covered computer near his desk. “Once I see exactly what he’s set up and with a clearer head, I’ll come up with a plan for moving forward. Perhaps I can work with Mr. MacKinnon off the books. Use my personal funds. Oh, but then won’t they be so smug. It really will look like we’ve cut costs.”

Crowley’s brow arched as he glanced towards what looked like a sheet-covered box, accepting it with a shrug. “Personally, I think you should set your contract up with this Mr. MacKinnon, have him add in something about exclusivity, and send a signed copy with a little note to Gabriel through the post. Y’know, with something about not being willing to sacrifice the quality of work and risk losing customers.” He took a sip, not quite hiding his wicked grin. “But then I’m petty.”

A gasp escaped him, but his eyes shone with his delighted amusement as he shook his head. “Oh, you wily, old serpent,” he chided, taking inspiration from the tattoo inked into his skin just in front of his ear and the devilish curve of his lips.

It earned the laugh Aziraphale had wondered about earlier in the morning, the sound spilling out as if it were overdue. “I've been called a lot of things, angel, but that one's new.”

He couldn’t help beaming at him, his own chuckle bubbling up as he savored his laughter. It really sounded as if he deserved to feel that kind of joy more in his life. “Well, I can’t imagine why. It suits you. You even have a charming little snake right there, as it were.” 

“Well, yeah, snake, I've been called. Hard to avoid, particularly after getting something like this.” He rubbed his thumb against the ink. “But I was fifteen, drunk, and still didn't know which dares to ignore.”

“Doesn’t seem so bad. As far as drunken, adolescent escapades go, it could’ve turned out worse. As I said, I think it’s quite charming.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as considered the alternative to serpent. “I suppose ‘snake’ doesn’t sound as endearing though. Who went around calling you that? Seems a bit rude, unless it’s one of those… what do you call them? Er. Jokes that are- are between friends, that you have to be inside the social group to understand?”

“Inside joke.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Unless it was one of those.”

“Well... Sort of. They all used to tell me I could've talked Eve into eating the apple. That's what inspired me to ask Lucifer - a blessedly not drunk seventeen-year-old - and his brand new tattoo machine to put a bloody snake on my face.” He shrugged, smile self-deprecating. “It's a miracle it came out and I didn't die from it, honestly, but I do like it at the end of the day.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Wait, a seventeen-year-old did that? Dear Lord. That is a miracle. How on earth did an adolescent end up with a tattoo machine?” One named Lucifer of all things.

“Ah.” His expression changed, hid itself away behind dark lenses. “Doesn't matter. We were just a bunch of demons, really. They've been out of my life a long time.”

“I see.” Well, it had been the eighties, Aziraphale reflected. And Crowley clearly didn’t want to discuss it further, so he saw no reason to pry, although… “Not good friends, then?” he asked, thinking about what he said earlier, when he first came in, about being angry and hurt.

He considered the question for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “When you're young and broken, they're the best. When you start to stitch yourself back together, they're scissors. So, no, I think.” 

Oh. When he inhaled, Aziraphale could almost feel the sharp point of said scissors between his ribs. That this man who carried himself with such swagger and mischief had once felt the keen betrayal of people he thought he could count on… Well, he supposed it was unavoidable in one’s life, especially if Crowley was of a similar… stock. A straight man wouldn’t be so bold as to kiss Aziraphale’s hand, he should think. Or squeeze into a pair of jeans so tight. The pieces of shattered expectations cut deep if you weren’t careful when you tried to figure out what you were meant to see in the mirror all along. You couldn’t get by without a few nicks that went beyond the skin, even in the best of circumstances.

Aziraphale set his mug aside and reached out to gently touch the back of his hand. “That must’ve been a terribly hard thing to realize,” he murmured.

Crowley looked down at their hands, letting the touch exist on its own for a few seconds before he carefully turned his hand up. Palm to palm, fingers grazing wrists, no pressure. “You've no idea, angel, but you're dangerously easy to talk to.”

“Well, I hope that’s a good thing.” He fought not to flinch away from the touch - he didn’t want to, it was just entirely unexpected - and his cheeks warmed as he caught sight of his own expression reflected in dark lenses. “How’s your taste for danger?”

“I've a healthy appetite.” His hand slipped away, though, his mug set aside so he could open the doughnut box. “Speaking of, which of these did you want to start?” 

Aziraphale clutched his own hand as he peered into the box, mentally chiding himself for the silly urge to follow Crowley’s and grateful for the distraction. He hummed as he shifted, so his hands were clasped behind his back as he assessed his options. The fresh baked, sweet, and sticky aroma greeted him in a warm, comforting cloud. Colorful icing glinted as the light danced off the sugar crystals, Aziraphale’s mouth already watering. All his favorites were certainly accounted for.

“Oh, perhaps the lemon curd to start.” He carefully plucked out a ball of dough completely dusted in fine sugar, the hint of curd peeking out on either end, and he placed it on one of the little tea plates. “Ah, here you are, my dear. For your selection.” He handed him a plate decorated with pale pink apple blossoms and fine green detailing.

He plucked up the only simple glazed one. “Really, though, you should get your usual supplier back. Just looking 'round yesterday, you lot do too good a job to risk shite equipment.”

Aziraphale’s helpless sound of pleasure at the tang of lemon and spark of sugar on his tongue morphed into a considering hum, then a sigh. It was all well and good to theorize, but he could see the look on Gabriel’s face now if he ignored his business advice and Sandalphon’s numbers. Aziraphale set the doughnut on the plate and sucked the sugar crystals from his fingertips. He didn’t notice Crowley’s Adam’s apple bob with his swallow.

“I don’t know, Crowley. Who’s to say this new supplier doesn’t do quality work as well? And what would they say if I went ahead and did the metaphorical equivalent of spitting on their plan and hard work?”

“First point, fine. You don't know who they are yet, but there's usually reviews on places. Second point...” He wiggled a hand, making a few incoherent noises as his thoughts gathered together and forgetting to be embarrassed by the stammering. It wasn’t his lisp. “Frankly, it's not their feelings I'm concerned with. It was underhanded, how they did it, but there could be a compromise in there if you care. Possibly. Some things from your man, some from this other place.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose that could work. It would show that I am taking their opinion into account without feeling as though they played me for a sucker, as the Americans like to say.”

There was nothing short of indulgence in Crowley's smile. “Right. Could we have a look at what he's done? I know it’s not really my business, but you've got me curious now.”

It wasn't really, and who knew what other proposals Gabriel had drafted up in the email? What sort of business discussions he was trying to have? It would be entirely inappropriate to let something slip by to a perfect stranger. Acquaintance. Whatever it was Crowley was.

And yet… “No, it’s not, but perhaps Gabriel should have thought of that before engaging in this psychological warfare. I’ve no choice but to consult someone on the matter,” he reasoned, taking another bite from his doughnut. “Just let me finish this first, Crowley, before I ruin my appetite. Ah, good morning!” He waved as Newt and Anathema slipped in and settled at their stations.

Newt returned the wave, but Anathema’s hands were already busy unveiling a formerly cracked vase she’d left to dry overnight. “Good morning. You go into town for donuts?”

“I can hear you ignoring the u, g, and h, dear girl. Please have some respect,” Aziraphale tutted.

“You can’t hear spelling, and you’re evading. Crowley bought them, then.”

“I’m not evading. I’m merely so affronted, I can’t think of anything else. Yes, Crowley brought them.”

The man in question chuckled, leaning easily against the counter as he took a bite of his doughnut. “Trying to re-educate her, angel?”

“I’m trying to attempt to dissuade her from the logical fallacy chain doughnut establishments want their unsuspecting consumers to believe. That ‘donut’ is less confusing than the word which implies it’s actually made of dough,” he huffed, polishing off the rest of his to console himself. He reached for another - dotted with blueberries and perfectly glazed - and a napkin to bring with him to the computer. “Please, help yourselves,” he told Newt and Anathema.

As he removed the sheet from over the PC, Newt’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “You’re actually turning it on?”

“Unfortunately.” Aziraphale pushed the button, and the old thing whirred to life loudly and with an ominous rattling sound. “Needs must.”

“Is something wrong?” Anathema wondered.

“He’s showing me something,” Crowley replied easily, both mugs of tea set down before he fetched a stool. An easy, unspecific truth.

“You got him to turn on his computer? So he could show you something?” Newt didn’t sound like he was probing exactly, more like he was stunned that such a thing was happening right before his eyes.

Aziraphale waved off the concerns. “I’ve used this newfangled machine before. Plenty of…” He felt guilty for lying. “Several times. At least.”

“It sounds near death.” Crowley sipped from his tea, head angled towards the machine as if suspicious of it. “Does it run Windows 95 still?”

“It’s XP,” Newt replied when Aziraphale simply stared at him. “One of the last models that ran that operating system.”

“That’s, what, two systems back now? Three? More than a decade at least.”

“Four. Possibly five, if you count the professional edition of XP as a separate OS.”

“It was after the millenium, which is new enough to me,” Aziraphale defended.

Crowley’s attention shifted to him, lips quirking. “Don’t get holier-than-thou, angel. I’m not criticizing; I’m asking. Shocked you have something this new, honestly. Was it a choice?”

“Not mine,” he muttered, squinting at the screen as the login popped up. He set his plate down so he could rummage around his desk in search of his reading glasses, a pair of delicate, round spectacles that he thought were ornamental as well as functional. Quite honestly, he thought they looked neat. “There we go. Ah, to properly answer your question, Crowley, it was deemed that I needed an upgrade in order to run things properly. So it was someone’s choice, I suppose.”

“Hm. Why do you still have it if you don’t like it?”

“Well, it’s…” He pursed his lips, brow creased as he watched the loading page shift to his desktop. “It’s not that bad, I suppose. On its own. It was just such a shock at the time and I’ve perhaps held a grudge against it unfairly. I don’t believe I’d like any newer machine either, so in this case it might be best to stay with the devil you know. I know.” He waved it aside, surely he knew what he meant by the saying.

“What if they do it again?” Crowley shrugged. “I’ve heard plenty about how easy computer crimes are now, and this one’s...” The desktop fizzled briefly, freezing for a moment before at least seven Internet Explorer pop-ups littered the screen. “Already definitely infected by something.”

“I could take a look at it and install some anti-virus software-” Newt started, only to be cut off by both Anathema and Aziraphale’s: “Better not.”

“If they do it again, perhaps I won’t care as much. I don’t have any attachment to this computer, unlike my first one. So I won’t necessarily miss it when it’s gone.” Aziraphale tried clicking out of all the pop-ups. “It always does this. Stop it now, I did not tell you to open these pages,” he admonished the computer, as if it was sentient enough to heed his words.

“Mm.” Crowley finished his tea while Aziraphale double-clicked the “e” icon and the wait for the program to open to the actual homepage began. “You could always just get something else that isn’t infected. Beat them to it. It doesn’t have to be new either.” The suggestion was made carefully, measured as if he already knew Aziraphale would have objections.

Aziraphale glanced over at him, honestly surprised by the options he was presenting him with. Crowley was at least attempting to meet him halfway, something his family didn’t seem all that interested in. It was… well, it was sweet. Having his feelings considered.

“I suppose I could. I’d just hate if they took it away again like they did my last one. It wasn’t up to snuff, apparently.” He logged into his email, but typed in the password wrong the first time, so tried again. The keyboard must have gotten stuck. “Oh, but it was a lovely thing. I saved up for it before going to university and my great-aunt surprised me by offering to split the cost. A bit of a congratulations gift, as it were. It still worked perfectly fine nearly twenty years later, though it couldn’t access the world wide web, of course.”

“Something that can't access the internet seems a lot more like you, but considering it's for business, you could always get a secondhand laptop? A white one since they come in colors now. Then you can tuck it away and they'll be none the wiser.” 

“A laptop? Oh… I’m not sure I could handle one.” But the idea did appeal to him. A secret little computer that he could hide away and protect from prying, nosy cousins. “They really do come in white?”

“Yeah, and if you can handle this, you can handle a laptop. It's the same, just mobile.” He considered a moment, arms folding. “There's always manuals anyway, even if you need to print it on that fax you've got. Then you could at least jot notes down and the like.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said after a moment’s thought, and when he said he’d consider something, he honestly would. “Thank you for the suggestion, Crowley. Now, ah- I’ll make this quick so you can get to work on your car. I’d hate to be the reason for distracting you from it so.”

“S’fine, angel. I was planning on finishing Madame Tracy’s scooter first anyway. I’ll probably end up under the hood after lunch.”

That’s right, he hadn't quite finished with the scooter with his tools still locked up in the Bentley. The filter still needed cleaning and the battery had been dead and left to charge overnight. Aziraphale would help him move the compressor after this, get everything situated outside. In direct contrast to the downpour the day before, now that the fog had burned off, today’s sky appeared crisp and clear through the skylight above. A lovely September day was ahead of them.

Aziraphale nibbled on his doughnut as he read through Gabriel’s email and the accompanying attachments. He could almost hear the pompous tone in every sentence and visualize the way his eyes would crinkle in a smile that didn’t look all that cheerful. Certain phrases jumped out at him, “you needn’t concern yourself with this” and “if we’re being frank, your suggestions are doomed to failure” and suchlike. It wasn’t the first time he’d read them, so he simply scoffed and sipped his tea.

There were projections and charts, colorful things meant to distract from the fact that his deal with Mr. MacKinnon hadn’t been costing him that much more in excess at all. The numbers Sandalphon had pulled implied that he’d be buying items that were considerably less quality from this other supplier. While some things could be purchased at a discount, there were some things he didn’t dare gamble on with quality. Not when what they worked with was beyond a price.

It wasn’t until he’d been frustrated beyond his limit that he surfaced a bit from his reading, ready to point something out to Crowley when he realized the man wasn’t looking at the screen at all. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, with the sunglasses it was quite possible that he was reading along with him, but Aziraphale was fairly certain his eyes were on him instead. There was a prickling sensation that crept up along his neck, like his stare was boring into his profile, studying him just as intently as Aziraphale studied the graphs and pie charts.

Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself. Why on earth would he be looking at you? He was projecting, obviously. Wishful thinking, perhaps. He wasn’t exactly the most interesting person to look at in the room, soft and old-fashioned as he was. Like a comfortably worn sofa, he’d been told once, and honestly agreed with.

But still, he maybe tested the theory, just a bit. Aziraphale lifted his mug to his lips and took a long, slow drink. Out of his periphery, he thought he saw long fingers flex and scratch idly at his own throat. Interesting. Well, now he was effectively distracted from numbers and whatever nonsense Gabriel had stuffed his email full of.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and set down his cup, taking extra care to give himself time to compose himself before facing Crowley head-on. “Well, I think you might’ve been right. I believe there’s a way I can salvage some of my business partnership with Mr. MacKinnon.”

“Is there?” Crowley further proved Aziraphale’s theory by having to shift, to angle differently to see the computer screen. He only took a brief peek before settling back the way he’d been. “You generally seemed annoyed through all of that, so a bit hard to tell.”

“Well, it is annoying that they more or less sent me on a wild goose chase through all of this. Yes, I’m still very much annoyed, but there is a silver lining.” He clapped his hands together, squeezing them if only to avoid the peculiar urge to place his hand on Crowley’s thigh. “They won’t be happy about it, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, I suppose.” Even if it meant he’d get a strongly worded note from Gabriel. “I’ll place an order through the vendor they want, but it won’t be a cent cheaper than normal. Their numbers are skewed, you see. When they see the comparisons, they’ll know that it was a mistake to make this change and agree to renewing our supplier contract.”

Crowley made a noncommittal sound. “Skewed how?”

“This way only saves us money if I purchase inferior products. While there are certainly things that are ridiculously overpriced, there are also some items you simply can’t compromise on, like the type of leather and oil for binding my books or the cotton gloves that don’t leave behind fibres. Even the adhesive Anathema uses for her ceramic work or the brushes that don’t shed their bristles. That kind of quality comes at a cost, but I like to think we’re the kind of business that cares about the effort that goes into restoring priceless heirlooms. Gabriel and Sandalphon have never understood that. To them it’s all like… some war that needs to be won.”

“If that’s the way it is, I’ll play devil’s advocate. You’re just being stubborn. You know they don’t understand the need for quality tools and you know these projections are expectations, yet you’re deliberately going against it. Personally, I’m for it, but them? Well.” He spread his hands. “They come back, tell you you’ve missed the point entirely and have to buy the cheaper junk. What do you do then, angel?”

 “Well, they-” Oh, he did make a good point, didn't he? “I'll make it very clear to them that the cheaper… options, they just won't do. That they are insufficient for the kind of work we do.” Surely at some point they'd have to listen to reason. Listen to him. 

“Then why order from this supplier at all? Skip the whole step and go back to MacKinnon. You can make the point without actually giving-” a hand waved towards the screen, a noise apparently as sufficient as a word, “whoever this is your money. Just send Gabriel and whatever kinda name that was the products you’d get. Say why if it makes you feel better about it.”

“It’s not that simple, Crowley.” Aziraphale wrung his hands together before pressing his palms flat against his own thighs. “I want to give them the opportunity to understand where I’m coming from. What the business needs. Going against them straight off will only make them push back more. Perhaps if they see that I am attempting to meet them halfway by going along with this, then they’ll be more likely to do the same for me in future.”

Crowley was quiet for a moment, either studying him or just lost in thought, and gave a half-shrug. “Alright.”

Aziraphale blinked, shifting unsteadily in his seat. “Alright?” he echoed, experiencing a sensation he mentally likened to verbal whiplash.

“Yeah. I gave you options, angel. Whatever you think is the best route to take, take.”

“Oh.” Well, that was new. “That’s the route I think I ought to take, yes.”

“Okay. Just don’t look so surprised. I’m not the sort to force people into things. I just like exploring angles.” He smiled, small but so amused. “Ultimately, it’s you who has to do something. It’s your family, yours and your workers’ supplies - if you’re satisfied, grand.”

“Right, well, I do appreciate your input, but yes, I… I feel like I can reach them this way. Perhaps. Or it’s at least worth an attempt.” 

Surely at some point they’d listen to reason, he had to believe that. They were his family, this was their grandmother’s life’s work, her great creation and legacy. They had to care about its success and keeping it going. They just also liked to be the ones in charge, calling the shots. The victors.

“Now, how can I be of assistance to you? I feel as though there must be something to pay you back for all you’ve done so far,” Aziraphale explained.

“All I’ve done is listen to you. It isn’t difficult.” He waved it off. “But you can show me where the air compressor is and tell me where outside I can get it running.”

Aziraphale fetched the pancake compressor and carried it just outside the barn door. The shop was bustling now with energy from all his employees - including Deirdre Young who had been looking for something part-time and had tremendous skill when it came to restoring artwork and photography. He could feel her curious gaze following them, she’d had the previous day off and missed out on his introduction, but heard Madame Tracy bustle over to fill her in on “the scoop.”

There were a few weather-resistant outlets on the outside of the barn. They were mostly used during Christmas when Aziraphale strung up lights to make everything look a bit more festive, but they were perfectly capable of handling an air compressor and other power tools when the need called for it. While Crowley hooked up the hose and set about filling the tank, Aziraphale recruited Newt to help him bring the scooter and its necessary pieces outside. He would’ve asked Shadwell, as it was his lady’s scooter, but the man was grumbling about witchery as he eyed the seamless repairs in Anathema’s current vase project. It was best not to disturb him.

“Here we are, my dear. How is it looking?” He nodded towards the little compressor’s set up.

Crowley adjusted the regulator knob, the air gun hissing when he squeezed the trigger. “How it should. She’ll need a new battery and a new filter sooner rather than later, but once I clean this and snap everything back in place, I’ll try starting it. It should run.”

“Wonderful. Well, I’ll just leave you to it then. Holler if you need anything. Newton, please.” Aziraphale swatted at his hand when he reached out to look at the numbers on the gauges. “Best not to risk it.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Crowley grinned, crouching down to retrieve the filter cartridge from the air inlet box. It was almost entirely black and, really, it was shocking the thing hadn’t caught fire under Tracy rather than puttering to a stop. “I’ve got this, angel. The hardest part’s already done.”

It hardly seemed that way to Aziraphale, but who was he to know about mechanics? He trusted Crowley knew what he was getting into. After a lingering look, Aziraphale left him to it and kept the barn door open. It opened up the workspace, like outside was just an extension, so Crowley could feel included.

If he ever were to add classic car maintenance to the shop’s purview, he’d build out the old overhang off the barn for some additional cover and pave an area to make it easier to work on. Perhaps convert the old, dilapidated greenhouse out back into a garage of sorts. But really, he was getting ahead of himself. He’d have to check if it even made sense to add that kind of specialty in this area. If Crowley even planned on staying.

At the very least he could make sure he had a few more supplies to work with while he was here. If Gabriel asked, he’d say he was trying something new. Since the computer was on already, Aziraphale decided to try his hand at purchasing from this new supplier, and see what happened. 

What happened was he needed Anathema and Madame Tracy to help him add things to his cart and make sure the credit card information was accurately input with the correct shipping and billing addresses. Oh, it was so much easier when the supplier just knew where you lived. It felt like it took twice as long than it would have over the telephone, and that was even counting asking Mr. MacKinnon about his day and how the family was.

He might have had a third doughnut to cope with it all. It was a Boston creme, could anyone blame him?

He was just polishing it off when the pitter-patter of childrens' feet could be heard coming up the path. If pitter-pattering sounded like a stampede of wild stallions, that is. On instinct, Aziraphale did a quick scan to make sure nothing fragile was in between the doors and Deirdre Young, and he wasn’t the only one. Newt hid the tools under his apron, looking much like a guilty child himself, while Anathema simply smiled and bracketed her vase with her arms, bracing herself for the inevitable.

“Mum!” Adam Young hollered, then stopped just outside the door to stare at Crowley crouched down by the scooter only to immediately shrug it off and barrel his way into the shop with his three friends right behind him. “Mum!”

“Sweetheart, I can hear you. No need for shouting. Or running in the shop.” Deirdre glanced Aziraphale’s way, sending him an apologetic smile before turning her attention to the four children clustered around her workstation. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Brian’s actually broken his mantel clock,” Wensleydale announced, clearly having no qualms over ratting his friend out.

“It was an accident!” Brian defended. He was leaving sticky fingerprints on the antique mahogany clock. “It made some loud banging sound, so I tried to have a look and it just sorta fell!”

The only girl in their group, Pepper, rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Clocks don’t bang.”

“This one did! And now my mum’s gonna kill me!”

“Can you fix it?” Adam asked his mother earnestly. “You fix old broken things all the time.”

Deirdre sighed and shook her head, sympathy for Brian’s plight in her eyes. “I’m afraid not. Paintings and photography are quite different from clocks, I don’t think there’s anything I can do to save it.”

“What about Mr. Fell then?” Adam looked to him as he approached, spectacles on as he quietly appraised the old clock. “Or Anathema? Somebody’s got to be able to fix it, yeah?”

It was certainly an antique, an Edwardian piece if Aziraphale wasn’t mistaken, and had aged rather well considering. Well, up until the moment Brian dropped it off the mantel. Somehow the glass hadn’t cracked, miraculously, but the hands set upon its face wobbled when the boy shifted from foot to foot.

“I’m sorry, dear children, but this looks like it’s beyond any of our expertise. Clocks take a great deal of care, you see.” Though it was a shame, Aziraphale reflected, for such a piece to meet its end like this. “Someone who specializes in clocks might be able to save it, but your mother may have to find out.”

“Does he know?” Pepper demanded, pointing at Crowley as he wandered in.

He probably eyed the clock, gaze seeming to be tipped down in Brian’s direction but impossible to completely tell with the dark shades covering his eyes. “Made a banging sound, you said?”

“Yeah. A real loud one. Before I touched it,” Brian added with a nod. “I was runnin’ outside ‘cause mum made me change my shirt since I got syrup on it.” Explained the sticky fingers. “It went bam and then...”

Crowley seemed to think for a moment, wiping his hands on a spare rag that had somehow wound up in his possession. He tucked it in his back pocket and shrugged. “Sounds like the mainspring went. It’s either broken or just off the winding arbor.”

That… that sounded like he knew what he was talking about. That sounded like he knew about clocks. Aziraphale stared at him for a minute, realizing how rude he must have seemed several seconds after he should’ve and refocused his efforts on the clock itself. Well, this man was just full of surprises, wasn’t he?

“Do you-” he started, flicking his gaze back to Crowley, but made sure to only hold it there for five seconds. He counted them. “Do you have experience working with clocks, Crowley?”

He made a few stuttering sounds, searching for words before he simply shrugged and said, “Yeah.”

“Then can you look at it?” Adam asked point blank before his brow creased. “Who are you anyway?”

“This is Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale cut in. “I’m letting him use the shop to make some repairs while he’s in town.”

“If that includes using some of the clock equipment layin’ about, I’ll see what I can do with this old thing.” He gestured to the clock. “Madame Tracy’s scooter’s up and running, so I’ve got free hands.”

“Oh, but we couldn’t ask you to. Not after you already fixed the scooter.” Though Aziraphale had to admit, he was intrigued. Crowley hadn’t mentioned it at all the day before when he’d been lamenting the loss of Mr. Milkbottle’s clock services, though he supposed there hadn’t really been a way to bring it up. 

“I can ask. I'm too young to die on account of a clock.”

Crowley chuckled, taking the antique when Brian hopefully offered it. “S'pose you are. I'll have a look. If it is the mainspring, it's going to take some time.”

It certainly would. Time that would be taken away from working on his own vehicle. Time that would be spent in the shop. While he couldn’t say that he was in need of a garage just yet, Aziraphale most certainly was still in search of a clockman. If Crowley honestly could repair the mainspring of the clock, well, how could he not count that as a successful job interview of sorts? Not that Crowley was looking for a job or gave any indication of wanting one.

But he had made it clear there was no one to call. No one expecting him. And the longer he put off repairing the Bentley, the longer it would take him to get to wherever it was he was going. 

“Well, if you’re serious about this, I can clear off the workstation for you and lend you the tools we still have.”

Crowley shrugged, smile slight. “I can't be responsible for filicide, even peripherally, so I'll help you clear it.”

Aziraphale tsked, trying not to look as amused as he felt with Crowley playing along. Obviously Brian’s mother was a kind woman and would hardly murder her son over a broken clock, but he would likely be grounded for quite some time. He supposed in the mind of a child it ultimately felt like the same thing.

Beckoning Crowley over to the cluttered workstation, Aziraphale watched him handle the clock with great care and decided who was he to question or deny someone’s will to do a good deed.

Chapter Text

It had been a long time since he’d gotten his hands on a clock. The one Brian had unfortunately dropped was early 20th century with its Gothic-style mahogany case. There was some very subtle warping, a result of it being above a burning fireplace without enough buffers from the heat, but the damage looked nearly as old as the clock itself so Crowley wasn’t overly concerned by it. The interior posed the biggest problem for him. The hands only needed a simple tightening, but the mainspring...

Definitely broken, but thankfully housed in a barrel so the gear teeth and movement hadn’t been damaged in the snap. He pushed his sunglasses down his nose so he could see the darkened steel properly, not willing to risk his fingers and feeling safe enough tucked into a corner with his back to everyone else. A curtain to his left had needed to be drawn, though, the skylight providing too much extra light as it was, but no one had questioned him.

Eyes narrowed, he slotted a sharpened bradel between the wound spring layers and lifted just enough to get long-nosed pliers into the gap and grip the steel. He wrapped the entire barrel in a rag, expression pinched as he began to draw the spring free. The rag flared about, the mainspring unfurling like a coiled rattlesnake, and he flinched the slightest bit. He’d gotten himself cut more than once when he’d first begun doing this, so sure that the towel was an extra bit of nonsense. Old scars, skin sliced despite gloves, said otherwise. 

After bending a piece of the spring, his sunglasses were set aside and exchanged for a pair of magnifying specs that helped him get the best read on the steel’s thickness via a borrowed micrometer. He jotted down .3mm, then grabbed the height of it - twenty millimetres. Micrometer was exchanged for a vernier gauge so he could get the internal barrel width, which was thirty millimetres. Perfect, then. Common size and very unsurprisingly broken, considering that the whole clock looked as if it hadn’t been serviced in more than a decade. Definitely before Brian had been born, he’d wager.

It was a good thing that Aziraphale kept the business as well-stocked as he did or the clock would definitely not be getting fixed that day. He needed a fresh mainspring, and the size was common enough that the disc-like piece of shining silver steel was easy to find, as was clock oil. Not his preferred brand, perhaps, but he didn’t even know if they were still in business.

And wasn’t that just as bloody depressing as could be.

Frowning, he dropped the entire spring into oil to soak and set about cleaning and lubricating the rest of the movement. All simple in theory, but he kept the magnifying spectacles on and followed every groove of every gear, swapping brushes out as needed. Time slipped away as much as his surroundings did, not something he’d normally ever allow outside of the safety of his own home. But he didn’t exactly have one of those anymore, did he?

Crowley stretched a little, rolled his shoulders, decided he didn't want to feel sorry for himself, and dove back in.

He dried the excess oil off the mainspring when it was removed, the bright silver already a little discoloured. Using the wire wrapped around the spring as a brace against the top of the barrel wall, he used a thin mallet to gently tap it down just a few millimetres, just until the wire was about to come loose. Hopefully, one more tap would get the spring to go in completely flat. A flat piece of wood was laid atop the barrel and he smacked a wider mallet atop it.

It did not go in flat. His “shit” carried through the nearly empty workshop, workers disappearing steadily as noon came and went. The sign out front may have given Saturday hours as nine to two, but only pressing projects and supply deliveries really earned that last hour. Focused on his task, Crowley simply picked up a skinny flat punch tool and began delicately tapping the spring edges down so the barrel cap would fit.

There was the gentle clearing of a throat just beside him, soft as though Aziraphale wanted to avoid spooking him like a snake hiding in the grass. “How is it- er, coming along?” he asked.

“Ngk.” Crowley started anyway, flinching away then blinking up at him over the tops of the glasses. “Wot?”

Aziraphale’s breath caught as he blinked back, his hands frozen where he’d been ready to try and calm Crowley with one of those easy does it motions, but his attention had been captivated by the sight of Crowley’s eyes. They were amber in colour, the colour of a good, rich scotch and just as smooth going down as he drank him in. In the center, black dripped down into the gold, like an inkwell overflowing, spilling into his iris and narrowing the pupil. Nearly slitted, like a cat’s eye. Or a serpent’s. He’d never seen anything like them, though he’d certainly come across the word for it over the course of his life, amidst all the reading he did.

“I… so sorry, my dear. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His mouth started saying words automatically in an attempt to banish any awkwardness and the wild glint in Crowley’s gaze. “I asked how you were getting on? Coming along. With the clock.”

“The- Right. Clock. Yeah. Ngk. Fine. S'fine.” He tugged off the magnifying glasses, gaze flitting from them to Aziraphale to the barrel with its newly homed spring and back up again. “If you don't get these in just right, it's...” He gestured a little helplessly, giving up. “Bluh.”

“I see.” He didn’t, but he nodded just the same and hoped the considering look he cast the clock came across as more convincing. “I didn’t want to disrupt your work, but you have been at it for quite some time, so I was wondering if you might like a break?”

Crowley looked beyond him, noting with surprise that it was only them. Somehow it put him more at ease. “Right. I'm at a good enough spot for one. I forgot how long de- and re-greasing takes.”

“You did seem quite engrossed in your work. I had no idea you were so familiar with clocks as well as automobiles and scooters. We’re certainly quite lucky your Bentley picked Tadfield of all places to catch her breath.” Aziraphale flicked his gaze back to him, this time a soft smile coming easily, prepared to meet his entrancing eyes. “Though I do feel just terrible that you haven’t had time to tend to her yet.” Because it was the polite thing to say, obviously.

“I didn't exactly have a destination in mind when I set off, so it's alright. If I was in a rush to leave, I'd be gone.” It was different, seeing Aziraphale without the shadow of his lenses. His eyes were very blue, like an ocean sparkling under the sun. They pulled at him in a dozen unfamiliar ways, yet he couldn’t look away from them. “The movement of this old thing isn't very complicated either, so it should only take a few more hours to put back together. And then-” He paused and Aziraphale could see Crowley's mind moving behind his eyes. He lived in them, it seemed, all of him flickering in the amber depths. “You close up the next two days, don't you?” 

“Ah… well. To the general public, yes. But it’s not uncommon for me to spend my days off in here. I mean, it’s not all that far a commute.” He pointed vaguely behind him, in the general direction of the farmhouse.

“Think you'd be willing to have some company tomorrow morning, then?” 

The smile that easily curved his lips answered him clearer than a bell, blue eyes reflecting simple pleasure. “I believe I could make an exception for a dear acquaintance,” he replied, like it was an inside joke between them. “But first things first, I quite recall you saying something about owing me lunch.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten.” Crowley reached for his sunglasses, slipping them back on as he rose. “I’ve been upgraded to a dear acquaintance? I’m flattered.” 

“Well, you did bring me doughnuts. I feel that might be deemed worthy of an upgrade.” A small trickle of disappointment dripped into his eyes as he watched Crowley cover his. It had certainly felt like something, knowing exactly where the man was looking and to be sure of the way his gaze lingered. Though he had to admit, the sunglasses did suit him quite nicely. “I’m afraid we’ll have to walk again unless you’d like to take Madame Tracy’s scooter for a test drive.”

“I’m not getting on that thing. Walking is fine.” Crowley’s hands dipped into his pockets as he wandered after Aziraphale, stepping outside when the door was held open for him and waiting for him to lock up. “Angel? My eyes... Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Well, I didn’t want to come across as rude.” Aziraphale tested the lock, taking a little more time as his heart began to race. Had he been too obvious? Offended him somehow? Though he didn’t sound upset, just… uncertain. As uncertain as he himself felt. “I felt it was best to wait until it came up in conversation or… or something along those lines. But I can’t deny that I’m curious. Of course, that matters little if it’s not something you wish to talk about. I imagine you’ve had to do an awful lot of explaining about it throughout your life.”

Crowley shrugged. “More I've had to listen to assumptions. I've learned to let people believe whatever they like. Most think they're a result of contacts or cosmetic surgery so I'd look more snake-like.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that is one theory.” Aziraphale blinked at him, then considered the fact that he’d honestly done the same thing, even if he hadn’t said what he thought aloud. “Well, rather than make an assumption myself, what- ah… How have your eyes come to look like that?”

“Born with it. Vertical bilateral coloboma. There’s a couple of different causes, most of ‘em genetic, but the testing didn't exist then and I don't really care at this point in my life. I’ve just got light-sensitive eyes that are a weird colour.”

“I was wondering if you experienced some sort of light sensitivity. Or headaches. Because of the sunglasses.” Aziraphale gestured towards his own face, then firmly clasped his hands behind him to keep any excessive fidgeting at bay while they walked.

“Migraines, really. They’re just-” He shook his head. “They’re something awful, but they usually only come about if I’ve read too much or looked at an unfiltered screen too long.”

Aziraphale made a sound born of sympathy. “I don't experience them myself, but I can imagine they must be terrible. But no strain otherwise? Even with the tiny details of clockwork?” 

“If I don’t wear the magnifiers, it can be a problem, but it’s easier to see what I’m doing with them. And I’m not having any issues now.” Which was a relief. It had been so long, he’d wondered. 

“Well, that’s good. I must say, it was quite the surprise to find out about this hidden talent of yours. Not at all what I was expecting. I know you’ve said you worked in a garage, but have you ever dabbled in the restoration of old clocks as well?”

Shoulders rolling up, Crowley hummed an affirmation. “Did it professionally off and on until... We'll say life got in the way.”

Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on him, giving him the space to say more if he wished, but he let the mystery of that statement lie in the silence between them and wasn’t pressed on it. “Ah. Understandable. I’m sure there’s more of a market for automobile work as well, rather than clocks,” he mused. “It is a shame really, such an interesting field, horology. And to think we might have once been considered the leading artisans of clockmaking. Nowadays people just use their telephones to tell time. I understand the convenience of it, but there’s something to be said to have an analog timepiece. It’s the same way I feel about these e-readers. While it is wonderful that they’d found a way to make books so accessible to more people, and I’ve heard that they do help with dyslexia, they can in no way replace physical, printed pages.” 

“Mmhm.” Crowley smiled. He really shouldn't be as charming as he was. At least not at first glance. “How long have you been repairing books, angel?” 

“Oh… professionally? I'd say about twenty-five years now. Though I started with my great-aunt's library. She had the most extensive collection of books of prophecy. Now I wasn't permitted to touch some of the rarer, more fragile books until after she worked her magic on them - repaired their bindings and the torn pages - and I was so fascinated by the transformation, I asked her to teach me. So I've dabbled in it since my late teens, or so.”

It was enviable in its stability. “Took a break over uni then?” 

“Well, I didn’t really intend for it to be my career path until later. I still restored books for my own personal collection and would volunteer at the shop when I was home from university. Not so much of a break, just something I hadn’t considered would be my path,” he hummed, tilting his head back to shift his gaze up, looking beyond the clouds. “I wasn’t especially close with my grandmother, you see, though I admired her greatly. I simply never thought I’d be included in her wishes to look after the shop at all. I don’t know what I thought I’d do with my Classics degree, it was just what I was most interested in. I couldn’t see myself studying anything else.”

He was like a wellspring waiting to be tapped, as if no one bothered to listen to him or gave him his turn to talk. Odd. Crowley could listen to him for hours. “Did you enjoy it?” 

“Oh… every moment of it.” Aziraphale’s hand pressed over his heart on a happy, little sigh, before a cloud drifted over the otherwise sunshiney stroll down memory lane. “Well, almost every moment. There was one professor in particular that I found myself butting heads with quite literally in every class. Well, not literally butting heads like a pair of rams. I mean literally every class he had some snide comment regarding my interpretations of Shakespeare’s plays and the tragedy of the masculine role inflicted upon our queer heroes. It was a shame, I had been looking forward to that class. I’m quite taken with Shakespeare, you see, regardless of the obstacles of an unfair grading rubric and the man’s insistence that I was interpreting the text incorrectly. You can’t interpret a text incorrectly! Lazily, perhaps, but not incorrect.”

Crowley's brows lifted. “Was he trying to say Shakespeare didn't have queer themes?”

“Well, it was 1990. And he seemed fine with the idea of queer themes as long as it wasn’t directly applied to any major characters or the man himself.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, an annoyed huff escaping pursed lips.

“I'm sure you had quite the row over Hamlet, then. I'm not even the biggest fan of that one, but you'd have to be a fool not to at least see the possibility between Hamlet and Horatio.”

On a sharp intake of breath, Aziraphale looked at him, hands clasped over his breast as he considered the range of emotions Crowley’s simple statement sent him on. Delight that he acknowledged his favorite play, and double that when he mentioned the very topic that got him fired up to begin with and the cornerstone of that class’s thesis, but also complete shock and despair over the fact that- “You don’t like Hamlet?”

Crowley shrugged. “Eh. I've always preferred the funny ones. There's enough tragedy in reality.”

“I suppose that's true. I could say I'm drawn to works of literature that immerse me in a poignant, human experience. Anything that stirs up emotions, whether they be viewed positively or negatively. But I know that's not everyone's cup of tea. I, for one, can't read too much of today's news in one sitting without feeling a bit overwhelmed. Sometimes it can make one feel a little helpless in the grand scheme of it all.”

“Oh, I'm sure you do what you can to make this corner of the world a little better. I don't think Brian and his clock would have been turned away even if I worked for you.”

That was certainly a thought. One Aziraphale was steadily inching towards, wanting to entertain the idea more the longer he was in Crowley’s presence. It was dangerous thinking, but he couldn’t deny that it quietly thrilled him nonetheless.

“Well, I do like to think I try. And of course if I had you- or any clocksmith on my staff, then I’d ensure that somehow it got fixed.” He nodded resolutely, stepping in front of Crowley to get the door for him as they arrived at the Discerning Duck. “After you.”

He stepped in, letting Aziraphale lead him to a table tucked into a corner, near the crown glass windows overlooking the main street. He didn't doubt this was his usual spot. There was something nice in that, probably something comfortable in the tradition of it. As comfortable as the warm wood tones and yellowed glow of the light sconces mounted on the wall beside picturesque scenes of ducks in various states of flight. Or swim, for that matter. 

Aziraphale took the spot closest to the window without hesitation, leaving the corner for Crowley, out of the way of direct light. Maybe it should've been a dull idea, but Crowley found he liked being segued into his routine. “Have a recommendation, angel?” 

“Well, of course, but it all depends on what you’re in the mood for.” Aziraphale smiled and waved at one of the waiters back behind the bar when he caught his eye, then settled in and reached for the drink menu. “Do you have any dietary restrictions, my dear?”

Not exactly. “No, and I'm not picky either.”

There was a rosy glow to his cheeks that could very well have been due to the warmth of the pub after walking through the brisk autumn afternoon, but it seemed brighter at the news. “Wonderful. Well, obviously you can’t go wrong with their fish and chips. Can’t call yourself a proper pub if you can’t manage that, but I do think they have an especially nice batter. Not too heavy. Now since it’s autumn, they do have a few seasonal specials. Their goat cheese and pumpkin tart, for example. Not a flavor combination I would expect to work, but somehow it’s one of my favorites. I don’t know how they do it. I also recommend their curry and their steak pie. This time of year always makes me start to crave something warm and comforting.”

Crowley slung an arm over the back of the chair, sprawled comfortably. “What're you getting?” 

“I think I’m going to have to go with the pumpkin tart after talking it up just now. It comes with roasted butternut squash and beetroot slaw.” Aziraphale gave a happy wiggle in his seat, then considered the wine list with a hum before setting it aside. “I think I’ll stick with tea for now. That should do nicely.”

“S'pose I'll try the steak pie.” It wasn’t completely against his personal preferences so long as he pretended they made the crust with vegetable shortening instead of butter. So long as no one told him otherwise, he’d be content. He nodded his head in the direction of the wine list. “D'you normally get wine with lunch?” 

“Oh no. Not normally. Usually just on- ah… special occasions, mostly.” He averted his gaze, blush tinting a shade towards bashful. “I was mostly curious to see whether they’ve changed it since the last time I was here.”

“Mm.” Crowley would probably drink with breakfast if he thought he could get away with it. “I can't imagine it changes often 'round here.”

“No, not often. Though they do change out what’s on tap rather regularly, however, I don’t go in much for beer.” Aziraphale offered him the list. “Would you like to take a look?”

“Yeah, alright.” He didn't look at it right away, though, gaze lingering on Aziraphale. “I don't really do beer either. Rather have wine or scotch, really.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale perked up, intrigued by his tastes. “I have a rather nice selection of both myself. Perhaps if you’re interested one of these evenings… we could sample some?”

Crowley smiled slowly. “I'd like that.”

Aziraphale’s lips curved to match, hardly able to be held at bay as blue eyes gazed into dark lenses and wondered at what sort of look paired with the set of Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered as he glanced away, then back, something warm and welcome seeding itself in his chest. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but reading comprehension was one of his stronger points. Perhaps there really was something there. Something worth trying.

The waiter came over to take their order. Aziraphale didn’t even blush when he did just as Crowley expected and asked after the young man’s dear mother and sister - off working in London. He also took his teasing in stride - “With all the recommendations you’re making, you’re pretty much doing my job for me!” - because, well, it wasn’t every day he had the opportunity to dine with someone who had never been a patron of the Duck before. Of course, he did receive an odd look when he refrained from ordering any sort of alcohol, though it wasn’t mentioned. He’d make up for it with dessert, he decided, and would offer to cover it or split it with Crowley if he felt so inclined.

“So,” Aziraphale hummed, smoothing his napkin over his lap once it was just the two of them again. “You said you worked with clocks and in garages previously, but what is it you do now? Or are you between careers? Exploring other options?”

“Exploring options sounds about right. Just haven't been able to settle in London.”

“Do you have somewhere in mind you’re wanting to head to?”

“Nah. I needed out, so I left.” He shrugged. “As irresponsible as that might sound, things haven't been... good for a long while.”

“Oh… so sorry to hear it.” Aziraphale glanced down at his hands, clasped on the tabletop. The urge to reach out to him and offer comfort was strong - just like the tug to go over to a perfect stranger and shelter him with an umbrella - so he was grateful when their drinks arrived to busy his hands. “In my opinion that sounds perfectly responsible. I think we sometimes forget to take care of ourselves as we would any other person in need. If you needed to get out of a bad situation, then it’s very good that you did. As long as you weren’t, I suppose, abandoning a family without warning. Like a spouse or child.”

Crowley chuckled, keeping his thoughts on abandonment far away from the table. “If everyone had your moral compass, the world would be a very different place, angel. But it's alright. Keep asking your questions if you like. You've got a point at the end of it.”

“A point? No, my dear fellow, my only objective is to learn more about you. Seeing as we’re… dear acquaintances now. If, by chance, somehow I discovered that you were actively seeking employment in… horology, let’s say, or a similar field, and I so happen to have a vacancy, well… that would be purely coincidental.” Aziraphale sipped his tea.

“Right.” It would solve several problems all at once, but was it really feasible? “Are there places to let in a town this small?” 

The cup nearly clattered as Aziraphale set it down, slipping from his fingers. “I- well, yes. Well. Nearby, that is. There are a few villages within a ten to twenty minutes’ drive that would surely have something if not here.” He blinked a few times to get his bearings. “But you are actually seeking employment? In antique clock repair?”

“I didn't stop fixing clocks because I wanted to, angel. It's a bit more complicated. Nothing I did, really, but...” He shrugged. “I like your shop, I've nothing else, and I'm not a bloody idiot.”

“Oh. Well, in that case.” Aziraphale sat up straighter and adjusted his bowtie as he cleared his throat. “Pending the completion of young Brian’s family’s clock, which I will accept as your interview for the position, I would like to formally offer you a job, Mr. Crowley.” His lips couldn’t resist twitching up, a smile breaking through the manager’s facade. “Divine Restorations & Repairs would be lucky to have you.”

What a ridiculous, trusting man. Crowley returned the smile. “I should have it done by this afternoon, assuming you'll let me stick around a few more hours.”

“Shouldn’t be an issue. I’ve got some HR paperwork to get together now, so I’ll likely be there a couple hours myself.”

Paperwork. Right. That had the potential to mess things up. He could always lie to cover the fifteen year gap in his employment history, but he wasn't sure how thorough Aziraphale would be in checking and, well, he didn't actually want to get him in any sort of trouble with his obviously overbearing family. He'd just finish the clock and they would have to see about all the rest. Aziraphale would either find him worth a risk or not. 

“Sounds fine. How did ordering your supplies go?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale relaxed, or as relaxed as he could appear to be when he preferred to sit primly and properly. He waved his hand as if to banish the reminder of that morning’s troubles. “Fine enough, I suppose. It took twice as long as it would have normally though, and I recorded the time precisely to show that money is not the only asset being wasted. But the supplies should arrive by Monday, according to the automated response.”

“Mm. Aren't you spending more on shipping than before?” 

“No. That’s free if you spend over fifty pounds,” he sighed, looking decidedly unhappy about that. “But the items themselves are still more costly. And sometimes I don’t need to spend over fifty pounds, so what then?”

Crowley would've split the orders up, ordered on two different days with each order unable to qualify for free shipping. But as he'd told him earlier, he could be very petty. “With luck, your little idea works and you won't need to find out.”

“Excellent point, my dear. Yes, surely it won’t come to that.” Aziraphale took another sip of tea, hoping saying the words confidently would help him feel a little more confident about it. It didn’t, but he could sweep that under the proverbial rug for now, seeing as he had more important things to occupy his mind presently and in the coming hours.

----

There was only one spring winder, which was only alright because it was the right size. If there were larger clocks in future, he’d need a bigger one. He didn’t say that, though, carefully cranking the winder and measuring the diameter with a vernier gauge every now and again. He worked with the same effort he had before lunch, focusing on one task at a time so it could be completed to the best of his ability. When he was finished, the mainspring should have another thirty years of life in it. To ensure that, everything in the tiny space needed to be aligned perfectly, so - whether the tool was a vernier gauge or a pair of thin pliers - Crowley worked methodically.

Knowing this was something of an interview didn’t make him nervous. He’d been fascinated with clocks since he’d been a young lad, intrigued by the passage of time. He hadn’t been fond of any school subject except history and his grandad had always been happy enough to listen to Crowley’s rambling opinions on this, that, and the other. He’d given his opinions right back, never discouraging them or the questions Crowley had about every little thing. As patient a man as Crowley’s hands were as he cranked and measured and twisted.

His grandad hadn’t known a thing about clocks, but when his old cuckoo clock had lost its cuckoo they’d gone to an old friend of his grandad’s to have it fixed. He’d been eleven, maybe, or perhaps twelve, and he’d been allowed to sit and watch it get fixed and he’d been enraptured. Like helping grandad work on the Bentley, he’d been allowed to pass over tools and ask questions. He’d gone back at seventeen, constantly looking over his shoulder because if any of Luci’s gang had seen him there would have been Hell to pay. But he’d seen the place, seen it had still been open, and he’d just wanted to learn more than he’d been able to learn alone. It was hard to have a hobby like horology when in a gang of demons, but he’d gotten that lot used to his disappearances before he’d gotten himself a job. And he’d worked his fingers to the bone, learning every in and out he could.

And then the old man had passed on and Crowley had simply disappeared. He’d been twenty-three and unable to handle the death of someone else. He’d found work in a garage then and this, the gang had discovered. His career path had abruptly gone to pot right up until he’d turned thirty-two. The old clocksmith’s shop had been for sale. He’d seen the sad little sign in the window, and it had given him an idea. Not to buy the old place, no. The Bentley held more than enough memories of an old man he’d loved; he didn’t need a building to boot. But he could potentially fill a hole left behind. People had clocks in London, online businesses were in their infancy and he'd always liked following trends, and the last few jobs he’d done with the old gang had been smooth. Smooth enough that he’d gotten himself a little ground-level flat and enough cash to buy a few old clocks just to see if he still had the hands for it.

Like working on this little mantel clock for young Brian, it had come back to him as simple as anything. He could get lost in the work. It wasn’t easy, especially since he didn’t have everything he needed and every tool he picked up just made him wish he still had his own. He didn’t even have his old gloves, which was immediately a regret once he got himself sliced. (He hadn’t been regretful for long. Not when Aziraphale had immediately bustled over to help him clean and bandage the wound. Not when firm, yet gentle hands had held his under the tap. Not when he’d been scolded like a child, most of the words lost to the buzzing between Crowley’s ears. He’d watched him scold more than he’d listened and, Someone help him, but Aziraphale did look like a heated creampuff when he got himself worked up into a holier-than-thou tizzy. All pink-cheeked and cherry-lipped.)

Anyway, he had borrowed gloves now. An extra pair of Newt’s. He missed his own, but they and nearly everything else he’d owned had been the price of freedom. Therein was the reason behind any nerves he may or may not have had bubbling beneath the surface. His neatly bandaged cut had interrupted paperwork and that was going to be a problem. His entire CV was going to be a problem because it did, in fact, seem as though Aziraphale was prepping to take one and create a nice, neat file for him. Apparently, he was the entire HR department in addition to the other dozen hats he wore at the shop.

Were Crowley a decent sort, he wouldn’t have encouraged the offer at lunch. He wouldn’t have let Aziraphale begin the paperwork. Because Crowley was not a decent sort, or at least didn’t consider himself to be, he’d allowed for both. The part of him that had fit right in with Luci’s gang knew exactly why: people didn’t like to toss out hard work. If Aziraphale started and finished the paperwork, he’d keep him just to avoid the annoyance of having done so much for nothing.

That was the hope, anyway. The part of Crowley that had made him a rubbish part of the gang tended to cling to ridiculous notions like hope. Was it truly ridiculous, though, to have hope in a man who’d offer a stranger shelter in the rain? Without question or hesitation, Aziraphale had tucked him under his wing, so to speak, and gave him just a touch of warmth and light. Was it ridiculous to hope?

Maybe, but maybe not.

He’d know soon, he thought once the movement had been put together and Aziraphale’s efforts had gone from paperwork to very delicate stitching on a book that had seen much better days. Asking about his process would’ve been a bit cowardly, really, so Crowley instead went out to the Bentley and returned with a simple wooden box that had to be carried with both hands. It hadn’t been sold. No one would’ve wanted a collection of clock keys. Of course Brian hadn’t brought the two that went to his family’s clock. The boy was young enough that Crowley doubted he even knew such a thing was necessary. He measured the winding arbor from flat side to flat side to get the millimetre size and did some digging through his collection.

Some tension traded itself for satisfaction when the clock began a steady tick-tocking after a good wind, Crowley leaning back and rolling his shoulders to work out the strain of hunching over a workbench. He was as pleased with this as he had been with the scooter, as pleased as he was anytime he’d gotten his hands on something that just needed a little bit of attention. Maybe a psychologist somewhere would’ve told him that repairing old damaged things was his way of controlling something in his own damaged life, but he’d never been one for introspection or psychiatry. 

“Come have a look when you’ve got a moment to free your hands, angel. If the boy’s family services this thing as often as they should, the mainspring won’t need replacing for a good thirty years.”

Attention piqued, Aziraphale looked up and over the tops of his spectacles, fingers still working needle and thread into a kettle stitch on the binding. From the way his workstation was angled, desk and worktable nudged up together to form an L shape, he had a perfect view of Crowley’s face, and the triumph of a job well done brightening his cheeks. He gave a firm tug on the stitching, then snipped off the excess before venturing over to see just what he’d accomplished. No longer immersed in the world of his work, the clock’s ticking finally registered. His eyes lit up as he removed his spectacles, coming around to Crowley’s side.

“Oh, my dear,” he gasped, laying a hand against his back as he leaned in. “Why it sounds perfect. And looks as good as new.”

“Ehh, nearly. The gears are, anyway.” The pressure of Aziraphale’s hand was an unfamiliar one, but he didn’t shake it away. He simply closed the back of the clock and turned it, a finger running up the side to show him the slight warping of wood. “This little curve here isn’t from a fall. It’s heat damage. Nothing bad enough to need fixing, mind, and old enough that I don’t reckon his family burns fires quite as hot as they might’ve a century ago. It shouldn’t get worse anytime soon.”

“It adds a touch of character, I think,” Aziraphale said after inspecting it. “It’s part of the charm of some of these pieces. The history that comes along with them. It would be a shame to erase them completely if it doesn’t affect the piece’s performance, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Used to irritate me when someone asked to have it looking new. You want a new clock, buy a new clock. Oh, fixed the hands too.” He turned it again so they could see the face, the hands securely, steadily moving when the minute ticked along. “All he did was knock them loose from the center arbor. Easiest problem to fix on the thing, really.”

Aziraphale looked from the clock’s face to Crowley’s, caught by the amber of his eyes and grateful for the magnifying spectacles he required for such detailed work. “Well, I believe young Brian will think you’re quite the miracle worker.” 

Crowley set the clock down with a little scoff. “He's just lucky I was in the area,” he replied, beginning to lean back before he remembered Aziraphale's hand and ending up just giving an odd little wiggle. 

Said hand practically burned from the pressure. Sharp and sudden. As if accidentally touching a hot pan, Aziraphale pulled his hand back and clasped it over his chest. 

“Yes, rather.” His answer was a bit stilted as his gaze dropped, using the clock as a good distraction. They all were quite lucky indeed. “Er… how is your hand?”

“S'fine.” Damn. He tossed the gloves onto the workstation, the magnifiers following. “Did worse to myself when I first started by being a complete idiot. Why is it we believe we know everything when we're seventeen, you think?"

“Well, I do believe it’s because our prefrontal cortexes haven’t fully finished developing which affects our ability to- ah, that was more a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?” He smiled sheepishly when leveled with a golden stare. “The point still stands. Sometimes it’s difficult to see the big picture at seventeen. Sometimes it’s difficult now, but teenagers at least have a reason for it.”

“Lucky them.” He glanced back to Aziraphale’s station, nodding towards it. “How were you gettin’ on? I didn’t know books involved sewing.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale turned to it like he just remembered the book he was working on was still there, held up in a wooden book press so the spine faced the ceiling. “Sometimes. When the hinge tears or the binding is in poor condition the signatures must be stitched together again before any adhesive is applied.”

“Signatures?” 

“The groupings of pages,” he clarified, thinking a moment before beckoning him over to his workspace. “See here?” Aziraphale pointed to the dozens of folded pages pressed against each other in the slightest of arcs, holes drilled into the sides for the thread to loop through and secure them to one another. “Each one of these folds is called a signature. I’ll apply a backing of sorts once I’ve finished the stitching and then the new spine will go over it.”

It was as different from gears and mechanics as could be, but Crowley could see it would require the same level of patience and care. He couldn’t imagine the frustration of skipping a page and having to undo stitches, though it might have been similar to that of misplacing one tiny pivot in a clock’s going train. “The holes are so small, I’d probably have a headache within the hour.” His own way of saying he was impressed, his hands dipping into his pockets to resist the urge to touch pages colouring with age. “You replacing the whole cover?”

“In this case, yes. Most times I do try to salvage the original cover, especially if there's artwork involved, but the original leather was so badly damaged, the back of it completely chewed up. They have a dog, you see, and the book was left out for only a minute. They made do until the pages started separating. A new leather cover will protect them nicely. So long as they keep it off the coffee table.” He smiled at him, even when discussing the prospect of a book being damaged, pleased to simply talk about the process of one of his passions. “Oh, please stop me if I go on too long. I can get a bit carried away when it comes to books, but I don't want to bore you, my dear.”

“You’re not. I’ve had my hand in a lot of fields, but this one’s new.” And he just enjoyed listening to him, watching him. “D’you ever tool leather to replace a pattern? Or d’you leave that sort of thing to Tracy?”

“It depends on the level of detail the client would like. I can do a fair amount of design, but not nearly as intricate as Madame Tracy, so I do collaborate with her on a few projects.” 

Aziraphale gestured for him to pull up a stool while he put his spectacles back on, resuming his threadwork as he spoke. While it did require patience and care, Aziraphale’s hands were comfortable with the familiar motions and he found he could easily carry on a conversation with Crowley as he worked. He talked about the pleasures of working on sentimental restorations, always appreciative of the opportunity to salvage a rare and valuable book, but that his favorite part of the job was seeing the look on someone’s face when he handed them a book they remembered their grandparent reading to them, that they wanted to read to their children and their children’s children.

That was the case with this project. It was a simple book of fairy tales, not particularly valuable in any monetary sense, but the woman who brought it in wanted to give it to her pregnant daughter at her baby shower, which was why she’d taken it down and left it on the coffee table where the dog could get it. Before that it already hadn’t been in the best condition, peeling away from the spine, pages loose and yellowed and torn. He’d repaired some of them, showing Crowley the paste and hinging tissue he’d used to clean up the ripped edges from generations of children’s eager fingers catching on their favorite stories.

Whenever he thought he might be rambling - or going into too much detail - Aziraphale’s voice would lilt and his gaze would flick up over his spectacles, expecting to catch a glazed over, dulled look on Crowley’s face. Instead he’d find golden eyes fixated on him, his stare intense as he followed the movements of his fingers or lingered on his face. His interest was almost tangible, like he could reach out into the space between them and feel the weight of it in the air. It made his lips dry, his tongue darting out to wet them every now and then as he worked, until that serpentine stare settled into something comfortable. It wasn’t the watchful eye of a predator waiting to strike, hardly that. There was a leather-worn softness rounding out the intensity in his angled pupils, and Aziraphale didn’t mind brushing up against it, working it into something pliant with his own gaze, oiled and gentle in return.

“I had a difficult time removing the original mulling earlier. It had affixed itself to the sewing, pulled it loose. It’s always easier when it’s able to come away dry, but in this case, it seemed to make the most sense to sacrifice the sewing and do it over. It’s not my first choice with a book this dense, but needs must. I think it worked out for the better, quite honestly. The original sewing was missing some crucial supports. And when so many pages had fallen out, well, this way I was able to sew them back in rather than tipping them in with adhesive,” he explained his choice. “It’s a rather slow process, though, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Seems to me, careful hands and time are what's needed when something's as fragile as all this.” And Aziraphale, from what little Crowley had seen and heard, had careful, practiced hands and a deep well of respect for time. Maybe not for the changes it brought in fashion and certain technologies, but seemed to share Crowley’s affection for days gone by. Approached in very different ways, however, which only made him all the more interesting. “I’m sure it’s all worth it in the end.”

“I certainly think so.” Aziraphale sat back with a happy sigh and wiggle. “There. I think that’s good for today. I’ll affix the spine to it tomorrow, along with the boards. Finish some of the clean up on the covers.” He directed his smile at Crowley. “I’d say that’s quite enough work for a Saturday. Would you be amenable to starting the application process on Tuesday morning? You’re still more than welcome to come by and work on your car tomorrow, but I’d feel terrible making you do actual business on a Sunday.”

“S'fine. Tomorrow, you can give me whatever you need me to fill out if you like.”

“Oh, well I have all the necessary paperwork ready to go if you’d like a little more time to look it over. No need to rush on your part.” He shifted so he could reach the business portion of his desk, a folder already put together with Crowley’s name on it. “Here we go. Ah, the place to list your references is included on the application, so you don’t have to worry about too many additional documents. So, application. And this is a list of examples of what you can bring in for your List A documentation- ah, wait I suppose I assumed here, you are a UK citizen, yes?”

“Yeah.” Documents would be easy enough. References, though... Bollocks. 

“Perfect. That makes things simple.” Aziraphale beamed at him, handing him the light packet of paper. “And I’ll need some sort of evidence that you’ve received a tetanus vaccination. You can never be too careful.” He nodded pointedly at his bandaged hand.

That wouldn't be a problem either. Though the address of the clinic matched that of a prison. It would take him all of twenty minutes to fill this out, and the estimate was a generous one. “Right, yeah. All that's been taken care of, so I'll just get this to you by Tuesday.” He slid off the stool and rose, tapping the folder against his palm. “Probably past time for me to get out of your hair.”

Aziraphale looked to the old clock mounted on the wall, his throat constricting around what might have sounded like desperate assurances that he should stay. “It has been a long day,” was all he said instead. Not quite agreeing, but not an invitation either. It would hardly do to overindulge in one another’s presence, he supposed, though all he wanted to do was glut himself on that inviting crease of his mouth and the smokey timbre of his voice until he’d never be satisfied with the company of another person if Crowley wasn’t there, too. 

But that was a dangerous thought.

“Let me get my coat. I’ll walk you back to the inn.”

Refusal bubbled up, automatic and easy. Too easy. “Sure,” came out instead. “If you haven't had enough of me yet.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale tutted, shooting him a look that was far too fond for the amount of exasperation he meant it to have. “You wily thing. Come now, we've hardly had the chance to talk about something other than work. Tell me, you said you were coming from London, yes? Did you grow up there?” he asked, shrugging on his coat. 

Perhaps he should've taken the easy route, he thought, slipping on his sunglasses and shrugging into the blazer he'd tossed onto the workbench. “Yeah. Round and about.” 

“I see. You know, I was born in London. Lived there until I was eight or nine, then moved out here. Well, not Tadfield specifically, but over in Henley-on-Thames. Not too far from here, about a twenty minute drive, forty by bus.” 

Aziraphale waited for him before locking up the shop, then embarked on their second trip into town for the day. It was cooler in the early evening, dusk having crept up on them and coloured the village of Tadfield in ambers and indigos. They were still only in the very start of autumn, evenings like this would be few and far between. It was a shame really, to have met so late in the year. Aziraphale was starting to very much enjoy these strolls together, not that Crowley would be staying at the inn much longer anyway. It just wasn’t reasonable accommodation for a long-term stay.

“They have a lovely library, you know. And wonderful restaurants,” Aziraphale continued. “You know, I believe I had my first real taste of wine at this darling pub. The Little Angel, is what it was called. Oh, I loved that place. My great-aunt and I would go on special occasions and share a cheese board or a dessert. Warm treacle tart with raspberry sauce or blackberry créme brulee. And she’d always get a glass of wine, without fail,” he chuckled to himself, thinking she might’ve looked like an alcoholic with all the times she spent with a glass of wine or pint of ale in hand. “She was more of an ale drinker, I must say, but she wanted me to have a good appreciation and understanding of wine, so she’d let me taste whatever she ordered. Just a sip, nothing excessive, of course.”

Oh, he was prattling on now, wasn’t he? Though Crowley didn’t appear to mind it. “In any case, I found the change of pace from London to be quite novel. A fresh start.”

“You needed a fresh start at that age?”

“Well, it was a completely different childhood,” Aziraphale defended. “The city proper and the countryside offer two vastly disparate walks of life. Perhaps ‘fresh start’ isn’t quite what I meant, but it did feel as though I was embarking on some grand adventure into the wilderness back then. You know, as childrens’ stories tend to portray. I did fancy myself a bit like Gulliver or Jim Hawkins.”

He knew the names, but he’d never read their tales. “Have you always been a bookworm, angel?”

“As long as I can recall, yes.” His smile brightened. “There really is very little that is better than a good book.”

Crowley chuckled. “Now I’m wondering what the scale is.”

“From bebop to books.” Aziraphale looked delighted as he played along. “Bebop being at the bottom because it’s terrible, and books at the top. Good food and wine is somewhere in the upper-middle ranges.”

“Hang on, bebop like jazz?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips thoughtfully and tilted his head. “Some jazz,” he allowed, “but mostly anything modern that one hears on the radio these days. With the automatic tuning and deep basses.”

So his own, unique definition. “Alright. What else doesn’t count as bebop?”

“Why, anything prior to the 20th century, obviously,” Aziraphale told him snobbishly, before delving into more detail on the acceptable pieces of music to have come from the past two centuries, losing the holier-than-thou tone as he became more invigorated by the exceptions to certain genres, such as Broadway standards, ballads, and crooners. Folk music, and songs directly influenced by poetry. The Beatles even managed to squeak in, if only because “one cannot deny that their music was revolutionary, if a bit… odd, at times.”

It turned into an inquiry towards Crowley’s favorite genres of music. Aziraphale’s lack of an opinion when he listed the artists he gravitated towards revealed that he didn’t really have a clue about any band or songwriter beyond 1969. Queen and the Velvet Underground received genuine hums of curiosity.

“What is a ‘velvet underground?’” he’d asked.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

This conversation shifted then to plays and books and television series. To the surprise of no one, Aziraphale had been a rather avid Doctor Who fan during Tom Baker’s tenure through the 70s, and had been absolutely beside himself when he regenerated, so much so that he didn’t have the heart to continue. Apparently it had been brought back in recent years, but neither had much of an opinion on it, or opportunity to watch. Aziraphale didn’t have cable and Crowley wasn’t so much a fan of those kinds of shows, in any case. He’d always preferred sitcoms. So engrossed in the back and forth, in sharing these tidbits of information, they’d stood out in front of the Discerning Duck a good twenty minutes, until it became too dark to ignore.

Aziraphale hesitated before saying goodbye, the back of his hand tingling with the ghostly memory of Crowley’s lips against it. He fidgeted too much with them, too conscious of where to put them and how to stand and what would he do if Crowley did reach for him again as he bid him farewell.

“Good night then, Crowley,” he said after clearing his throat and finally forced himself to still with a smile. “May you have a pleasant evening.”

Crowley's mind had walked a similar path, deciding against the move until Aziraphale's fidgeting settled. His hands didn't clasp, didn't disappear behind his back. He wasn't backing away either. Kissing his hand had been a small, simple gesture done entirely by impulse the night before. 

This time, it was deliberate. He reached out and took his hand, lingering a touch longer than necessary. “'Night, angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, pulse taking flight as it had the night before in fluttery little bursts as their fingers brushed slowly when Crowley released his hand. “Yes, good night.”

He wasn't entirely sure if he really should've done that, but he was a risk taker first and always had been. A reaction like that was worth it anyway. He'd hold onto it, considering his certainty that it would be his last chance. He'd be out of Tadfield the next day. “See you in the morning, then.”

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale nodded with wide eyes, already anticipating the moment the sun would rise. “Right. Looking forward to it.” He realized he’d been standing there for too long, his smile and chuckle sheepish as he started to shuffle away. “In the morning, then. Bright and early. Pleasant dreams. Pip-pip.”

He waved, then turned about on his heel to head for home. Good Lord, he felt rather stupid. And he normally prided himself on being so clever.

Crowley felt the same, fingering the folder as he watched and waited far too long before heading inside. He was an utter fool. 

But he would absolutely be at Aziraphale's door bright and early. An utter hopeful fool. 

Chapter Text

He hadn’t needed to put a CV together in twenty years. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly asking for one, but the questions on the application amounted to the same thing. And it was more than a little humiliating to realize just how little he could fill out. His longest job had been his first. Seventeen to twenty-three, but no available reference. Reason for leaving? Owner passed. He left out not being able to handle it. 

Every other scattered job had only lasted a year or two. His education was just as wretched, Crowley having dropped out of secondary school at sixteen. He’d been arrested twice by that point and hadn’t seen a reason to continue when he’d been so bloody angry about everything. He knew he wasn’t stupid and didn’t exactly feel less, but he sure as Hell hadn’t gone to a university and squabbled with English professors.

It was ridiculous to actually see his life written out, the gaps amounting to the handful of times wherein he’d given in to Lucifer and the rest. Often drunk, occasionally reeking of weed, and always wallowing in something. He’d taken a year off just to lament Freddie Mercury’s death, for fuck’s sake. It was almost funny now, remembering stealing condoms from some unfortunate chemist’s shop while the others stole pills. If three little letters could take down his idol, he wasn’t about to risk himself.

Maybe he was stupid. He’d never fit in with them, no matter what he’d done. He’d just never been able to take the final leap. He’d never been able to shake the guilt anytime they’d talk about casing a home. He’d have a migraine or just plain vanish when that started and, at the time, he’d thought himself quite clever. They - or at least Luci - had seen right through him. Oh, yeah, he’d been stupid. Hanging ‘round the wrong people, letting them lead him to a fall from grace.

Letting two of them frame him.

In his dreams, he didn’t answer his cellular when it rang. In reality, he had. In his dreams, when Ligur said they were coming by, he told him no and hung up. In reality, he’d pressed a whiskey glass to his brow, closed his eyes, and had said, “Sure. Right. Yeah. Come on over.”

In his dreams, Hastur and Ligur never hid stolen items in the boot of his Bentley. The police never found anything in their search of him. He never needed a solicitor who didn’t actually believe him any more than those police when he’d told them, “no, I never saw those things before in my life.”

A judge never looked at him, brows raised so high they’d nearly been hidden by that white powdered wig and said, “Guilty.”

But those were his dreams, and his reality... Well. 

In his opinion, the only thing he was guilty of was hanging around the wrong people. Of answering a phone and inviting those people into his space, showing them his car even when all they did was grunt in disinterest. All they wanted to do was brag, like recounting deeds of the day, and hadn’t Crowley known they were hiding something? The sniggering, the looks they’d exchanged as they’d gone over every detail of their latest robbery.

At least... almost every detail.

When he'd finally walked out of prison, he'd only had a small box of effects left to his name, a Bentley no one had bothered to tune in fifteen years, a weak apology to go along with a government check to accommodate the loss of more than a decade, and an overturned verdict on his record. The check helped him improve a dwindled bank account just long enough to get some tools back, some parts, and a tank of petrol. 

Fifteen years later, he finally took that test drive, finally made it to the countryside.

Fifteen years later, the poor Bentley broke down in a tiny village called Tadfield.

Fifteen years later, and he was still stupid enough to have hope. And over what? 

He stared at the end of his work history, hunching over the desk and folding his hands behind his neck. The beginnings of a headache were beginning to pound behind his eyes, but he still stared. Two hours had passed, laughing in the face of his twenty minute estimate, but he hadn’t expected the hurt. Regret spiralled through him. If he hadn’t answered the phone, if he hadn’t invited them over, if he hadn’t let them see where he put his keys, if he’d replied to a single damn email so he’d have had some sort of alibi, if he’d-

If he’d never stopped being someone his grandad would’ve been proud of.

Better late than never, hopefully, Crowley sighing at the fifteen year gap and lack of references. There was simply no one he could think of, no idea if any of his old employers were alive, working, or would have anything even remotely kind to say about him. He’d help steal from some of them, after all, and two of the gaps were chop shops he’d decided didn’t belong on an application. Address, telephone number, and emergency contact information were all left blank since “my car once I can’t afford the inn,” “phone doesn’t make calls,” and “no one” just seemed like pitiful things to write despite the truth in each one. 

And there was really nothing else. He was able to add metalworks to a section for additional skills, but that had largely involved mucking about in those chop shops. No one had cared what he’d been doing with the flames and twisted bits of steel, but he’d had fun. He hadn’t seen a space for it at Divine Restorations, but it counted. 

Finally, he’d gathered together the paperwork Aziraphale had needed and he tucked it all together in the little folder he’d been provided. He’d have to remember this when he went on the hunt for an actual job somewhere when this inevitably failed. The most he could likely hope for was... A dishwasher, perhaps, or maybe he'd stumble across a garage that didn't need references. What a spot to be in at forty-eight. Nothing to show for himself but failure. 

Sighing, he took a pull straight from the bottle of scotch he'd paid too much for and capped it. He'd take the folder the next day, let Aziraphale take a look so they could avoid any awkwardness around the rest of the restorers. Unless... 

He closed the folder and rose to prepare for bed. He really could be too hopeful sometimes, but Aziraphale seemed full of surprises. Not at first look, but that only made the surprise go deeper. It made the annoying hope all the easier to feel.

It certainly pushed him out of bed the next morning, a shower and a tea he let steep for far too long waking him up enough to let him remember the folder before he left. It was still early, autumn air putting colour in his cheeks as he made his way down the street. He didn't mind the walk, really. It was a far cry from prison, where a thirty minute time slot for the outdoors could be canceled for any bit of rain. In bloody England. He'd gone days and days in a row without a glimpse of the outdoors, without a chance to watch the seasons change. He'd seen summer fade into autumn this time, but it still hadn't been satisfying. It hadn't been right.

The drive had felt right, watching colourful trees dot the side of the road. This town felt right in some inexplicable way. He didn't know how or why, but it was an area he'd be willing to stay in. Maybe that's why he'd been so ready to leap at Aziraphale's offer, even when it had only been an implication. Possibilities drew him in and there were so many in that converted barn. And in the man living in the too-big farmhouse. 

The gate hadn't yet been unlocked when he sauntered up to it, which gave him pause. It wasn't that early, was it? Probably was. He checked his watch. Not too much before nine, but... 

His attention shifted, brows lifting as he caught sight of four bicycles racing down the street. No one would've found him awake at this hour at age eleven, but this lot seemed to be on a mission. 

They stopped nearly at Crowley's feet, four sets of eyes very keen on the stranger in their world. The curly-haired one Crowley only knew as Deirdre's son spoke first. “Hullo! Did you fix Brian's old clock?” 

Straight to the point then. “Yup.”

Brian sighed, sagging under the weight of his own relief. His lips were stained from blueberry pancakes, mud clinging to his trouser cuffs and shoes courtesy of a puddle he'd ridden through. “That's wicked. Can we come and get it? Is Mr. Fell 'round?” 

“'Course he's 'round,” the very opinionated girl replied. “Mr. Fell's always 'round.”

“Not even,” Brian argued. “Sometimes he's in town.”

The one in the glasses finally spoke. “Actually, I still think that counts as him being around. Town isn't very far and he never drives, so he never goes far.”

“Sometimes he takes the bus,” their leader reminded them. Adam, Crowley remembered. Right. “Is he home?” 

“He should be. I'm here to work on my car.”

“What's wrong with it?” Brian wondered. 

“Can you fix clocks and cars?” the girl asked. 

“Don't know what's wrong just yet and of course I can. I'm multi-talented.” 

“Right. So if Mr. Fell's expecting you, he must be in.” Adam nodded firmly. “And if he's in, I reckon he wouldn't mind so much if we went in. What d'you think?” 

Crowley considered them all for a moment before shrugging. It was probably a faux pas but he'd blame the kids if it came down to it. “Sounds reasonable enough to me.”

He helped the Them and their bicycles over the gate, the latter of which were left leaned against the fence as the quartet followed Crowley. They didn't head to the farmhouse, though, the Them eager to see the car and fascinated to learn that Crowley kept his tools in the boot. 

“It looks like a spy car,” Adam decided upon seeing it, amusing Crowley to no end. “Are those real bullet holes?” 

“Stickers.” Placed there by his grandad in the late sixties. Crowley left them, having inherited the same fondness for James Bond. 

“Hm. I think you'd say that even if they were real.”

Crowley couldn't wink at him behind the sunglasses, but he did smile as he dug out his tools and popped the hood. 

The kids decided to reserve judgment on whether or not they were real or if the mysterious man in sunglasses who could fix cars and clocks wasn't actually a spy himself. Naturally, the subject evolved into their game for the morning, the Them staying within Crowley's sight only because they knew this was the direction Mr. Fell would end up coming. 

Adam was wearing Crowley’s discarded blazer when he did, calling out to Pepper right before she backed into the man. She whirled and looked up, considering for a moment. “Hi, Mr. Fell. I'm trying to escape.”

Adam nodded, the sleeves slipping over his hands no matter how many times he pushed them up. “She's our villain. She's stolen secrets from Parliament. That's Wensley.”

“I'm a villain too,” Brian cheerfully offered. “But it's not time for the grand reveal yet.”

“Not yet,” Adam confirmed. “He was gonna be the spy, but he wanted to be a surprise bad guy instead so I'm the spy now. And Mr. Crowley's our tech expert on account of him working on machines and not actually helping me save the day. His jacket's bulletproof.”

“Is it now?” Aziraphale’s lips twitched into a smile despite himself, unable to help it as he watched the four children all but tumble about on his property. It didn’t surprise him that the four of them - five, counting Crowley, of course - hadn’t been deterred by his locked gate. “Well, that’s terribly kind of him to lend you such a valuable asset. I hope you thanked him for it. And for the… the ‘tech.’” He didn’t make air quotes around the word, but his tone implied they were there.

“Oh, yeah. He just said we couldn't wreck anything while we waited.” Which reminded him why they were actually there. “And he said Brian's clock was done.”

“Right! Adam's mum said I should ask if there was anything I should do to pay for it or something.”

“Well, Mrs. Young is quite right. That is a very good thing to ask, Brian,” he commended, making sure to catch each of the children’s eyes as they gathered close. “But we’ll have to ask Mr. Crowley, seeing as he doesn’t yet work for me. He put a lot of care and hard work into that clock of yours.” 

Though Aziraphale had a feeling Crowley wasn’t the type to demand payment from children and would likely brush it off. He hadn’t even asked for compensation for Madame Tracy’s scooter. Even if he’d initially done it as a favor for getting him out of the rain, it had been rather labour intensive, and Aziraphale believed he deserved something for his hard work. He already had plans to include a bit of a bonus in his first paycheck to account for both the clock and the scooter, just in case he wouldn’t accept payment for it any other way.

His gaze finally flicked up from the children towards the Bentley parked near his shop. Crowley’s back was to him, sleeves rolled up as he dug around under the hood. He fiddled with the cuffs of his own sleeves, straightening them out before smiling at the Them once again.

“Let’s go see how he’s getting on and ask him, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Adam agreed and the other three started for him. 

“Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell's finally here.”

He paused, straightening enough to look at Pepper and then past her. “Morning, angel. Hope you don't mind the invasion.”

“Naw, not Mr. Fell,” Adam said confidently. “He's not that sort.”

Crowley chuckled. “Well, my mistake then.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale smiled at him, hands carefully clasped behind his back. “And I did say you could come by to work on your car today, though I didn’t expect my shop to become the location of an espionage affair as well. Very exciting.”

“They appeared as I got here.” Satisfied that Aziraphale wasn’t annoyed, he gestured to encompass the group. “Think a clock might hold whatever final clues they need.”

“Definitely,” Adam agreed, though was eager to get it back to Brian’s.

“Oh, uh, ‘m s’posed to ask how I need to pay for it. Mr. Fell said it was tough.”

Crowley had a feeling that wasn’t a direct quote, but appreciated the sentiment. He appreciated the offer of payment too, but dismissed it as expected. “The only thing you need to do is tell your mum it needs a tuneup every ten years.”

“Really?”

“Course. And you let someone who won’t drop it get it home. You don’t want to know if I’ll be so generous again.”

He would, of course, but Brian nodded. “I’ll let Adam do it. He’s got the basket that used to be on Pepper’s bike.”

“Sounds alright.” Crowley angled his head towards Aziraphale. “Go on, then. He’s got the keys.”

Brian whirled. “Can I get the clock now, Mr. Fell?”

Keys jangling in hand, Aziraphale led them over to the barn doors. The clock was right where Crowley had left it on the worktable, covered neatly in a white cloth. Aziraphale placed the clock in a small cardboard box to give it an additional level of protection as he handed it over to Adam in exchange for Crowley’s blazer.

“Careful with it now, dear boy. Don’t want to knock any of those top secret clues loose.” Aziraphale winked, only letting go when he was certain Adam had a steady grip on it. “Take it straight home, lest you risk it winding up in the wrong hands.” Or breaking again during a detour to Hogback Wood.

“Right. You never know who's really on our side. Thanks, Mr. Fell.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

He left the gate open for them so they wouldn’t have to climb over the fence again while holding the clock. As wild as the four children could be, considered by much of the town to be a gang of mischievous hellions, Aziraphale found them charming - when the antiques in his shop weren’t at risk due to their tomfoolery. There had been quite a few close calls in the past when Adam accompanied Deirdre to work, moments where Aziraphale considered a heart attack a very real possibility despite his genetic history. But then there were moments where they bid people like him and Mr. Crowley a good day and chimed their bike bells as they pedaled off to continue their game of spies. Those moments never failed to put a smile on his face, heart attacks aside.

When they were out of sight, he closed the gate but left it unlocked as he strolled back over to the Bentley, blazer folded neatly over his arm. “How are things coming along?”

“I'd be further if I hadn't been keeping an eye on that lot, but not bad.” He knew this engine inside and out. Every bit of metal and plastic was cherished. “Just need to test a few things, but I should be finished by lunch.”

“Really? Well, that’s not bad at all. No additional parts needed?” Aziraphale’s brows lifted in pleasant surprise.

“No, I didn't blow anything since the parts are all practically new.” They'd just been sitting for too long, but he'd replaced the worst of the rusted pieces. The battery was the newest thing under the hood. “Just a more thorough clean of some bits I didn't quite get to before I left London, and she'll be back to purring in no time.”

“How wonderful that it’s all working out so well, then.” Aziraphale allowed his gaze to drift from the car to Crowley, catching on the sight of his forearms bared and black henley clinging to his torso like a second skin as he forced his eyes to meet the sunglasses instead while his fingers curled against the blazer he still held for him. “Can I offer you something to drink in the meantime? Or breakfast? I have some crumpets and jam in the house.”

“Don't normally bother with breakfast, but I wouldn't refuse some decent tea.”

Though a valiant effort was made, Aziraphale couldn’t help but appear aghast at the notion of not ‘bothering with breakfast,’ and his lips parted in a shocked little o. “Right. I’ll just put the kettle on then.” He started for the shop, taking the blazer with him to hang up on the coat hooks inside, then paused and turned about once more. “Not even a piece of fruit? Or an egg?”

Crowley looked over, trying and failing not to smile. “M'fine, angel. I'm genuinely not hungry.”

He brought him a biscuit anyway, a chocolate digestive from a box he kept on hand at his desk. Just something to nibble on while he waited for his tea to cool. Aziraphale insisted it was to keep up his blood sugar, manual labour could take quite a bit out of a person, after all. It was important to keep up one’s strength. He ate one himself as well, so Crowley wouldn’t feel like he was being singled out. 

As he licked the melting chocolate from his fingers, Aziraphale took note of the manilla folder resting on the top of the car. “Oh! Did you bring the paperwork back already?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Crowley glanced at it, shoulders rolling. “S'not as if I had much else to do with my night.”

“Well, do you mind if I take a look at it?” Aziraphale asked. “I mean, since you have it all ready…”

Crowley waved a hand. May as well get it over with. “As you like. It won't look finished, but it is.” 

Aziraphale cast him a curious look, plucking a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off his fingers of any stray crumbs or chocolate lest he transfer them to the documentation. “I’m certain it looks fine. It needn’t be terribly… detailed,” he trailed off as he opened the folder, and instantly knew what Crowley had meant. “Oh dear.”

Crowley leaned against the Bentley, cupping the mug of tea and trying to appear as if he hadn't a care in the world despite the tension tightening his muscles. Wordless, sputtered sounds didn't help, especially when it ended with a little, “Yeah.”

He’d been expecting the lack of an address, possibly the lack of an emergency contact, too, but the rest of it… Well, the rest of it…

It struck him suddenly that he really knew nothing about this man. Anthony J. Crowley, the application said. Born the 22nd of July. Forty-eight years old. Could repair clocks, cars, and do the occasional metalwork, but no formal training. No A levels. Not a single thing to account for the past fifteen years. But none of that really alluded to who Crowley was as a person.

“Can I ask…” Aziraphale lifted his gaze from the paper, the broken syllables that spilled from Crowley’s lips made him feel as though he himself had tried to choke down an entire apple from the way his heart lodged itself in his throat. He cleared it carefully, the core of it digging into his voice as he tried again. “Can I ask about the gap in employment?”

Despite the sunglasses hiding his eyes, the twinge in Crowley’s jaw and downward curve of his lips told Aziraphale just what he thought of that, but his Adam’s apple bobbed as he attempted to give him an answer. Aziraphale glanced back at the application and CV in his hands, the shift of thin paper echoing between the barn and the house on this quiet Sunday morning, dry and wavering with the slightest breeze. There wasn’t a lot that could account for a fifteen year gap, so he could certainly guess. He didn’t want to, but he could. 

Still, Crowley could have lied on the application. Could’ve made up some kind of job history to seal the gaping hole in his CV. Aziraphale wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He’d have trusted Crowley, probably not even called the previous employers. That may have made him an old silly, naive or foolish perhaps, but Aziraphale liked to see the good in everyone. He could certainly see the good in Crowley, try as he might to cover it up in snakeskin boots and ink.

He could see it in the way his fingers quivered as he clutched the handle of the teacup - gentle still, not enough to break the fragile thing - but shaking all the same.

Gabriel would never accept an application like this - not that it was up to him, but he’d surely have something to say about it. Honestly, most employers wouldn’t give it a single ounce of consideration. Honestly, Aziraphale probably shouldn’t. He didn’t know this man. He had stacks of valuable manuscripts and art pieces and antiques that could fetch anyone a pretty penny. He didn’t have a proper security system in place, nothing beyond the padlock on the door, a simple alarm, and one camera inside the building, in the front left corner. It wouldn’t take much for even an amateur thief to make off with a few thousand dollars’ worth of heirlooms and priceless memories in the night.

A thief could… but could Crowley? 

Aziraphale looked past him, at the barn. At the shop sign posted on its side. Divine Restorations & Repairs. His shoulders stiffened, held back by firm posture as blue eyes greyed like gathering storm clouds, certain and mind made up.

While Crowley's racing mind drew its own conclusions, Aziraphale slid the papers back into the folder. He closed it, tucked it under his arm, and strode into the shop with brisk steps. Not moments later, he returned with a clipboard in hand and a pen.

“Would you be amenable to having Madame Tracy as a reference? She can attest to your skills via the repairs to her scooter.” She’d been delighted with it the day before, riding off on it with Shadwell clinging to her for dear life as she turned slow circles in the grass. “And Deirdre Young, for your customer service when dealing with her son and his friends’ last minute request to repair the clock.” Aziraphale was already writing their names down on a piece of paper for Crowley to copy from, along with their phone numbers. “I know it asks for three, but that’s more of a guideline. Two shall do nicely.”

“Angel...” It wasn't what he'd expected, not even a little. Instead of more questions, Aziraphale was offering more help. Crowley was very grateful that he was already leaned against the Bentley, knees feeling very weak as that ragged hope tried to swell. “That'd... be alright.”

“Good. And for now we’ll put the address of the inn and their phone number. Once proper lodgings have been established, we can change that in your personnel file. Emergency contact… well.” Aziraphale finally stopped writing, his fervor quieting to give him time to think before scribbling down Sergeant Shadwell’s name and number. “Now, is there anything you’ve done that could be considered providing some kind of service to anyone? Volunteer work, perhaps? Workshops?”

He shrugged, wishing the tea was something stronger. “No.”

“Nothing at all? We could- we could put anything down really.” Aziraphale lowered the pen. “I don’t want to pry regarding the circumstances, but I imagine there must have been some occasional task you took on…”

He may not have wanted to pry, but it had to be said. He was still trying to help, so he should know. “I- The gap’s jail. I was- Anyone’ll say they were innocent, but I actually got an acquittal and a tidy little sum they thought fifteen years was worth. At least before the solicitor I finally managed to get to even look at the damn case took his cut. But you can look it up, angel; I know how it sounds.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged, the stiffness in them softening. “My dear…” His grip tightened on the clipboard, then he set it atop the Bentley so he could take Crowley’s hand and press it between both of his. “It sounds to me as though you were acquitted after being wrongfully accused.” Which was somehow both better and worse than he’d thought. Better in the sense that he hadn’t actually committed a crime, but he’d lost fifteen years of his life to it and then some. 

There was a story behind it, one Aziraphale was curious to hear, but first things first. “Now I understand there isn’t getting around that kind of a gap, but were there… programmes or things you had to do that required any kind of skill set while you… were incarcerated? If we fill in the gaps with something that shows you developed any kind of experience during that time, then perhaps it won’t draw any undue attention from… well, you know.”

“After the first few years, I was able to do a few things, yeah. It’s not really applicable to this sort of thing. Studied a lot of law, gardened. But you’re-” He paused, looking down at their hands. “You’re still thinkin’ about doing this?”

“I’m not thinking about doing this, my dear, I am doing it. Provided that you’re still interested, that is.”

“Very. I just wasn’t expecting...” Shelter from the storm that was his life. “It’s a shit CV, angel. Nobody’d look at that and believe a word I say after. I don’t even have someone available to help prove it.”

Aziraphale took a long look at him, then said simply, “You could have lied. On the application. Or even just now, about being incarcerated. But you didn’t. You were honest with me. Why shouldn’t I believe that?”

“Honesty didn’t get me much in 2005.”

“I suppose it didn’t. But it’ll get you a job here.” He squeezed his hand, a little cooler than Crowley’s since he hadn’t been holding a cup of hot tea, but somehow the gesture was a warm one anyway. “Honestly I would file it away as is, but the problem is Gabriel. He doesn’t pay too much mind to who I hire and he certainly doesn’t read any CVs, but he does glance at them. We only need to… fluff it up a bit. We can work with law and gardening, with the right wording.”

His lips quirked. “Landscaping and legal studies?”

“Where you exemplified creative design expertise and project management?” Aziraphale suggested, a smile pulling at his mouth to match, then gave his hand a pat now that he was getting the right idea before releasing his hold. “Conducted research and paid close attention to detail.”

“There's that degree of yours.” Crowley's fingers flexed before he pushed them into his pocket. “There was something of project management in it. Had a whole section to lord over since I was only one who knew what he was doing.”

“Ah. Experience in a supervisory role as well. That’s very good.” Aziraphale grabbed the clipboard and jotted down notes for what he could plug into for his experience. It wasn’t lying, it was being resourceful. “Here. Copy this into your CV and application with approximate dates for about when you worked at these tasks. Best if it’s in your handwriting and not mine.”

“Still gonna be about four years where there's nothing. It was... not a small thing.” He still took the folder and clipboard again after setting the empty cup atop the Bentley so he could add in Aziraphale's suggestions. “Had to earn privileges.”

“As long as it looks a little more full, I don’t believe the four years will stand out as much,” Aziraphale assured him, hands clasped behind his back as he gave him the privacy and space to fill in the gaps. “If you’d like to talk about it at all, well, I just want you to know I’d be more than happy to listen. But I also understand if you don’t wish to divulge. If you were acquitted, then that’s really all I need to know.”

Crowley didn't respond right away, his own scratchy handwriting miles away from Aziraphale's loops. They were miles away in a dozen ways, but there was something. More than physical proximity, some part of him felt linked to this angel of a man. Certainly there was a level of basic attraction on his end, and wasn't that a curious thing to feel after so long? Plus, he didn't think he was imagining the way Aziraphale tended to look at him. But that wasn't all. Maybe it was simple gratitude? His own curiosity? Maybe it was just a desire for some basic decency. It seemed so effortless for Aziraphale. 

It wasn't effortless for Crowley, but he'd been one wrong step away from a fight for years. Even before the conviction, he'd been in a hopeless cycle. He'd hung around the wrong people, let them guide him along until he'd found himself vaguely sauntering straight to Hell. At this point, he'd probably never find his way out of Purgatory, but he could make something of it on Earth. He wanted to give that terrifying hope a chance. “Do you want to know, Aziraphale?” 

His name sounded like a song when Crowley said it, and Aziraphale had never heard it spoken like that. Like each syllable mattered in the whole of it. His eyes focused on him then, wishing he’d seen the way his name looked on his lips before he became too embarrassed by it. It was still his mouth he watched though, the expressive twitches easier to read than the sunglasses.

Did he want to know? Did it matter? In the shaping of his opinion of the man, Aziraphale didn’t think so. While there were a few jagged edges to him, a past he couldn’t quite escape from, there was also that bit of a genuinely good person he could see in between the cracks in his armor. The kind of person who would fix a clock for a child free of charge and lend his blazer to them for a game. The kind of person who would listen to someone else’s problems even when he had his own concerns, and still offer up suggestions, then not even mind when the suggestion wasn’t taken.

So no, it didn’t exactly matter when it came to that, but it did when he considered the plain and simple fact that he wanted to know everything there was to know about Anthony Crowley. He wanted to immerse himself in his story, chapter by chapter until he reached the end, then start all over again until the pages of him were worn and familiar. He wanted to memorize him, he wanted to learn something new every time he opened up. 

Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, I want to know everything about you. But wasn’t that just too much? Wasn’t that just a bit inappropriate?

Aziraphale cleared his throat, searching for another way to tell him that wasn’t so… much. “I think I rather do,” he spoke the words carefully. “If that’s alright.”

Crowley nodded, finishing up and offering the paperwork. “That offer to share some of your alcohol still up?” 

“Of course, yes.” Aziraphale took the folder back, tucking it against his chest. “Ah… perhaps once you’ve finished with your car, we can move our conversation inside and partake.”

Crowley smiled, the same slow one he'd given when the offer had first been made. “Right. Probably around lunch, then. We'll call it a special occasion.”

A shy glance was cast his way and he giddily wiggled where he stood. “Well, then. I believe I have a nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape that I like to save for such occasions,” he told him, as if it was some sort of secret, a guilty pleasure that only Crowley was privy to.

He laughed. “Alright, angel. I'll come find you after I'm done here?” 

“Yes, I’ll just take care of a few things in the shop. Get a wiggle on now.” Aziraphale gestured at the car as he shuffled towards the barn, trying to contain how flustered he was.

“Wot.”

“I’ll be in the shop. If you need anything,” he repeated, a little more careful and clear with his pronunciation.

“I heard that. It was the 'wiggle on.'” Crowley shook his head before it ducked beneath the hood again, a tool in hand and that hope fluttering fresh. 

Aziraphale tsked, shaking his own head at what he thought was a ridiculous thing for the man to fixate on. He still couldn’t quite erase the traces of his smile though, as he glanced over his shoulder at him while he headed into the shop. His hope fluttered, too.

He’d need to somehow scan Crowley’s paperwork to Gabriel, but that was a task for another day, he decided. Locking up his file with the other employees, Aziraphale smiled to himself as it fit in neatly right in front of Anathema’s alphabetically. The first one in the drawer now.

The fluttering feeling was suddenly met with a twinge of despair and frustration. He didn’t know the whole story - not yet - but he could only imagine how very much alone Crowley must have felt, wrongfully imprisoned. And the look on his face while Aziraphale helped him with his paperwork… it was like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Like he never thought someone would take a chance on him. Like whatever mistakes he’d made in his youth would forever haunt him, never to be forgiven.

 Well, he’d find out more soon, then perhaps they could toast to fresh starts and new beginnings. Hope for a man who’d had no one else on his side for years. Yes, they might do that. For now, he had some work of his own to occupy his mind and time.

He ducked into the house for a tick to decant the wine, letting it aerate properly before they indulged. A wine of that vintage needed to be appreciated, even if it was being used for day drinking. The least he could give Crowley was a good wine in this trying time. While he was at it, he prepared some light sandwiches for them to enjoy as well and tucked them away in the fridge.

When he returned to the barn, Aziraphale placed a guardstrip on his work table and set to work painting on his PVA adhesive to the endleaves he’d created for the book. The client had requested a lovely Victorian floral pattern in soft browns and olive tones that he had in stock, tipped together with a blank, eggshell coloured page that nearly matched the original pages. Once the front and rear blanks were attached to the endleaves, he trimmed it down to match the size of the text block exactly. His fingers caressed the edges like one would trace patterns into a lover’s skin, taking the time to make his marks perfect, each angle reminiscent of the book itself. Once the head and tail were perfect, he used his bone folder to press the crease of the additional pages to fit into the shoulder of the book’s spine. He found this kind of work relaxing, where his hands could keep busy in the familiar motions. 

He trimmed the fore edge once it was affixed to the spine, then sanded the corners so they rounded out like the text block. With a distressed marker and a damp cotton swab, he aged the new end bands before attaching them, so the stark newness of them wouldn’t stand out so much. No sudden white edges to distract from the comfortable cream the book had settled into. He cut a lovely gold ribbon and attached it to the head, to mark any favored stories in the future. More adhesive was painted along the spine and he used his bone folder to smooth out a new paper backing against the mull, protecting the threads and signatures beneath it.

While he waited for that to dry, he set about creating the new leather cover. He’d managed to find some that matched the original cover fairly well, not perfect, but still had the same general look and feel. It spoke to the contents of the book, which Aziraphale valued more than a perfect match. He’d listen to what the books would tell him, catching little ideas of what they wanted to look like when they couldn’t be salvageable.

By the time Crowley was wrapping up outside several hours later, Aziraphale had the new leather cut and neatly folded over the new boards and spine once they’d dried. The edges were trimmed to fit, everything smoothed down, so he placed it in the book press to ensure that it would hold its shape until he was ready for some of the detail work. Gold foil leaves would be stamped into the cover, and he’d trace the original lettering and image into the middle, to look as close to childhood memory as possible.

But that was for another day.

“You look a bit like you just came back down to Earth,” Crowley mused, drying his hands. Motor oil still clung to him beneath the scent of the handwash stocked in the bathroom. “Coming along alright?”

“Oh, yes. I think it’s turning out rather nicely.” Aziraphale made sure the press was tight and secure, the pages even and nothing protruding too terribly. He quickly tied some twine around the book’s spine to help guide the shape of it. “Now it just needs to rest for a bit.”

He turned to smile at him, gaze roving over him. In all black it was hard to tell, but there were some splotches of oil against his trousers and his shirt. Nothing too incriminating, and the freshly washed skin of his forearms was easily just as distracting. The fine red hairs dusted over them caught in the light of his skylight, drawing Aziraphale’s attention to the way his muscles pulled against his skin as he used the towel. The sharp points of his elbows were softened by the fabric bunched up in the crease of his arm, lithe and supple in his movements. Aziraphale was tempted to take a finger down the inside of his arm, trace the veins with the same care he’d shown the pages of his book.

But that was absolutely out of the question. A fleeting fancy. Not to mention wrong.

“How’s the car?” he asked, clearing his voice to keep it from cracking like a juvenile’s. He was nearly fifty years old, for Heaven’s sake.

“Started up as she should. I'll need to take her for a spin at some point, but all seems fine. Maybe next time, I'll take you somewhere further than the local pub.”

Sense of control only stretching so far, Aziraphale’s face lit up at the prospect. “Well, there’s a lovely Thai place the next town over. They have a very nice spread of tapas plates for lunch to nibble on and their squid is just heavenly, not to mention their black sesame ice cream. There’s also a charming sushi bar with an impressive selection of sake. Oh, and don’t get me started on the French-inspired bistro on the river. It doesn’t quite compare to actually eating in Paris, but it’s the closest one can get out here. They have crêpes!”

That word alone gave Crowley every bit of information he needed to know about the French-inspired bistro. “Then there are three places we'll have to go. When's the last time you were in Paris?” 

“Gosh. I’d have to say at least ten years ago now. I’ve always meant to go back, but…” Traveling alone was something he was rather used to, but the last time he’d been out of town, it struck him keenly, like a blunt punch to the stomach, how the sightseeing and the dining out and coming back to an empty hotel room had been severely lacking in something. While he enjoyed the freedom of choice, going and trying whatever he liked, the novelty could wear thin and soon enough he’d long for the comforts of his home, where he could be alone without judgment. “It’s just one of those things. Easy to put on hold. Now, let me just tidy up here, then we can have that drink.”

“Right.” Crowley leaned against Aziraphale's workbench and tucked the rag into his pocket. “Don't put it on pause forever, angel. If it's something you want, go.”

“Oh, it's not as serious as all that. I'm perfectly content and comfortable here at home,” he assured him as he puttered about, putting away his bone folder and cleaning the bristles of his brushes before setting them aside to dry. “It's an occasional thought I entertain from time to time, that's all.”

That wasn't what it had sounded like, but Crowley didn't push. At least not right away and not in a way that would seem like pushing. He watched him fuss with his equipment, cleaning and placing his tools away, scraps of material to be used on another project, and just said, “I've never been.”

Aziraphale made a curious sound, tugging on his waistcoat once he was satisfied by the state of his workspace and then looked to Crowley. “Well, you must go at some point. If not for the food, then for the art and architecture at least. With the right budgeting it doesn’t have to be too terribly expensive. Have you travelled anywhere else?” he asked as he led the way out of the shop, locking it up for the rest of the day.

“Nah. Wanted to, never had the chance. Anywhere besides Paris for you?”

“I’ve been up to Edinburgh. And does Wales count?”

“I'd say it does. Enjoy it?” 

“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale hummed, strolling with his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve been several times, actually, since it’s not all that far. Visited Cardiff, of course, and over to Pembrokeshire Coast, gorgeous views there. Absolutely breathtaking. And naturally I had to somehow make my way to- well, have you heard of that place in Wales with the very long name no one can say?” His chest puffed up a bit in pride, as if he was not one of those mere people who could not. 

“Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch?”

Aziraphale lost all traces of smugness as his lips parted and eyes rounded in awe. “You- you didn’t- how the devil do you know how to pronounce that?”

Crowley grinned, quick and wicked. “Oh, is it difficult?” 

“Yes, it is, as a matter of fact!” Aziraphale still appeared aghast - well, partly aghast and partly in glowing admiration. “Oh, you- you’re very wily, you know,” he tutted when he realized the teasing for what it was. 

“I do. And I take some pride in it. Spelling all that's another matter entirely, but...” He shrugged and stopped as they approached the farmhouse. “D'you really want to know why I can say it?” 

“Well- of course, my dear.” Aziraphale stopped as well, turning to wait for him.

“There was a new girl in my class when I was thirteen. She was from a near enough town and said she'd date whoever could pronounce it flawlessly. Nearly every bloke in class made an idiot of themselves trying.” Crowley's lips quirked. “It took a solid week and some help from my grandad, but it was worth every moment just to see her face when I told her I wasn't interested.”

Aziraphale gasped, a hand pressed over his heart as if this was happening to the girl at the very moment, but there was a hint of delight at the thought of such a determined young Crowley. “You didn’t. Crowley, how could you?” He shook his head, lips quirking up. “Were your peers impressed at least?”

“Course. Buncha twelve and thirteen year old brats? I was talk of the class for a week until everyone was on to the next thing.”

“Of course you were,” he tsked, but there was a fondness in his eyes before he continued on to the front door and held it open for him. “Ah, please excuse the- er… clutter, I suppose. Wasn’t prepared for entertaining.”

It was probably fine. Crowley just wanted to see how he lived, as curious about his home as he was anything else, so stepped inside.

Chapter Text

The front opened to a rather large foyer, though the stairs were crammed awkwardly in the corner. There was a rug on the ground that looked a bit like a compass, with North pointing to the front door, South to the sitting room visible through the archway straight ahead of them, West to the dining room through a second arch to their right, and East to a closed door and the awkward stairs on the left. Right by the door was a coat rack playing host to Aziraphale’s tan trench coat, a single hat that had once belonged to his grandfather, and a plethora of scarves. While this front room didn’t appear to have much in the way of clutter, the coffee table they could see from where they stood was covered with books, candles, mugs, a wine bottle, and other assorted bits and bobs. The dining table wasn’t much better.

“Let me just- oh…” Aziraphale decided on something with squared shoulders and bustled ahead to make space on the coffee table by moving books to another stack on the side table and carrying the mugs and empty bottle to the kitchen. “I’ll take care of this here, that should sort things out. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Right.” 

Crowley dropped down onto the couch, gazing at what he could of the sitting room. There just seemed to be things everywhere, odds and ends covering every surface. It was a lot for him to take in, his style minimalist even before prison. It was a touch overwhelming, but it wouldn't have been right had it seemed less lived in or classic. Warm colours and only a bit of sun peering in from heavily curtained windows let him slip off his sunglasses, tucking them in his shirt collar. The rich colours leaned towards muted and soft, from the exposed brick fireplace, wooden half-walls, and the patterned wallpaper that likely hadn't seen an update in the better part of a century. 

He looked over when Aziraphale bustled back in. Muted wasn't quite the right word for him, but soft certainly fit the bill. “This place suits you.”

“Oh, really?” He smiled as he set down two wine glasses atop antique glass coasters. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. It was my grandmother’s home, but I moved in when I took over the shop. It just made sense, you see.” Letting that hang, he disappeared back into the kitchen, returning with a decanter full of rich, red wine and a platter with the spread of smoked salmon and dill finger sandwiches that found a home on the coffee table as well. “I’m afraid I’m a bit peckish as well, but please, help yourself,” he offered, as he poured for them. “Anyway, it took a little while before I was comfortable making changes to her home, but- well, it’s mine now, isn’t it? Might as well make of it what I like.”

Deciding it would be smarter to avoid drinking on an empty stomach, Crowley plucked up a sandwich. “I felt the same with the Bentley. When I swapped the radio and redid the engine, every part made me wonder if there was a way to keep it.”

“Well, it certainly looks like you’ve done your best to keep it in tip-top condition. You’ve obviously put your heart and soul into it.” Aziraphale pulled up a chair, so he could sit mostly facing Crowley, rather than both on the sofa, side by side. “It was still waiting for you when… when you were released?”

“It's alright, angel. It's not a subject you have to dance around. But, yeah, still was only because she was considered evidence. Damn solicitor would've sold her in a heartbeat otherwise.” Crowley shrugged, plucking up his wine and reclining comfortably. “Hastur and Ligur were part of the...” How to describe them? Group, cult, wannabe demons? “The, ah, gang I used to be in. They'd robbed a home and snuck some of her things in the boot when I wasn't paying attention. That and their word was the only evidence against me at trial, but it stuck. I had a history, no alibi, and a wretched solicitor.”

Aziraphale sat up straighter, forehead creased as he picked up his own glass. “Well, that's no reason to assume it was you. How dare they. That's hardly anything to go off of. I mean, did they even properly frame you? Were your fingerprints on the stolen items or your DNA left at the scene of the crime?” 

Crowley's smile was entirely too fond, but he didn't quite know how to temper it. No one had ever so immediately been in his corner before. Not in any recent memories. “They're not smart enough to properly frame anyone on their own, so no. If my DNA had been anywhere, I'd still be in prison. And no fingerprints either. I never let any of them touch the Bentley and I had no idea they'd brought that poor woman's stuff into my flat. It was probably Ligur who tossed her things into the boot while I was trying to keep Hastur from touching anything or sitting anywhere. He was always disgusting.”

Aziraphale scoffed, very much offended on his behalf, and took a fortifying sip of his wine. That smoothed out some of the frown lines, his attention briefly drifting to the satisfying sensation of good wine on his tongue. He set the glass aside, selecting a sandwich before he indulged too much and continued the conversation.

“Then it sounds like law enforcement wanted an easy, open and shut case. Your solicitor really must have been wretched then. Can't believe they'd let a couple of felons gift wrap their evidence for them. It's just not right. Oh, I hope you don't mind gravlax and dill. It's not to everyone's taste. I should have asked.”

“S'fine, angel.” He would never survive a prison canteen, and it was ridiculously charming that his enjoyment of the food would even be a concern, considering the topic at hand. “Where were you and all this righteousness for my trial?” 

“Depends on what day it was. I might have been at my book club. Can't have missed that.” Aziraphale couldn't help a bit of a wry smile before it faded into something more concerned. “I'm sorry you didn't have anyone to fight for you, Crowley.”

“Oh, I haven’t had anyone for that since I was fourteen, and I stopped looking for it a long time ago.” 

Aziraphale’s face fell and he had to take another sip of wine. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still sorry to hear it,” he replied softly, eyes as gentle as the way he swirled his wine in the glass.

Crowley couldn't hold his gaze, instead looking to his own glass. He swirled it carefully and took a sip, holding it on his tongue to let the flavors sink in. He didn’t know what to do with that sort of look. “It... Yeah. It's turning out alright, though. Just taking some time.”

“Well, that's good at least. And you did eventually get your freedom back. A little justice in the end. Did those dastardly demons end up atoning for their crimes behind bars, do you know?” 

“Last I heard, Hastur had gone and killed his cellmate. And Ligur didn’t get his parole last year, so he’s likely going to do something similar if he hasn’t yet. Has a problem with shivs, Ligur.” He glanced back up. Those were the sort he was used to, that life. Not whatever was happening in this quiet place. “They’re not the sort for atonement.”

“I see.” Aziraphale sipped at his wine thoughtfully. “Well, I do believe everyone has the opportunity to atone and seek forgiveness, even if it's not in their nature. A second chance, if you will. Perhaps one day they'll see the error of their ways. Then again, it is hard to come back from, er, murder.”

It wasn’t in their nature. They’d always been the most dangerous of the group, too impulsive and too committed to being the worst of the worst. Hastur didn’t have the intelligence to seek any sort of forgiveness anyway, and Ligur didn’t have the desire. They were on a fast track to a Hell they wholeheartedly believed in. 

Sure, they’d spared him tales of murder, one could argue there was some decency in that, but the courts hadn’t. They knew he’d find out eventually. He’d probably see that poor old woman in his mind’s eye for the rest of his life. The pair of them had always liked knives and flames. 

He didn’t want to tell Aziraphale that, though. He didn’t want to tell him much of anything. Could he really be blamed for not exactly being clear?

Sighing, he took another drink. “It’s what all three of us were locked up for. They killed a woman who unfortunately came home while they were emptying it, and it wasn’t... It wasn’t entirely unexpected. They always had a weapon or two on them, always talked about it, and the only reason it took so long is that Hastur’s an idiot and Ligur’s easily reasoned with. Honestly, the only reason any of the others ever bothered talking them out of it was to avoid the massive amounts of evidence they’d be dumb enough to leave behind. Luci wanted more money and a bigger network before he started losing followers to prison. He was trying to build himself a little criminal, Satan-worshipping... mnggh, cult.”

“Oh… Oh dear. That poor woman...” Aziraphale paused in the middle of reaching for another sandwich, eyes wide as he stared at Crowley. “They killed her and pinned that on you, too? Just to rob her home?”

“I don't think the original plan was to pin it on me. They wouldn't have thought that far ahead even though Ligur always thought he was one step ahead of everyone. Dropping some things on me was probably just... convenient. The only reason my name even came up was, y'know, I was a known associate. All that bollocks. Police suddenly show up at my flat, search everything, surprise in the Bentley, and to interrogation I went. The two of them got deals. Probation hearing at fourteen years if they rolled on me because they had nothing. And I would've had to wait another bloody decade.” Frustration rolled through him, stiffening his shoulders and the set of his jaw. “It was- It was just complete shit, start to finish.”

Aziraphale topped off Crowley’s wine for him. He looked like he’d need it. “A complete nightmare,” he agreed, adding a little to his own glass, too, before setting aside the decanter. “It must have been terrifying. Just awful. And to be associated with such a crime… while they get to look like the cooperative ones.” Aziraphale frowned into his glass. “Perhaps I’ll take back what I said about second chances for them.”

Anger shifted so abruptly to amusement that Crowley couldn't help the little bubble of a laugh. He just sounded so miffed about it. “Personally, I'd be alright if they rotted. I was never above causing trouble with them - you must've realized that by now - but there was always a line.”

“Well,” Aziraphale shifted in his seat as he weighed his thoughts against whether or not he should speak them, if he’d be struck down for them, gaze flicking up momentarily, “a little bit of mischief doesn’t hurt. And sometimes temptations can be… great. To cause trouble. But the fact that you acknowledge there’s a line, I think that only goes to show that there’s a little bit of a good person in you. Underneath all that… swagger.” 

Both brows lifted as he took a sip of wine. “Swagger.”

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.” Aziraphale gestured to his entire person, as if that said it all.

“S'pose that's fair enough.” Crowley briefly tipped his head in acknowledgement. He'd just call himself trouble, but he'd take swagger as a compliment. “I never went into anyone's home and I definitely never killed anyone. Never even carried a weapon. There wasn't a point.” He didn't know why he kept going, why he wanted to tell Aziraphale things he'd never said aloud, but something in him just wanted it out. Something in him wanted Aziraphale to understand him, to know him. If he wanted to think there was some good, he had to know there was plenty of bad. 

“There are things I wouldn't take back, y’know. Illegal or not, there was fun in a lot of it. There was fun in the challenge. I was fifteen and we were ditching school the first time we robbed a place. They'd been doing things like that for a while, but I was brand new. They were taking posters they liked off walls and grabbing a safe they found in the back, and Beelzebub - not their real name, mind - showed me how to crack open a cash register. I spilled some coins on the counter and superglued some of them down. Not all of them, but enough to be annoying. 

“When we were in the back, wrestling with a cash machine, some worker returned from lunch, and weapons came out. They all had knives, but Luci... He had some old handgun. I'd never seen one outside of old movies. Hastur tried to give me some old switchblade and I backed away from him so fast, I found myself right in the open and I just started talking. Talked this fierce looking bloke right out of phoning emergency while everyone legged it out the back, and I followed soon as I could. From there, I ended up being lookout or the distraction anytime we’d break into a place or just do something stupid. The driver once they found out I could do that. We had a system.

“‘Cept I'd usually split when Luci or Bee started talking about something I didn't want any part of, stay away until they'd find me. I'd get pulled back in.” When the loneliness seeped into his bones and the promises were for “just a bit of mischief.” Nothing too serious. It was never too serious to start. “I was almost away from them for good, Aziraphale. I was so fucking close. I’d gotten enough clients to have actual money set aside so I could get the Hell out of London, change my number, and never have to deal with any of them again. I’d just sold off the second car I had because the Bentley was finally ready to go, my lease was about up on my flat, and... I had plans. I was almost there. They just had to drag me down one more time.”

When you start to stitch yourself back together, they're scissors. Crowley’s words from the day before reverberated within him as he listened to his story. Beneath the frustration and the bitterness was an undercurrent of blame. He blamed himself - loathed himself for it - like he’d known better. Or should’ve known better.

But it sounded like they’d been all he had, Aziraphale reflected. They might not have been good friends, but they’d been his. They gave him a place to belong. And, oh, Aziraphale was no stranger to not belonging somewhere. Sometimes one could do the stupidest things to ensure they could continue to have some little space carved out for themselves, somewhere in the world.

He wished he’d taken the seat beside Crowley, if only so he could lay a reassuring touch against his knee, let him know that he understood, a little bit, of where he was coming from. Maybe not the… criminal piece of it, but the rest of it. Instead, he leaned forward a bit in his chair, his attention singularly fixed on Crowley.

“But it was the last time,” he reminded him gently. “You’re on your way now. Perhaps to a new plan. I know it might not seem like much compared to the years you lost, but you have so much more ahead of you, my dear. I can tell.”

“It was definitely the last time. I don’t think the other three would dare trying to find me now.” Crowley focused on him instead of his steadily emptying glass. “And just the chance of having something of a future is more than I had a few months ago. So far, it’s alright.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted. “High praise,” he murmured, teasing him. “‘Alright.’ Perhaps a bit more optimism?”

“‘Alright’ is optimism. I’ve been out three months and these are the first few days that haven’t been suffocatingly bad.”

“Well, we’ll just have to change that then. Set the bar a bit higher than suffocatingly bad and work our way up,” he replied decisively, pleased enough to indulge in another little sandwich. “Might take a miracle or two, but I believe we’ll have you better than ‘alright’ before you can say ‘tickety-boo.’”

Lips twitching despite himself, Crowley shook his head. “I’ll never say that, so you’ve plenty of time.”

Aziraphale simply wiggled with delight at the perceived challenge. Well, two challenges. One being to give Crowley a new lease on life, and the other to get him to say ‘tickety-boo.’ The latter might need more miracles, but Aziraphale was a faithful man. 

“First things first, we’ll need to find you proper lodging. The library the next town over has computers much faster than mine, you could possibly use those to search for any adverts on flats for let,” he suggested between bites. “That might be a decent test run for your Bentley. I’ll also poke around a bit at the church. See what people know about any nearby properties coming available. I meant to ask at the service this morning, but I also didn’t want to keep you waiting just in case you showed up before brunch.”

“Well, y’know, we didn’t really talk about a time last night, so I just assumed same as it’s been.” Though he really should’ve expected that Aziraphale would spend his Sunday mornings at the church in town. It just wasn’t his scene for several reasons. “You could've stayed a bit if you'd wanted. I obviously had company.”

“Well, I didn’t know that. Besides, it’s rude for a host to offer someone the use of their property and then not even be present.” He adjusted his bowtie pointedly, ignoring the flush that threatened to creep into his cheeks. He’d been excited to see Crowley, had barely waited until they’d been dismissed to go in peace and love and serve the Lord.

“S'pose so.” Crowley relaxed as he watched him fiddle with his tartan bowtie and drink from his glass. Aziraphale was fussy, but in a particular way Crowley wanted to puzzle out. There was quite a bit he wanted to puzzle out, especially now that he'd said things he'd never told anyone before. He'd admitted that he'd spent a very large chunk of his life as a thief and general scoundrel, yet Aziraphale had moved right on to first things first. Still helping and so very determined to make his life better somehow.

Crowley tapped on the stem of his glass as he considered the offer he wanted to make. It was a small thing, on the surface, to offer someone a lift, but to offer someone a lift in his Bentley? To want someone else in his beloved car? He could've blamed it on the wine, the way it was already making his blood swim, but that wasn't really the truth. That wasn't what made him say, “Come with me tomorrow? I could use someone who knows where the library is. We'll do lunch.”

“Oh, well I-” Aziraphale didn't quite know what to do with his hands then, as his heart fluttered hopefully, and settled with twisting his wine glass delicately by the stem. It was the way Crowley watched him, attentive to his every move even as he lounged like he belonged on his sofa with its tartan throw pillows, cataloging it away for something. Or maybe a little bit like savouring a person like one would a fine wine or dessert, experiencing them. “That sounds lovely. I'd be happy to accompany you if you haven't tired of my presence already.” He hoped he was on the money with that assessment.

“Not yet, angel.” It was just nice to actually be interested in and curious about someone. Someone decent. “I think I might be making better choices in who I spend my time with.”

“Well, if you need an angel on your shoulder to balance out the devil,” he teased with a light laugh in an attempt to do something with the giddiness that inspired. “I must say I’m very much interested in expanding my social circle as well, and I’ve enjoyed your company thus far.”

Crowley smiled that slow, slow smile, but his eyes weren't covered this time. They glinted with mirthful mischief and something... extra. “Missing some demonic intervention in your life, are you?” 

He nearly melted into his own sweet smile before the words caught up to him, sugar spun delight shifting to something a bit more scandalized so he wouldn’t have to think too hard on the way his smile stirred something in him. Temptation incarnate. “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he coughed, then cleared his throat and took a fortifying drink of wine. “More like, missing the opportunity to- to- er… do some good deeds. As it were. Make a difference in someone’s life for the good- the better,” he corrected clumsily. “Though I suppose your silver tongue was quite helpful in determining how I should handle Gabriel, so perhaps I am a bit lacking in… something.”

“I wouldn't call you lacking, but I wouldn't mind being the devil on your shoulder if you're going to be the angel on mine. I like listening to you.” Which, oddly, was the most embarrassing thing he'd said aloud that afternoon. Definitely the wine coming into play. He blinked, long and slow, and tried to pretend he wasn't starting to feel tipsy. “Will you still complain about them to me when they upset you?” 

More than willing to agree at first, Aziraphale hesitated and gave it a second thought. “Ah… I'm not entirely sure that would be appropriate. Given that you'd be an employee. I wouldn't want to trouble you or cause you unease in the workplace…”

Crowley's fingers flexed on the glass. He didn’t want to just be an employee. He didn't quite know what he wanted, but employee seemed like a step backwards. “I'd rather know than wonder. That'd trouble me more than listening to you.”

Aziraphale dropped his gaze, lips pursed as he considered that. It was already a bit too late to pretend like things were smooth sailing between him and Gabriel. Sandalphon, Uriel, and Michael, too, when she felt like getting involved. Oh, he hoped Michael didn't. She was a solicitor herself, specializing in proprietorships and only got involved when Aziraphale had legal questions. Or when Gabriel felt like using her to explain things to him. But she did have quite the knack for sussing things out, reading fine print, and investigating loopholes. Luckily she was stationed in London and had many more pressing and up-and-coming clients than the little family-run repair shop in Oxfordshire. 

No, she never really took an interest in anything they did out here. She and Uriel both more or less left things to Gabriel. 

In any case, he'd already given Crowley a peek at their rocky dynamic. And his input had been valuable. It felt… so freeing to be able to confide in someone. In someone who listened and cared even if it was all silly in the end.

“You make a fair point,” he conceded. “Alright. As long as it's not during active business hours, in front of the others, I suppose it couldn't hurt. I don't want to stir up any gossip, especially not around Sergeant Shadwell. You've already gotten a taste of what he can be like. The last thing we need is him organizing a one-man witch hunt against Gabriel next time he pops in.”

It just gave him an excuse to stay late or go to lunch with him, so Crowley nodded. Maybe a little bit longer than necessary, but his brain was definitely swimming in wine. He tried a little harder to pretend it wasn't. That Aziraphale hadn’t started to slur his words a little. “Easy enough. He come 'round often?” 

“No, not usually. He’s a management analyst, you see, so he does consulting work for other businesses. He’s often travelling between New York, London, Cardiff, and Edinburgh, working with clients. A little repair shop in the country doesn’t take up too much of his time. Mostly we converse via telephone or… email, as he prefers. He really only plans to stop by about once a quarter, to go over profits and such. To be quite honest, I feel like all the pomp and circumstance is a little much for the kind of operation we’re running, but it is what he’s used to for clientele that expect a certain caliber of service.” Aziraphale poured a bit more for himself, then for Crowley to finish off what they had in the decanter. He stood to fetch another bottle, Crowley watching him take very measured steps, and picked something already open and in need of finishing before it went off… a Malbec. He uncorked it and set it on the coffee table, just in case. “However, he does make… surprise visits. Pops in unannounced if he’s on his way to Cardiff.”

The little pause told him everything he needed to know, tipsy or not. Gabriel probably threw everything off balance in the process, offered unwelcome and uninformed opinions since he'd know nothing about the day-to-day. It was easy to see that he likely got Aziraphale all riled up in the process. A surprising protective urge pulled at him, but he blamed the unusual feeling on the wine. Too much, too fast when he wasn't used to drinking in vast quantities anymore and had barely eaten. “Sounds like a... Ngk. A prat, but I'll do my best to behave.”

Head listing to the side just a little, Aziraphale made a humming sort of noise of agreement, then blushed at what he was agreeing to. “Yes, well, I do appreciate any efforts to behave around him. I know it takes all my self-control at times,” he let slip, the alcohol combined with being on a roll now leaving him a little more loose-lipped. “And don't get me started on Sandalphon. Thinks he's so clever just because he's an accountant and makes a lot of money. He'll stop by too, on occasion. Not, ah, not as of’en as Gabriel and never without him though.” Aziraphale nearly shuddered at the thought. “Always wants to double check my books. The ones with numbers in them, that is, not the ones I fix up.”

“Accountants,” Crowley muttered, forgetting to pretend he wasn't tipsy. “What's- euugh, what's so wonderful about bloody maths, anyway? I hated every second of it in school.”

“As did I. Completely uninspired.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then gestured broadly with his glass as he backtracked. Wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “Though s'pose I didn’t mind the theorems as much. You know, when they used…words. Words. To explain the reasons behind the numbers. At least made it a bit more interesting.”

Crowley tipped his head, considering him with eyes that were starting to blur at the edges. “Did you know that you're allowed to just... not like something? Without, ah, hnn, qualifiers?” 

“'Course I do.” Aziraphale sat up a bit more in his seat, feeling as though he were starting to slouch. The slurring was harder to control. “I dislike some things on principle alone. Obviously. Everyone does. For instance, I dislike it when people fold over the corners of a book to mark their page, instead of using a bookmark. No, ah, no qualifiers there, m’dear.”

“S'pose not.” Crowley swirled his glass, nursing this one. Not eating more had definitely been a bad decision. His tongue felt too thick in his mouth, lisp threatening as he controlled each word. But at least he wasn't the only one tipsy. Or maybe they were more drunk at this point. “What else?” 

“Mmf. Gabriel’s ridiculous scarf. He wears it all year ‘round, even when it’s- s’not cold out. Thinks it makes him ‘high fashion.’” Aziraphale shook his head, a little more effort needed than normal to keep from wobbling too much as the two glasses of wine started to settle in his bloodstream, slowing it all down, and still took another drink. “And the current fashion industry, for another. Wasteful. All this focus on lots of cheap, trendy things that rip and tear and need to be thrown out in a year’s time. D’you know? Did you know, Crowley, that I’ve kept my coat- that coat, right there, on the- the uh, coat rack. I kept it in tip-top condition for twenty-five years. First nice coat I ever bought.”

Crowley nodded a little too long once again before remembering to reply. Bad, bad decision. On both their parts. He, too, still took another drink. “S'a nice coat. Beige like, ah, your, wnngle, waistcoat. You look good in neutral colours like that. This.”

“Oh. Oh, well thank you.” Aziraphale very carefully didn't spill as he looked down at his waistcoat, as if he'd forgotten what he'd been wearing. “You really think so? Not too lacklis- lucklast- er… plain?” 

“Nah.” On anyone else, probably. Old-fashioned and dull on anyone else, but it looked right on Aziraphale. Fussy, but a little messy in the stress points by the buttons and interesting with the gold chain of his pocketwatch. Admittedly a touch ridiculous with the tartan bowtie. 

He still liked it. He liked looking at him. Attraction had never been something Crowley thought very hard about, realizing early that he’d like whoever he liked, but Aziraphale was different. As far away from his usual type as could be, but telling himself that only made him more interested. It was a lie anyway. 

The need to both deny himself and reassure Aziraphale made his tongue slip. “I like that you’re sssoft.”

A ruddy flush blossomed on his cheeks, a bit from the wine and a bit from the pleasure of being something Crowley liked. He’d been called soft in the past, but as a criticism. Soft on customers who couldn’t pay for their restorations in full. Soft around the middle. Never soft as a compliment.

He found that he quite liked soft as a compliment, especially when Crowley let the adjective slip across his tongue in a contented hiss. “Oh, well… that’s very nice of you to say. I quite like all your… black and angles. Suits you. In a nice way.”

His nose wrinkled and he swayed a little, somehow not spilling what was left of his wine. “M’not nice.” It wasn’t a safe thing to be. Maybe it was here with Aziraphale, but it wasn’t something he was used to being and certainly not something he was used to being called. “M’just...” He waved a hand, making a wordless noise as if that would explain it away.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale filled in the blank with a sound that was almost a giggle. “Oh, you’re right, dear, that does suit much better than nice.”

“Ngk,” he managed, not nearly drunk enough to not be startled by the cheerful compliment. As if it would somehow help, he took a gulp of wine. Aziraphale just looked so ridiculously proud of himself. “That- You’re- Sss’not fair to say things like that when m’already muddled.”

“Mm. Suppose so,” he agreed, smile still smug. “Muddled already? S’only one bottle. Oh. Sandwiches. Have another sandwich, Crowley. It helps.” He nudged the plate towards him, taking another for himself while he was at it.

It was Aziraphale's fourth or fifth to Crowley’s one. He'd lost track. He took one, doubting it would help overmuch at this point. Aziraphale certainly wasn't sober after half a bottle of wine and several delicate sandwiches deep. And he'd probably eaten breakfast. 

This was a very good wine. 

“My liver's not used to it anymore, is all. And I only really get the lisssp back when I'm getting drunk.”

Well then, they’d clearly have to make a habit of drinking together. It was a charming little thing. “I like it,” he told him with all the confidence only half a bottle of wine could instill in him. “No need to be shelf-cons… self- oh bugger. Embarrassed about it. Not around me anyway.”

“M'not,” he lied, promptly realizing it wasn't a lie at all. Aziraphale liked his stupid lisp. “You've probably never bullied anybody for anything in your whole life. You- I'd wager you keep all your judgy thoughts to yourself.” Crowley nodded his head in a way that might've been considered wise if it weren't quite so sloppy. “Like I don’t think Gabriel knows you don't like his ssstupid scarf.”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale waved off the notion with his hand, wrist limp and the gesture more like he was slapping away a dead fish. “S’rude, my dear boy. I don’ want to upset him. He likes his scarf, like I like my- my… my bowtie.”

“Bowtie's more... sss'better than a scarf.” As much as Crowley’s tipsy brain wanted to heap compliments onto Aziraphale and never stop (sober him did too, but understood restraint), there was one thing that was just silly. “Why tartan?” 

Well, that explanation was quite simple, even while a little tipsy. “Tartan's stylish.”

Crowley stared at him for a few seconds, almost imperceptibly shaking his head. “Really isn’t.”

“It is so,” Aziraphale huffed petulantly, then finished his glass, poured himself another. “And I like it.”

Maybe fussy wasn’t the right word for him. Particular might be better. Rather than continue to bicker about whether or not it was stylish - he was certain Aziraphale would find some book somewhere that would back him up - he just accepted it was part of his particular style. The couch pillows were covered in it and he was sure there’d be more if he got up and looked. Getting up likely wasn’t the best idea, though. His legs would probably wobble like a newborn foal’s. “S’fine. D’you have secrets? You’ve learned a buncha mine. Sss’your turn.”

“Secrets?” The word fell from his lips as if it were something scandalous in and of itself, then his eyes narrowed as he peered at Crowley. “What sort of secrets?”

“I don’t know much about you yet, angel. Most everything counts as a sssecret.”

Aziraphale shook his head, but stopped when it made him a bit too dizzy. “No. I don’t have any secrets. ‘M an open book.”

“Mm... Nope. You seem like it, but you’re not.” Crowley’s wine was empty, but he tipped the unrelinquished glass towards him. “You can talk for hours and hours and hours and hours about books and food and...” He glanced at his glass, considered the quality. “Probably about wine. But not about you.”

“Well, that’s-” Aziraphale also considered Crowley’s wine glass, finding it easier to stare at that than at the man’s face. “Well, those’re all things I like, so they’re all part of what makes me… me. I think.” He wasn’t sober enough to fully cope with the thought that there wasn’t much more to him than that. “When you’ve lived alone s’long as I have, that’s all you have. Things.”

It took a few seconds for Crowley’s sluggish brain to catch up with the knee-jerk empathy, but he understood that kind of loneliness. “What d’you want? Tha’sss not things.”

Aziraphale met his gaze then, blue eyes bright with a glassy sheen born from the blend of alcohol and too much thinking. What did he want? Well, it was really rather silly, wasn’t it? It made him smile, though there wasn’t much humor to it. It wasn’t that kind of silly. 

“I want to… experience the world. But not all at once. More like… picnics.” He sat back in his chair with a sigh. “In a verdant bower. Trips to the coast or the lake district, taking the slow, winding paths through the hills. A stroll through Buscot Park in springtime. Seeing a show in the West End and dining at the Ritz. And then…” A long sigh escaped him as his gaze roved over the room. “And then coming home. S’always nice to come back to something familiar at the end of it all. I want to experience the world like that.”

“Like a romantic,” Crowley mused, watching him look around as if he really was just coming home to it. He didn't know that he understood that sort of desire. There had never been a home for him to come back to. “Sounds idyllic.”

“Yes, it does, rather,” he murmured. “But only if…” Aziraphale caught himself, this time the colour in his cheeks all embarrassment as he took another drink. “Doesn’t matter. It is idyllic, yes. Pure poetry.”

He couldn't stop there, Crowley too curious and a little too gone to know better. “If what?” 

“It’s silly, really,” he assured him with a slur.

“Sssay it anyway. I won't rag on you for it.” 

Aziraphale sighed, looking as put upon as if Crowley had literally twisted his arm to convince him. “It’s only just- it wouldn’t be nearly as idyllic without…” His tongue felt heavy and dry as he dilly-dallied, then swallowed and said, “Without someone to share it all with.” He looked away from Crowley, twisting his ring clumsily. “S’a ridiculous sentiment for a man my age. M’too soft.”

“Nah, I think you're just the right amount of soft. Not ridiculousss either. Being alone is fucking...” It was a lot of things, but words fled as he waved a hand and made incomprehensible noises. “It's dull, to start. Bottom of your ssscale is bebop, but mine's boredom."

The noises and flailing cheered Aziraphale up a bit from his inebriated funk. He managed a smile as he considered that. “What’s at the top?”

“Ssstars,” he decided without hesitation. “Your scale was all... allit- allit-ah... Both B's, but I like stars.”

“Stars?” Aziraphale echoed, watching him curiously.

“Yeah. Layin' out in that verdant bower and pickin' out all the consss- conssst... pictures. Takin' a drive away from London so you can see 'em all. Not bein' in a- a box of a room with no window. Stars. Whenever I want.” Crowley nodded to himself, pleased with his own answer. “Think you're closer to ssstars than boredom.”

Stars. There was a hitch in Aziraphale’s breath, easily masked as a drunken hiccup. He wobbled between aching for the man who’d been deprived of something so many people took for granted every day and swooning over him. It was sweet and gentle, stars not at all what he was expecting, but suited him just the same.

“Stars are lovely,” he sighed, smile soft as he watched Crowley preen. “Stult’fication. That’s uh… that’s a word for boredom. If you want words with ‘n S on your scale.” 

He couldn't get through the first syllable, so ended up just nodding. “I'll ask you later when we're sssober.”

“Mm. Sober, right.” Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, nodding a little longer than was strictly necessary before pushing himself up out of his chair. He wobbled unsteadily, hands braced on the arms of the chair for support until he trusted himself to keep from tumbling over. “Have 'nother sandwich, dear boy. It'll help. I'll get us some water. And tea.”

“Mmhm.” He picked up a sandwich, setting his glass on the coffee table. “You- When you said you only have a drink with lunch on special occasions, I think you were lying.”

Aziraphale stumbled into a tea cart he was using as an end table, righting the antique set resting atop it. “Er… Well, that's… 'Course not. Lying, me? That's…no. Eat your sandwich.” He wagged a finger at him before ducking into the kitchen. “Wily old serpent.”

Definitely lying, he decided with a smile. Crowley pulled off his boots and settled himself more snuggly in the corner of the couch, feet tucked under himself like a child or, more accurately, like an adult who didn't quite know how sitting worked. He took the water and arthrofen offered, both defenses against a potential evening hangover, then took Aziraphale's wrist before he could return to the chair. He looked up at him, then the space on the couch beside him. “Sssit.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” Aziraphale glanced down at the long fingers curled around his wrist, the hold loose enough that he could break it if he wanted to, but still a signal that Crowley wanted him beside him. It made him feel just as warm as the wine, a pleasant heat simmering in his chest. He settled against the opposite end of the couch, straight backed only while he took a long drink of his own water, then his body gave up and eased back into a comfortable slouch. “S'been a while since I've sampled this p'ticular vintage. Forgot how it just… hits you.” There was a delay when he batted his thigh with his fist. 

“Little sssweet. That's always... a thing.” And they'd certainly had too much, too fast. “S'fine. It was good. 'Nother favor I'll owe you.”

Aziraphale grinned at him. “For getting you drunk?” 

He returned the grin. “Yes. An'm only sssome drunk, not completely. Only a little bit o' this is gonna be embarrassing.”

“Ah. Well, good. Don' want you so embarrassed that you'll just… slither away and hide. S'nice. The drinking and the conserv- convo- all the talking. I like talking with you.”

“Then I won't ssslither away. Can't disappoint when you're interesting.”

Aziraphale laughed, more freely than he might’ve if not for the wine, but the delight that shone in his eyes when he looked at Crowley was very much the same as it had been since he first let him into the shop. “I’ll do what I can to keep you,” he said, a bit of a delay between that and his hurried, “Interested! Do what I can to keep you interested, my dear. Oh… need to drink more water, yes.” The coolness of the water did nothing to assuage the heat in his cheeks.

Crowley took a drink to hide his own smile, but his eyes betrayed his amused fondness. “You're gonna be embarrassed,” he teased. “S'not gonna keep you from drinking with me more, is it?” 

Aziraphale hummed, shaking his head after hardly a second of thought. “Don't think so. I think so far the perks of drinking together outweigh the… the uh… Not-perks. The cons.”

“Good. You- There haven't been any cons f'r me.” Aziraphale was very expressive after a few drinks. He was anyway, but Crowley was happy to look his fill. 

And Aziraphale was happy to let him. “Neither… er. Nor for me.” He raised his water glass as if to toast to that, then perked up as the kettle whistled in the kitchen. “Good, yes. I'll get the tea. Don't fret, dear. I'll be right back.” He gave Crowley's arm a clumsy pat, since he couldn't quite reach his knee with the way he'd curled up. “You look very comfy.”

He hadn't been fretting, but the touch distracted him, gaze lingering on his own arm. “Mmhm. S'a good couch.”

“It is.” Aziraphale looked pleased by it, as if it had done its very best to serve him well over the years. “Right. Tea.” He pushed himself up, a little steadier this time around, knowing how to compensate for his center of gravity being off. 

The caffeine would help to stave off any possible hangovers as well, an Earl Grey with just the splash of milk. One he made in his usual angel wing mug - he'd seen it in a shop once on holiday and just liked the look of it - and the other was a relatively normal mug, save for the tartan print decorating it that matched the cushions and his bowtie. It was this mug that he handed to Crowley, saving the awkward winged mug for himself. He knew just how to cradle it to make it the most comfortable.

“Here you go. We'll be right as rain in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He settled beside Crowley on the sofa yet again, a little closer to the center this time, and quietly pondered why it was a lamb whose tail was picked for that idiom. He'd have to look it up if he remembered.

Crowley studied the tartan pattern with some amusement, taking a sip before resting his cheek against the back of the couch to study Aziraphale instead. He had a nice profile, he decided, wondering if his nose had that extra bump from a break or genetics. He also wondered what Aziraphale would do if he reached out and brushed a thumb over the crow's feet stamped at the corner of his eye, if he leaned close and let his lips press against a spot just behind his ear that looked very tempting. He followed the line of his jaw when Aziraphale lifted his mug, watching his Adam's apple bob above his collar as he swallowed tea. His mouth wanted to follow that line too. 

The space between them remained, though. Crowley was far from drunk enough to try any of that. He slid his gaze up to his hair instead, safer despite the way it made his fingers itch. They were at least occupied. “Compared you to a lamb. At first. 'Cause o'your curlsss.” 

Aziraphale touched his hair curiously. “It is quite curly,” he mused, never having thought of the comparison himself. “But you called me n'angel. Not lamb.”

“Mmhm. Fit better.” Crowley's gesture tried to encompass all of him. “More.”

His smile turned soft, almost sappily so. “Well, I try to be a- a good person. S'nice that you think it… suits me.”

“Course it does. You haven't done anythin' to prove it wrong. 'Ssspecially not today.” He wasn't sure if getting drunk midday on a Sunday was classically angelic, but it was perfectly suitable in his opinion. He wasn't the sort of angel who was too good for the world. “You follow through.”

“Why wouldn’t I? If I’m going t’offer my assisis… help to someone, then of course I should follow through.” He nodded, his attempt to appear stern falling flat on its face before rolling down a hill. “Besides, in your case, you did bugger all, my dear boy. To get arrested I mean. Aside from hanging ‘round the wrong people, but that’s- s’hardly a mistake to hold over the rest of your life.”

“To you 'cause you're n'angel. Most people wouldn't an' you know it.” Especially knowing he'd been a criminal besides. He'd been told the years were just payback for all the things he'd never been caught at, which seemed very unfair. Crowley reached out to touch Aziraphale's shoulder since he was closer. It was intended as a quick pat, but lingered when he discovered the waistcoat was softer than expected. “Part of why you're in'eresssting.”

Aziraphale stared at his hand for a good long moment, nearly completely distracted by it. “Mmhm,” he hummed distantly, then flicked his gaze back to Crowley’s warm, golden ones. “I mean, no. Er. To what you said ‘bout most people. I think most people would help if given the chance,” he continued protesting. “People… people are good. At the- um… at their- their something. The center of them. The core. But they’re scared, too. Scared of so much. So scared, sometimes it overshadows the good.”

They could probably argue over that for hours, but it wasn't what Crowley wanted to focus on. “D'you ever get scared like that?” 

“I s’pose I must do.” He lounged against the back of the sofa as he sighed, an example coming to his mind straightaway. “I don’t speak up ‘gainst Gabriel because of it. Part of it’s because he’s family and you can’t just… not do what you’re told when it’s family, but some of it… Well, some of it’s because I’m afraid if I say anything they’ll go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

Crowley left his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, frowning at the words. “When I had family, s'not how it worked and you're not ignorable.”

That wrung a smile out of him, then he shifted his grip on his mug so he could place his hand over Crowley’s. “Thank you, dear. That’s nice of you to say, but it’s true. Might not be how families work, but ’s how mine does. Or did. All except for my great-aunt. Didn’t even talk to my grandmother much, don’t know how she rem’bered to put me in the will.” 

There’d only been one memorable occasion in his youth, where she’d gifted him an antique wooden toy sword she’d refinished. It was during his first few weeks in Oxfordshire. Though he’d never been the sort of child who rough-housed with weaponry - as much as he liked fantasizing about epic quests - he’d cherished the sword all the same. At least he had for a couple of months, until he met a girl in his new school who’d been upset that her older brother and his friends wouldn’t let her play soldiers with them. It haunted him to this day, the details of the decision a small child made in an instant. He just gave it away without a second thought, until his grandmother pulled him aside at the shop one day and asked where the sword had gone. The good thing would’ve been to tell the truth, but he’d been scared then, too. Trembling before the power and might of the family’s matriarch, he lied, and he knew instantly that she knew he lied.

They’d never really talked again after that. She’d always been so busy and unreachable. Some part of him felt as though the sword had been some kind of test, and that he’d failed it. Crossing the line of middle-aged, most of Aziraphale knew better, but there was still that fearful, fretful notion that he’d let her down.

“But s’fine now. I’ve made peace with it.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand once before cupping it around his mug and taking a deep drink.

Crowley's hand slipped away, cupping his own mug. Sadness didn't look right on him. It was worse than the irritated frustration he'd walked into as that had at least held action. This was more like quiet defeat. “D'you think you're more like them or your great-aunt?” 

“Oh, my great-aunt. She loved books just as much as I do, though she preferred writing them. But that started from a passion for reading.” Talking about her seemed to rekindle his spark. That, and he sought to assuage any worries the conversation might draw out of Crowley. “She was a character though. People called her a real witch,” he chuckled. “She loved that. She did practice, actually, but no one took her seriously. Most of the town thought she was just into New Age, holy-er, holistic healing. Acupuncture and things like that. Quite suspicious back in those times.” He cast Crowley a pointed look over his mug. “That’s where we differ though. I’d rather be thought of as an angel than a witch.”

He laughed, surprised but delighted. No wonder he was so accepting with that sort of influence. “Don't worry, angel. None of the magic you have is witchy.”

“I do like a bit of sleight of hand now and again,” he giggled, beaming at the thought that something he’d said made the man laugh. “I know a few parlour tricks.”

He tried to arch a brow, but both lifted. “Can't imagine you being sssneaky enough to manage that.” 

“D'you have a coin on you?” 

“Think so.” He had to wiggle a little, arching off the couch to get his wallet out of his back pocket. “Yeah, here. Half a quid.”

Aziraphale wiggled with delight, almost spilling his tea in his haste to set it on the coffee table to free up his hands. He flexed his fingers in preparation, as if stretching before attempting a feat as great as disappearing a coin from sight. Taking the silver coin gingerly, he grinned as he waved it in Crowley’s face.

“Watch closely, my dear- oops.” It slipped from his grasp, bouncing lightly on his thigh and reclaimed quickly. “Right, ahem. As I was saying…”

Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale was just too drunk to manage or really awful at magic, but secondhand embarrassment welled regardless. “How long've you been doing this?” 

“Oh… since about 1983? I was thirteen and had just discovered David Copperfield. Then I read ev’ry book on magic I could get my hands on.” He rubbed the coin between his fingers, smile never fading, even as he took in Crowley’s reaction. “Did you know he chose his stage name after the Charles Dickens novel? I felt an instant kinship.”

Concentrating on the placement of his fingers, Aziraphale positioned three of them against the coin, thumb on top and two resting at the bottom. He showed Crowley, then wiggled the fingers of his free hand before pretending like he was going to take the coin to hide in his fist. He made appropriate, magic-like sound effects as the coin appeared to have been taken, but when his fingers uncurled, there was nothing there.

It would’ve been more impressive if the coin hadn’t slipped from where it had dropped in the original hand, bouncing off his thigh once again and down to the floor. Aziraphale made a confused noise as he tried to find where it vanished to, scanning the patterned rug. Well, perhaps he was a bit out of practice, and still a bit tipsy.

“Aha!” He brandished it triumphantly, then clumsily dusted it off and rubbed it against his waistcoat. “Cheeky little devil.”

It was mortifying how theatrical he was, drawing attention to the places he didn’t want people to look instead of away. Like watching a child’s first magic act. “Well, that was a thing,” he mumbled into his tea before taking a drink.

“It has been a while,” he defended, still looking just as pleased as he fiddled with the coin. “Just have to get back into practice.”

“Mm. They do say practice makes perfect. You should probably be sober for it.”

“Yes, probably.” He returned the coin to him when his next attempt to make it disappear left much to be desired. “Remind me to show you again when we’re sober.” 

“Alright.” He definitely wouldn’t. He returned the coin to his wallet, but set that on the table since he didn’t feel like arguing with his pockets. Sleight of hand was clearly not in Aziraphale’s skill set, but he seemed pleased with himself anyway. His fondness for simple magic was probably the most unsurprising thing Crowley had learned about him thus far.

Really, embarrassing and unsurprising was exactly what Aziraphale should’ve been from the start. It’s all he should’ve been. The equivalent of a simple portrait that could be done in an hour. Instead, Crowley barely felt as if the first sketch had been done. There were so many more layers to go, colours to add. More Da Vinci than fair caricature.

More clever angel than docile lamb.

“I’ve never read Dickens,” he mused, just to watch Aziraphale’s gasp of a reaction and listen to him delve into his works. Between the lines of his ramblings about things were some of the secrets that helped Crowley connect sketchy lines. Eventually, he’d have the whole piece. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale Fell realized on that mid-Monday morning on the 7th of September that he’d never truly feared for his life until this very moment. He’d never known true peril. He’d never felt his soul quite literally separate from his body in an attempt to cope with the debilitating terror that was facing one’s own fragile mortality.

“Watch the road!”

“What, is it doing tricks?” 

Apparently it was wrong to assume that just because one could fix up automobiles, one could also drive them.

With lips parted in a horrified little “o,” Aziraphale stared at Crowley, fingers clutching at invisible pearls as if they could rein in his driving like a galloping horse. The needle on the speedometer tickled the gap between 80 and 90 miles per hour, dangerously closer to the upper end of that range, and though the country road was deserted, they were the kind of speeds one would go if one was attempting to court Death himself. The bus certainly never went this fast.

As they approached a curve built into the hills, the Bentley did slow to a slightly less suicidal 70 miles per hour, a gentle twist of Crowley’s wrists on the steering wheel all he needed to guide the old girl through a smooth turn. Alright. So perhaps he did know how to drive it. This acceptance still did little to quell the frantic fluttering of nerves in Aziraphale’s gut, one hand flying up to brace against the ceiling of the car as they narrowly avoided a pothole. Of course, the nerves were partially due to the anticipation of a day out with Crowley.

Despite having spent the past three days in one another’s company, a majority of the time had been spent in the shop, not counting lunch at the pub or drinks on his sofa. Going out together was something novel indeed. Well, to be fair, everything with Crowley was rather novel. They’d still only just met.

Even so, rarely did Aziraphale ever find himself in company where conversation neither staled nor stagnated, whether by his doing or not. If he didn’t find himself dulled to a dim haze by the company of someone, he surely bored his companions or lost their interest in his pitiful attempts to keep it. His attempts to be relatable were pedantic at best, when the most interesting things he could think to discuss were the most recent book he read or the latest restoration project he was working on.

It wasn’t like that with Crowley. He didn’t even have to try to hook his interest with clever bait, he came willingly. Even when they’d been tipsy - oh, fine, a little bit drunk, but it had been a while since he’d indulged in something with such a high alcohol content on such little food - Crowley’s bleary albeit unwavering stare fixated on him like every word he slurred was pure poetry of the likes of the prolific Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Honestly, he couldn’t be completely sure it wasn’t the attention he’d been drunk on as their conversation carried through the better part of the afternoon while they attempted to sober up enough for the walk home.

Heat crept into Aziraphale’s cheeks as he recalled the walk back to the inn. He’d accompanied Crowley yet again, wanting to ensure that he made the journey safely, claiming he’d been much worse off than himself, and it was his civic duty to escort him to his lodgings. And just like the first two times, Crowley had taken his hand and acquainted it to his lips. Well, at this rate his hand and Crowley’s lips were well-past acquaintances, he’d say. More like picking out china patterns.

Lowering his hand from the roof, he rubbed the one that had been kissed thoughtfully. Anticipation was brought to a rolling boil as he expected another such parting at the end of this outing. As much as he didn’t want it to end when it had hardly begun, it did give him something to look forward to beyond a day at the library and lunch on the river. Aziraphale smiled to himself as he squeezed his own hand, gaze traveling over Crowley’s profile as he watched him drive.

And almost immediately smacked his hand on the roof again when the car suddenly revved forward on a strip of straight road stretched before them.

Well, it certainly got them to Henley-on-Thames much more quickly than the bus would. Quite likely shaved a few years off of his life, too, for that matter. After a thorough patting down, checking to make sure he was all accounted for and hardly worse for the wear, Aziraphale took a deep breath and cast Crowley a sidelong look before opening the car door.

“Well,” he started, straightening his vest - not his well-worn waistcoat today, but still something classic and in his wheelhouse as far as comfort went - and adjusting his bowtie just so. “That was certainly something.”

Crowley sent him a smile that tried very hard to be bemused but failed to completely hide his amusement. “Mm. Nice enough views in this area.”

“I'm surprised you could actually appreciate them, given they looked more like blurs than actual views.” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, much more steady now that the ground was solid beneath his feet.

Crowley nearly grinned, hands dipping into his pockets. “I'm a quick study.”

“Yes, well, that's not the only thing you're quick at apparently.” Shaking his head, Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back as he started towards the library. “Speed demon.”

At that, he did grin. He fell into step beside him easily, his saunter comfortable beside Aziraphale's more intentional stride. “Dunno what you're talking about. I just drive.”

Aziraphale gave him a look, but it faltered at the sight of his grin, teeth flashing and eyes surely glinting behind the dark lenses. He sighed, lips still pursed, but he held the door open for Crowley to stroll through first, so he couldn't see the upward tick of his own lips. How someone could terrify him one minute and set him completely at ease in another truly astounded him.

He followed him into the library, touching his elbow with a gentle brush of his fingertips to capture his attention as he beckoned him towards the computers. “Over here, dear fellow.”

“D'you come here often? Figured you'd have enough books without needing to borrow any.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. There’s no such thing as enough books. One can always find something new to read.” Aziraphale nodded to himself, chin held high. “But to answer your question, yes. I would say I frequent this library. When I’m feeling up to taking the bus, that is. I’ll make a day of it. Now let’s see… ah, I believe it’s this one.” He pointed to one of the computers on the end of a small row of them. When he had a choice in booking computers, he did try to get the ones on the end if possible.

Crowley sprawled in the computer chair next to it. “Why don't you drive?” 

Aziraphale primly sat down beside him, hands folded in his lap. “I don’t really see a reason for it. Not when I have everything I need in Tadfield, and anything I don’t is only a bus ride away. Perhaps it takes longer to get there, yes, but that just means more time to read.” He smiled with a little wiggle.

“Mm. Do you have a favorite? Book, genre, whatever.”

“Oh. I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale tutted as he clicked about with the mouse to check his emails once again, just in case there was anything else Gabriel had sent him. “Well. I suppose Shakespeare would be up there. As would Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Agatha Christie, Leo Tolstoy… oh, and I could never forget Georgette Heyer. I have all her books, save for two. She wrote fifty-five books, but six of them she suppressed after writing them, making them incredibly difficult to come by. While part of me wants to respect her wishes since she did not want them to be reprinted or see the light of day, I also can’t say that I wouldn’t complete my collection if given the opportunity.”

“Well, if she printed them once, she must have thought highly enough of them at one point.” Though he didn't recognize the name, he shrugged. “Why not be curious enough to find them?” 

“Oh, believe me. I’ve looked. Original prints of them are extremely rare. I’ve been fortunate enough to come across four of them in my search efforts.” He reached into his inner coat pocket to pull out his reading glasses case, squinting at the login page for his email. “I keep an eye out for the two I’m missing on a regular basis. I have some connections in the antique book world that let me know when they hear of a first edition Georgette Heyer collection going up for auction, but they’ve eluded me thus far. I could even make due with a damaged copy of Instead of the Thorn or Barren Corn and restore them, but the ones I have come across are beyond salvageable, even for myself, or too costly to even bear thinking about. Besides, I may have read… bits and pieces of them. On the internet.” He blushed as he gestured at the computer screen. “I’m afraid I don’t blame her for suppressing them.”

Crowley nodded and tucked the titles away, though it would take a miracle for him to track either of them down where Aziraphale had failed. “Just want the satisfaction of a complete collection, then?” 

He nodded, his smile sheepish as he looked at him over the tops of his spectacles. “It might be a bit silly, but her books are quite dear to me. I have a soft spot for Regency romances. I can think of little as rewarding as having a complete collection of her works.” 

Crowley leaned back, brows lifting. Regency romances. Ah. Calling him a romantic had been more accurate than Crowley had thought, but he couldn't really call it a surprise. After all, half the fun of kissing Aziraphale's hand each parting was the reaction. “Silly, maybe, but it does seem very you.”

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.” Aziraphale adjusted his spectacles and resumed checking his emails, satisfied that nothing else seemed to have been changed without his knowing. “Alright, I’ve booked this computer here for an hour. That should be a decent amount of time to look at flat listings, yes?” 

“Yeah. See what I can find.” He'd at least been careful to keep enough money set aside for a month or two of rent, depending on how much things went for in the area. “I don’t need much in the way of space.”

“If there are any close by that you’re interested in, perhaps we could drive by them after lunch,” Aziraphale suggested as he stood. 

“Alright,” he agreed, smile wry. “Going to help me pick out furniture, too?” 

A rosy blush tinted his cheeks as he cleared his throat and glanced away. “Oh, you wily thing,” he chided, striving to sound a little more disapproving and ultimately failing. “Only if you ask.”

Crowley was tempted, if only to see what he would come up with. What would Aziraphale think was his style? Or would he choose things based on his own? Either way, he doubted Aziraphale would force his choices on him. Wanting to give and have options seemed to be something they had in common. “I'll worry about finding a place first, angel. Then we'll see.” 

“Yes. Wouldn't do to put the cart before the horse,” he added, blush lingering in his cheeks. “Now, I’m going to see if I can commandeer the use of one of their computers with a scanner attached so I can send off your paperwork to Gabriel. They’re over by the check-out desk.”

“Right. Make your scans.” Crowley scooted closer to the computer, taking hold of the mouse to pull up a better internet browser. “I'll be here.”

Aziraphale paused, looking back at him for a moment to watch him as he clicked and typed. He wasn’t used to coming to the library with someone else, having someone wait for him and want his opinion on things. He smiled at the way his brow furrowed and he just knew his golden eyes were squinting as he looked at the screen from behind his shades.

He left him to it for the moment - for several moments, actually, though he honestly didn’t mean to. As he’d reflected just minutes before, he wasn’t used to being at the library with someone else, so after he scanned Crowley’s employment paperwork with some help from one of the kind-hearted library aides, he couldn’t help but stop when the seasonal display caught his eye. He stood there for quite some time, checking the backs of books and skimming the first few pages of the ones that sounded promising. He honestly didn’t mean to lose track of the time, but after thirty minutes, of course Crowley would come looking for him.

He just watched for a few minutes, leaned against the shelves and eyeing the stack of books Aziraphale had already picked up. “Y'know, some might call you an addict,” he said once he surfaced from his latest selection. 

“I prefer the term ‘bibliophile,’ but I suppose the point still stands.” Aziraphale glanced down at his stack with a chuckle. “Terribly sorry, dear fellow. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“It's fine, angel. I wrote down a list of some addresses, some phone numbers.” More options than he'd anticipated, really, but it was a relief. “I'm not surprised to see you in the aisles.”

Aziraphale hummed, as equally unsurprised to have wound up looking at books, but perked up at Crowley’s good news. “Oh! Oh, well, that’s a good sign that you were able to find a few. Hopefully one will be a good fit. Did they have pictures?”

“Some did, some didn't.” Crowley slipped the stack into his own arms and angled his head back towards the computers. “I can pull them up again if you'd like to see. There was nothing in Tadfield, though. Just here and the next town over, but I don't think a commute like that would be an issue.”

The attempt to take back the books was ignored, Aziraphale’s hands left to fidget while he allowed Crowley to hold them for him. It was entirely too charming, like the kisses to his hand. It filled him with the same sort of butterflies.

“As long as you drive carefully,” Aziraphale replied. “And there’s no need to pull up the pictures, I was simply curious. Might be nice for you to have an idea of what to expect, that’s all.”

“A flat's a flat, really. As long as there's a safe spot for the Bentley, I'll stay nearly anywhere at this point.” There was something almost school-aged about carrying his books, but Aziraphale's reactions to simple actions made them feel bigger somehow. It just made Crowley want to do more. “You send your scans?” 

“Yes. Everything is accounted for. Just going to check out these books here and then it’s off to lunch.” He couldn't help a giddy sort of wiggle, motioning for Crowley to follow him to the check-out counter, only to be waylaid by one more shelf of books.

Crowley followed him, setting the books aside while he watched Aziraphale carefully peruse the shelves and just as carefully touch each spine. He was more patient than he'd usually expect of himself, but it was surprisingly easy beside Aziraphale. He couldn't even call it an effect of being in jail. Jimpatience had been his middle name there, days filled with an exhausting wait and busy work to keep from going mad in confinement. 

And yet he was perfectly content sitting in a library, one of his least favorite places to be, watching someone take much longer than necessary to look at far more texts than necessary. With anyone else, he would’ve walked away to find some mischief to get into. Maybe change the order of some of the books, find the return cart and give someone a headache to sort later. It wouldn't even be his first time doing such a thing, yet he found himself following and watching. There was much enjoyment in just watching Aziraphale. His neatly manicured, soft hands gentle on books others likely just grabbed, flipped through, shoved back into place. His eyes - that pretty blue crinkling at the corners when he squinted at a cover in lieu of pulling out his glasses. When he gave in and pushed the silly things on, Crowley’s lips quirked and he had to shift his attention elsewhere. It settled on fluffy white-blond hair curling around his ears and always just a little bit in disarray.

All of him was just a little bit in disarray, no matter how neat and posh he came across at first glance. Everything beneath the surface drew Crowley like a moth to flame, every secret unveiled encouraging more questions. He was a puzzle with innumerable pieces and the picture held Crowley’s attention in ways none ever had before. It should’ve been worrying and, maybe if Crowley thought less of himself, he’d be far less accepting of his focus on Aziraphale. The fact was, Crowley knew who he was and what he’d done with his life and had no qualms over somehow being less or not worth his attention. They were in the same place now, however they’d come to be there.

He did, though, have qualms over actually voicing any of it. Words had never been his forte and not even a blue-eyed angel was going to be able to fix that. He watched every side-eyed glance with quiet amusement until two more books had been added to the stack and the glasses went away. “Ready to check out, then?”

“Quite.” Aziraphale straightened his bowtie, a feeling of accomplishment settling in his bones. That was one thing taken care of, and it made Crowley's employment all the more real, and he’d found quite a few new tomes to pass the time with as an additional bonus. He smiled at him, pleased to have that little formality out of the way, then offered to take the rest of his books back. It was only fitting, as he was the one intending to check out.

Crowley simply arched a brow and lifted them as he rose out of his slouch. “Come on, angel.”

He tutted, casting Crowley his own look, but didn't fight him on it. Instead he fished out his library card from his old leather wallet, of course striking up conversation with the librarian when it was his turn to check out. Ms. Anderson had been working at this particular branch for the past seventeen years, at least, and Aziraphale was always pleased to have a chance to check in with her, hear about the grandchildren over in Brighton. He was considered quite the regular amongst some of the staff with considerable tenure, so any changes to his visits were noted as well. Aziraphale knew she wondered about his companion as he set the books down and leaned against the check-out desk. Though he hadn’t thought much of it in the days that passed, he presumed that they must have made quite the odd couple.

At first glance, he himself didn’t think they’d have much to talk about at all, or anything in common whatsoever, and yet…

“Thank you, my dear lady. Have a wonderful day. Ah, thank you, Crowley.” He beamed at him, his books already collected yet again by the time he tucked away his library card. “We can drop these off in your Bentley, then the bistro’s just a short walk down to the river.”

Of course it was. “Do they know you there too?” 

“No. There's quite a bit of staff turnover with the hosts and wait staff, so I usually don't see the same people more than a few times. And I don't believe the owner is in very often. I've at least never met them, but I have extended my sincerest compliments to their chefs whenever the food is particularly sublime,” he explained, then paused as he held the door open for Crowley and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, or are you teasing?” 

“You'll never know, angel.” Amused, Crowley stepped out and walked alongside him to the Bentley. He finally relinquished the stack so he could get the door open. “Here.”

“Wily old thing,” he huffed, but his lips still twitched into a barely suppressed smile as he set his new acquisitions on the back seat with the utmost care. “There we are. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm certainly feeling peckish. Shall we then?” 

Crowley dipped his hands into his pockets. “Lead the way.”

It was a cloudy day, brisk with a dampness in the air that didn’t so much promise rain, but just served as a reminder that the sky could choose to open up over them at any minute. Not so uncommon for autumn. It certainly wasn’t enough to dissuade either of them from enjoying a stroll together through the city center, though the chill might have served as a good enough excuse to walk close to one another. Shoulders nearly brushing through overcoat and jacket, and elbows assuredly bumping at a crosswalk. It felt companionable though, rather than uncomfortable. It was a nice reminder that someone was there.

The gloomy day also meant there weren’t that many people going out of their way to dine on the river, so a table for two was easily available to them. And with a view. “How fortuitous,” Aziraphale sighed happily, unfurling his cloth napkin to lay across his lap as they settled in their seats, menus placed in front of them. “Thank you, my dear,” he told the unfamiliar waiter. “And might we also see the wine list? Just in case.”

Crowley flipped his menu open once the waiter set the list between them, but his gaze stayed on Aziraphale. “If I pick the wine, you can pick the pairings. I think your palate's trustworthy.”

Practically effervescent, Aziraphale beamed at him with another little wiggle. “Very well. I’m open to such an arrangement. What are you in the mood for?”

Crowley skimmed the list of red varieties, ignoring the white and rosé sections entirely. “Côtes du Rhône?” 

“Sounds scrummy.” Aziraphale skimmed the menu with a hum, brows lifted as he considered what would pair well with that wine, and what Crowley would likely enjoy based on what little he’d seen the man eat. “A somewhat sweet and jammy profile, yes?”

Crowley smiled slightly, watching him think. “Somewhat, yeah.”

“Well then, I should think ham crêpes, perhaps, with caramelized onions and mushrooms in a bechamel sauce,” Aziraphale hummed. “That’s one option. As well as the steak, spinach, and balsamic… that has a bit of heartiness to it that would play off the flavors well. Do either of those sound appealing to you? Or should I say, do you gravitate more towards one over the other?”

Crowley shrugged. “Don't usually pick anything with ham when I've got a choice.” Really, he shouldn't have crêpes at all. Aziraphale's clear fondness for them, though, guided his hand and he could be content with avoiding pork and pretending the crêpe batter was vegan or something.

“Hm. Well, then you can taste mine and see how it compares, but I’ll see that you get the steak then.” Closing the menu with a decisive nod, he smiled brightly at him. “And obviously a little something sweet for dessert, but we’ll worry about that later.”

Crowley didn't have to ask if dessert was for special occasions, sure Aziraphale ate it with the same decadent appreciation as anything else and looking forward to it. “Obviously. Do you have a favorite? Or at least something you think you have a taste for now.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could choose a favorite, though I am partial to anything with pears in it. I do like pears.” Though he said it almost as if he felt guilty for prizing one fruit over any others. “But I must say, depending on how heavy the meal is, sometimes it’s nice to end on a light note. Crêpes with lemon and dusted with sugar, crêpes Suzette, or a pear galette, if I’m tempted to indulge a little. For today, I think the Suzette might be nice. They’re soaked in a warm Grand Marnier and cognac sauce that truly warms the spirit, especially on a day like today.” 

“Makes sense, considering.” Though he'd said Aziraphale talked more about things than he did himself as if it was a flaw, Crowley couldn't say he disliked it. Besides the hint of brief guilt, he lit up anytime he spoke of what he enjoyed. It was impossible not to want to bask in that light, like a snake warming its scales under the sun. If Crowley were more fanciful, he'd peer over his sunglasses just to make sure he wasn't really glowing. “What sorts of books did you pick out?” 

“Well, they had a display of recommendations for some seasonal reading, and I noticed quite a few that I hadn’t read in some time and a few I hadn’t gotten around to yet. Like Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. I’ve heard good things about it, so I’m looking forward to cracking that open. And since we were discussing Austen, I found I couldn’t resist picking up Northanger Abbey when I saw it. It’s been at least ten years since I read it last, and it’s one of my favorites of Austen’s works.”

He’d also picked up two other gothic romances, and The Scarlet Pimpernel, because he’d been meaning to reread that for several months now, along with one other noir-style spy novel that he hadn’t yet read. “I do enjoy a good tale of espionage,” he confessed with a wiggle, reining himself in when their waiter returned so he could place their order, starting with brioche and camembert to tide them over while they waited on their crêpes. 

Crowley gave the waiter a slight nod, content to let Aziraphale do the talking while he sat back and watched. He couldn't recall ever having thought of a fellow grown man as adorable before, but what other word could suit when he wiggled giddily? “Spies, really?” he asked when the waiter left with their orders jotted down. “If I'm roped into reading, that's normally the sort I'd go for. Otherwise, the movies do the job just fine.”

“Oh? Do you have a favorite?” Aziraphale asked, interest piqued as he braced his hands against the table and leaned in, as if he’d need to be quick to catch any and all fragments of details.

Crowley’s lips quirked. Tit-for-tat. “Book or movie?”

“Either, really. Both.”

Having Aziraphale's full, glimmering attention did uncomfortable, unfamiliar things to his pulse. “Ironic, but neither are really spy-related. Maltese Falcon for book and Witchfinder General for film. I like the film version of Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart, too, but Vincent Price is just a damn good Matthew Hopkins.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen either film,” Aziraphale mused. “Though I have read a handful of books on Matthew Hopkins as it pertains to history and witches. As well as the Maltese Falcon. An excellent book.”

“Film's a bit different. Sam's got more character to him, I think. Something about Bogart’s delivery. We could watch it sometime if you like.” And if they could get their hands on a copy.

“I’ll have to see if the old television set still works. I wasn’t using it, so it’s tucked away in the hall closet. I believe I also have one of those VCRs you can hook up to it as well. To play the films.” He looked far too proud of himself for knowing that much, especially given that sort of knowledge was still out of date by about two decades.

Crowley chuckled. “Not sure how we'd track down a VHS copy, angel. S'pose it could be worth a shot to look, though.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s right. They’re on discs now, aren’t they?”

Or streaming, but there wasn't a point in explaining it. Aziraphale was the sort who'd want the physical copy of something. Proof of the thing he enjoyed. “Yeah. But it's alright, angel. Same film, whatever the source. D'you ever go to the cinema?” 

“Yes. On the rare occasion where they’re showing older films or operas. The one in town here, actually, tries to show at least one per month. Sometimes I consider something current if an advertisement entices me, but I don’t feel as though I’m missing out on much.” He shrugged, smoothing out his napkin. “Do you like to go? Now that you… well, have the option to?”

“Mmhm. Used to go all the time. Didn't matter what was playing so long as I had a bucket of popcorn and a few hours to lose in a dark spot.”

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “I suppose I can understand the appeal of that. A way to disappear from the outside stressors of the world for a bit. And popcorn is delicious.”

The bread was delivered to their table and their wine poured for them. The deep red was aromatic in a way that evoked memories of summer berries mingling with the spices of an autumn’s evening. An appropriate choice for the season. Aziraphale swirled his glass, taking his time to appreciate the aromas before tasting, and wanting a clear palate with which to enjoy the first sips of Crowley’s pick.

“Mm… that is heavenly. I do get an undercurrent of spices after that initial burst of sweetness,” he complimented, taking another sip. 

Crowley took his own sip, letting the sample coat his tongue with a small hum. Côtes du Rhône was a classic area for wine for a reason. “I think you'd be very interesting to have around at a wine tasting.”

“I do enjoy a good wine tasting,” he chuckled, setting his glass aside to break into the bread, plucking a particularly glossy roll from the basket. “You seem to have a keen appreciation for good wines yourself.” 

Which one wouldn’t assume at first glance. Crowley dressed like the sort of bloke who’d prefer a pint to a pinot noir. Not that there was anything wrong with that, though it would be one less thing that they’d have in common.

“I may not be intimate with the finest things in life, but I know what I enjoy.” Like the way Aziraphale had looked over the bread basket like looking over fine jewels before selecting precisely the one he wanted. He'd never given much of a damn about food outside of it being required, but Aziraphale's enjoyment bordered on sinful. It very much demanded his attention. “I know how to linger on and appreciate what deserves it.”

Something about his tone had Aziraphale’s gaze flicking up from his bread plate, camembert mid-spread. It was a tone that had him wishing he could see past the dark lenses, the set of his mouth and lines of his brow not nearly enough to tell him just what he wanted to know. But the lines of his body angled towards him, elbow on the table to support his weight as he leaned in ever so slightly, like a magnet helpless to its pull or a planet in orbit around its star. It made Aziraphale swallow, hands fighting not to tremble as he resumed fixing his roll after only faltering for a beat. 

“That’s-” he had to clear his throat, managing a smile as some sort of apology for needing to. “That’s an admirable quality, I should think. Knowing what you like and cherishing it. Not everyone takes the time.”

“Mm, not everyone. Though you seem as if you do.” He seemed to enjoy things wholly, every part of him engaged. 

“I suppose I simply can’t help myself. If it brings one some measure of happiness, and isn’t at risk of harming others, why not enjoy something to its fullest?” he reasoned. 

Aziraphale brought a piece of the brioche to his lips, the sweet bread soft and doughy as he bit into it and the creamy camembert practically melted on his tongue. Entirely unintentional, despite their current conversation, a pleased noise escaped him as he enjoyed the entire experience of eating. The aroma, the texture, the flavor… He stopped just shy of licking the tips of his fingers for that last little taste, instead picking up his napkin to dab at his lips.

Crowley had to resist the urge to wet his own. He'd genuinely never been so fascinated by watching someone eat, but it was done with such decadent enjoyment. Even something as simple as a bread roll made him feel like a voyeur. 

“Makes sense to me,” he eventually replied. The harm to others bit had always been something Crowley had struggled with, though he'd never really gone too far. In his opinion, anyway. He preferred mischief and annoyance to actual terror and pain. But Aziraphale's optimism was a charming sort of thing and, really, it had worked in his benefit. He could hardly call it a fault. 

Aziraphale tore another piece from his roll, then nodded at the bread basket. “Oh, do try some, my dear. They’re fresh,” he encouraged. As much as he enjoyed Crowley’s seemingly undivided attention, there was still a niggling trickle of self-consciousness that dripped into his gut like a leaky tap that he could never quite get tight enough. It helped that whatever he saw in Crowley’s expression wasn’t judgmental in the slightest, but he rarely enjoyed a meal with someone who didn’t - on some level - judge just how many rolls of bread he planned on eating. Not that it was any of their business. “I’ve yet to come across a brioche I did not knead to try.”

Crowley grimaced, plucking a roll from the basket. “Puns, really?”

Aziraphale grinned. “You can’t tell me that you don’t enjoy the occasional clever wordplay, Crowley.”

“I can appreciate cleverness, sure, but really?”

“I thought it was quite clever.” Aziraphale continued to nibble on his segments of bread and cheese.

“Obviously. You look as pleased with yourself as when you tried that ridiculous magic trick,” he teased.

“‘Ridiculous?’ How very dare you,” he played along, amping up his holier-than-thou tone on purpose. “Clearly you were too drunk to appreciate it properly.”

“Oh, really?” Crowley wrinkled his nose in a way that let him peer over the tops of his sunglasses, a brow arched. “As I recall, you kept dropping the coin.”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t all part of the act?” Aziraphale sipped daintily at his wine. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

“Right. Dropping the coin before you, ah...” While his eyes could still be seen, he shifted his gaze to Aziraphale's ear as if caught off guard by something. “Before you do the trick is really part of it.”

Aziraphale blinked, lowering his wine glass so he could brush at his own ear. “What? What are you looking at?” he asked, feeling nothing - no stray leaves or fuzz or anything of the sort - and trying not to blush as he met that golden stare head on. 

“Nothing. Well- mm. You didn’t get it, hang on.” Crowley pushed his glasses up and leaned forward, fingertips brushing just behind Aziraphale’s ear as he pretended it wasn’t the most intimate thing he’d done in years. Not even kissing his hand felt quite the same. When he leaned back again, he was holding a coin. “There.”

Blue eyes were wide, all of him frozen for that brief moment when the gentle touch grazed the sensitive skin of his ear. Memory of past romances flickered, but they were as dim and fuzzy as an old black and white film that had yet to be restored. Nothing like the technicolour garden that was Anthony Crowley, the memory of his fingertips sharp enough to cut into his heart and carve out a space that he wanted him to crawl inside and fill up the hollow gaps he’d surely find. Stay. Though he’d been afraid to think it, afraid to want it, it was one of the first thoughts he’d clung to from the start of knowing him, wasn’t it?  How do I make you stay?

But with eyes so wide, soaking up every detail, it was impossible for him to miss the shining metal of the coin resting between Crowley’s thumb and index finger. He’d performed a magic trick. Aziraphale’s own fingers brushed his ear again in disbelief, a giddy rush rippling through him as the man in front of him lowered the mental floodgates that held him back once more and let him spill out into himself. Self-conscious? Restrained? He didn’t know them.

“How-? Oh, that was marvelous, my dear! I didn’t even notice- you didn’t say you could- Oh, you must do it again,” he insisted, eyes sparkling as he beamed at him. 

“It never works when you know it’s coming, angel.” It was a simple thing, anyway, another thing picked up from his grandad, another thing twisted into being useful for mischief and lawbreaking. Sleight of hand and pickpocketing were entangled things for him, but obviously not for the man across from him. Bright, wide eyes shining like diamonds, the pearlescent, eager smile - he’d make the stars seem dim and was lighting up places Crowley hadn’t known were dark. He hadn’t known they were there. His own eyes were wide behind dark lenses, pulse beating a brand new rhythm. Keeping his voice even was a struggle. “Proper magic needs a distraction.”

“I’m certain you could pull it off,” he assured him, hardly swayed by Crowley’s logic. “Come now, Crowley. It’ll be fun!”

“Fun?” he echoed. “You already know how they’re done.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t still enjoy them. I already know how brioche tastes, but I still savour every bite,” he pointed out, gesturing to the basket at their table. “I already know the ending to Northanger Abbey, but the story is still tantalizing. Magic isn’t any different, my dear, especially when it’s done so well.”

“Tch. Barely. I’m out of practice.”

“Think of it as a warm-up then. You’ve already impressed me, no need to feel nervous about it.”

“I’m not nervous.” But he couldn’t keep saying no, something pulling insistently at him when Aziraphale’s expression shifted. If he wasn’t so focused on him, he may have missed the flicker of disappointment before it turned into silent pleading. The barest hint of a pout, the softest eyes. Sighing, he let the coin run along his knuckles before he caught it again. A careful flick of his fingers made it look as if the coin had vanished. “Where could it be,” he deadpanned.

The pout disappeared along with it, smile brimming with gratitude as he sat up in his seat, ever the attentive audience. “Oh, I haven’t the faintest,” Aziraphale played along, enraptured.

Crowley upturned his other hand, revealing the bit of silver. “Well, there’s that one.” Before Aziraphale could ask, he leaned forward and didn’t know if it was wishful thinking or not but he could’ve sworn he tipped just the slightest bit into the barely there touch. He stayed a breath longer than necessary before sitting back again, this time with a smaller copper coin in hand. “And here’s this one.”

Aziraphale actually laughed, miming quiet applause as they were still at a restaurant, but he was very much of the opinion that Crowley deserved accolades of some form for indulging him so. “You’re very good! Oh, you must show me your tricks sometime. I know magicians never reveal their secrets, but I can assure you I wouldn’t tell another soul.”

“Well, I’m not a magician by any stretch, so I’ll show you. It’s all in the hands anyway. Just takes practice, angel.”

“Might take a little more than that,” he chuckled, reaching out to silently ask permission to see one of the coins, rolling it between his fingers when it was handed over. “I’ve done my fair share of practice, but I’m afraid I’m not all that quick with it. It’s why I tend to add a bit more flourish- well, that, and it’s fun.” He attempted a French drop, indeed a bit too slow and a bit too clumsy to keep the coin out of sight as it fell from his fingers into his palm.

“I wouldn't necessarily call that a bad thing,” Crowley assured him, picking his wine up. “You're not really built for deception, is all.”

“No, I suppose not. Never did have much of a face for poker.” He tried several more times, never growing discouraged. “It would be nice to be seen as entertaining though. To surprise people, make them think there is a little magic in the world still.” The coin finally slipped and hit the table. “Ah, well. I entertain myself, so there is that.” He left it there in favor of sampling more of his wine. “But you know, my dear, I wouldn’t say you’re built for deception either. A bit mysterious, what with the black clothing and the sunglasses, yes, but that’s all part of your aesthetic, I think. What do the kids call it these days? A look?” 

“Sounds right.” And surprising, coming from him. “I've only really worn white one brief week in my life, but I don't think it suited.”

Aziraphale’s gaze roved over him as he hummed, considering it. “No, I don’t think it would. The rakishness is part of your charm.”

Rakish sounded more like it should come from him than “a look” had. His lips quirked. “Think I have charm, angel?” 

Aziraphale tutted, taking another sip before exchanging the glass for more brioche. “My dear, you're full to the brim with it.”

Crowley lifted his drink in a playful sort of toast. “Could be worse. I don't think you mind.”

“At the moment, no. Though such power could be rather dangerous,” he cautioned with a chuckle. 

“Yeah? And what's your taste for danger, Aziraphale?”

Mid-chew, Aziraphale covered his mouth with his napkin as he met Crowley’s stare. His question from two days before turned back on him. Had it really only been two days since their conversation in the kitchenette? Three since he first set his eyes upon the mysterious man and his Bentley? He swallowed, dabbed at his lips, then bought himself another handful of seconds as he smoothed his napkin back over his lap. 

His taste for danger… Prior to three days ago, he would’ve said he didn’t have the stomach for much danger, nothing outside of books, that is. But on Friday afternoon he’d taken a risk to help a stranger, and against all sense telling him to be careful, watch out, don’t get so close so quickly, you’ll get burned… he was having lunch with that stranger on Monday, driving in his car, had drinks with him, couldn’t stop talking to him. Crowley himself didn’t seem dangerous, but fraternizing with him was surely dangerous for Aziraphale’s heart.

“I’d say…” he started primly, reaching for his wine yet again. “In the right circumstances, it can be rather delicious.” He offered up his own toast.

Crowley wished he could search through Aziraphale's thoughts, swim through the ocean of them until he knew the depths as well as his own. He already had the sense that he knew more than others. For someone so open, he could be so very closed. Yet Crowley ached to find more, find it all. Let me know you. 

He angled his glass, partly in challenge because he didn't yet know how to navigate and partly in deference to the infernal hope living behind dark lenses. “To danger, then.”

Their glasses touched with the gentlest of taps. “To danger,” Aziraphale echoed, eyebrows lifted as though he couldn’t quite believe just what he was getting himself into. But he’d worry about that later. For now he had good wine and good company, and their crêpes were being delivered to their table. 

Nothing too dangerous about that. Nothing at all.

Chapter Text

The first few days of Crowley's employment went smoothly enough, though there wasn't exactly anything clock related for him to do straight away. Mr. Milkbottle's abrupt departure had left a sour taste in some previous clientele's mouths, so it was going to take some careful networking and, well, Madame Tracy's particular brand of cheerful gossip to get the word out that they had someone. 

In the meantime, Crowley was happy to dive beneath the barely attached hood of Newt's Reliant Robin. He replaced the leaking hatch seal to start, stopped the squealing of the squealy window, and was then told that the check engine light just “comes on sometimes and nobody knows why.” More like no one had tried very hard to find out why. The earliest models had some of the biggest problems and, well, Crowley doubted even those had some of Newt's. The steering wheel had been attached to the chassis with a combination of rubber bands, paper clips, and one very stressed screw. Even Newt hadn't known how or why that had been done. 

He didn't know much of anything about that or the fourteen other issues Crowley fixed, right up until he'd discovered a short in the wiring. And there was the reason for the check engine light. 

Newt looked at the wiring ten minutes later, so he and Anathema had to walk back to the cottage she was renting and Crowley had to spend a full day rewiring the damn car. And, well, only Newt had to walk back. Anathema had given him a pointed look and plucked up her bicycle. 

“Clever of you to have your velocipede,” Aziraphale had complimented, endlessly amusing Crowley and no one else when he'd promptly launched into a discussion of the word's etymology. He was very clever - Crowley would die on that hill - but it often seemed as though he had the social skills of a caged bird. 

A very polite caged bird, who knew how to smooth over even Shadwell's insults when clients came in to collect their dear possessions. Crowley was glad his first clients - if Tracy, young Brian, and Newt could be called such - weren't as emotional as some of the others. He'd never seen someone cry over a vase before the day Anathema had revealed a bit of fifty-four year old porcelain, the beastly crack that had been in the center so well concealed that the owner hadn't even known where exactly it had been to start. 

It was like that across the board, so Crowley found it easy to understand why this odd group had been hired once he laid eyes upon finished results. Even Shadwell, abrupt and grouchy as he was, did very solid work. Newt, for all his failings with technology, could carve the delicate patterns Shadwell’s arthritic fingers no longer could. They were a good team. For a rocking chair, they roped in Tracy to restuff and ultimately entirely redo the faded old cushion. Before that pickup, Crowley could honestly say he’d never seen someone cry over a pillow.

Artwork, perhaps, he could understand. And though Deirdre only worked part-time, she put all she had into restoration. From the smallest of photographs to an impressive landscape that took up her entire workstation, she was able to clean and brighten and repair. Then, protect with veneer and the bottomless patience only the mother of a boy like Adam could have.

Then Aziraphale, who did everything. Anathema needed an extra hand to catch a piece of pottery as old glue separated - he was there. Newt’s chisel disappeared from its usual spot - he found it immediately. Deirdre low on acetate - surprise, a whole new box. He was at every station always, even Crowley’s outside when it became clear that he tended to forget things like breaks and food. He had his own work besides, but it always seemed to be able to wait yet was always completed by the time the client returned.

He was full of miracles and, for certain things, endless patience. The clients, for a start, though he did appear rather miffed as the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted him that Thursday while he counted signatures. There was a certain type of client that was unfortunately faced with a well that was quite dried up with not a drop of tolerance to spare. Occasionally someone heard about Aziraphale’s personal collection of restored books - books he rebounded and cleaned as a hobby - and took that to mean he sold these rare, restored books alongside fixing them up. This person would then proceed to make one of the most terrible decisions they ever possibly could as they called up the shop and asked about purchasing one of his books.

No caller ever made that mistake more than once.

Fortunately for the person on the other end of the line, they did not want to buy a book, so Aziraphale treated them with the best customer service he had to offer. “Divine Restorations & Repairs, how might I assist you this fine day?”

“Mr. Fell, hello, it’s Mrs. Tyler. How are you?”

The fact that it was Mrs. Tyler - wife of self-proclaimed, busybody neighborhood watch R.P. Tyler - also meant he didn’t really have a choice but to be his most polite. “Mrs. Tyler, what a pleasure. I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking. And what about you and Mr. Tyler?” 

“Wonderful. Mr. Tyler does relax a bit when the children return to school, you know.” And then straight to business. “Now I’ve heard you’ve hired a new clockman? I saw Ms. Tracy on her scooter just yesterday and she had nothing but kind things to say about him.”

Any reservations he had about having to accommodate Mr. R.P. Tyler’s delicate needs were quite quickly nipped in the bud. He’d no idea whether Madame Tracy’s efforts had been taking root in the town, but planned to find out on Sunday when he went into town for church and a light brunch afterwards. But everyone in town knew of Mr. Tyler, and as much as he liked to complain about the vagrants and misdemeanors of the youth, he also possessed steadfast support in something if they met his standards.

Crowley’s handiwork, Aziraphale was convinced, could easily meet those standards. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He just started on Tuesday.”

“Yes, so I was told. Now, I don’t know if you recall, but I have my family grandfather clock. I was going to bring it in before your previous man left?”

“Of course. I do apologize for any inconveniences his untimely departure caused.”

Though Mr. Milkbottle had relayed that he thought much of the old grandfather clock to be beyond salvageable, or at least beyond his area of expertise. But then again, Mr. Milkbottle hadn’t been known for taking risks. He’d done good work, but he rather liked staying in his own lane. 

If Crowely’s horology skills were on par with his driving, then he certainly had no qualms about staying in his own lane, which may prove to be a benefit in this kind of scenario. “Are you still in the market to see about getting it repaired?”

“Well, I would rather support our local businesses, particularly when they do the same. I've been waiting in the hopes that your new person would be willing to have a look, at the very least.” Not to mention it was a large job and she didn't want to travel with or ship it. “He's from London?” 

He’d have to talk with Madame Tracy about what was exactly pertinent information to spread around town about their newest team member. “Yes, he is. Recently relocated. But he seems to be fitting in with our motley crew quite well. If you wouldn’t mind holding on just a moment, my dear Mrs. Tyler, I’ll check his schedule to see when he’d be available for a consult. I’m sure Ms. Tracy mentioned that he works on automobiles as well, which apparently we have quite the need for.”

She didn’t mind, so Aziraphale gingerly set the receiver down - his phone far too old to be able to actually put her on hold - and pulled out his daily calendar, neatly organized in a leatherbound book and detailing the schedules of each of his people. Crowley had the most gaps in his days to start, but they had managed to fill up some of the time with his work on Newt’s car. He hummed as he looked over the next few days, then sought out the man in question.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt, but Crowley, my dear, might you have a moment?”

He looked up from where he was cataloging and organizing what supplies he had available to him, trying to create a list of what was missing for common repairs. “One or two.”

Aziraphale couldn't quite hide his pleased, not-at-all-secretive smile as he rocked back on his heels. “I have a client on the telephone requesting your services. A grandfather clock in need of some repairs.”

“Alright.” For him, it wasn't a question of whether or not he could do it. He just gestured at the single, small spring winder he had available. “I'll need a bigger spring winder to deal with it if anything's wrong with the mainspring. Depends on how long it's been since it was last serviced and how good a job was done on it.”

“I believe it's been quite some time. They've tried to bring it to us in the past, but Mr. Milkbottle left before a proper consult could be completed. He'd only seen photographs of it at the time, but he'd still been… cautious.” Aziraphale made a vague hand gesture. “But I can certainly place an order for more tools for you. Might be good to update a bit from my grandmother's old supplies.”

“Alright. I’ve been making a list. Just a few tools I’m used to having ‘round.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind having a look at the clock, though. Most of the damage with grandfather clocks comes from not having them serviced regularly or a fall. The cases tend to get ruined as the wood dries out and shrinks. Legs snap, that sort of thing. It can knock the train loose and unbalance pendulums.”

“It’s very likely you would need to collaborate with Sergeant Shadwell and Newton. Or rather they would take care of the case while you work on the clock itself. Would you be open to setting up an appointment for them to bring it in so you could have a look?”

“‘Course. Tomorrow, if they want. Shadwell and Newt can at least get started while I’m lookin’ at flats Saturday. Once they're done with that old bench they've got, anyway.”

“Oh yes, and you must let me know how that goes. I am rather looking forward to hearing all about it.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but wiggle, excited on Crowley’s behalf. Though it had been quite some time since he’d been in the market for housing, he could still recall the anticipation of seeing oneself in a new place and all the potential it could bring. A chance to start fresh. “Is there a particular time of day you’d prefer? Late morning, early afternoon? I’ll run some possible times by the clients and see what works for them.”

How, he wondered, could a ridiculous wiggle be consistently charming? “Morning-ish might be best. I know once I see it, I'll want to get my hands on it.”

“Excellent point, my dear. I’ll see what I can arrange.”

It was quite fortunate that Newton preferred the morning as well. Aziraphale quietly pulled him aside to consult him, thinking it best that he be the one to facilitate the meeting on his and Shadwell’s behalf. 

“Me?” poor Newt asked, wide-eyed and glancing about as if the shop owner meant someone else entirely.

“It’s R.P. Tyler and his wife,” Aziraphale replied, and that was really all that needed to be said.

If there was anyone in the town that could rival Shadwell’s stubborn, excessively opinionated, and skewed point of view, it was their neighborhood watch. There were precious few in the shop who could find fault in the decision to keep Sergeant Shadwell and R.P. Tyler from interacting any more than absolutely necessary. That limit happened to be very firmly set at not being in the same room together, but that was unfortunately unavoidable given the shop’s layout. They would simply have to make do. Perhaps Tracy would be able to convince him to take her on a nice walk. 

Mrs. Tyler eagerly agreed to an eleven o’clock appointment, so Aziraphale marked that down on the calendar. He always enjoyed seeing the schedules of new employees steadily fill up with appointments and projects. As intimidating as doing work for the Tylers could be, they were firmly rooted in the center of their community and their satisfaction would do wonders in getting Crowley established. Especially if any of them had any reservations about him being from London.

Yes, he would have to talk to Madame Tracy about what kind of backstory she was selling people. But first, it was time for a cocoa break. It seemed like the thing to do.

Humming to himself, he put the kettle on in the kitchenette and rummaged about in the cupboards for his selection of hot cocoa powders. So distracted by this perusal, however, he didn’t notice someone approach until he turned to find a good stirring spoon. 

“Oh!” he gasped, clutching a canister of Cadbury chocolate mix to his chest. “Anathema, my dear girl, I didn’t hear you there. Cocoa?” He gave it a shake as he held it out in offering.

“No thanks, I’m fine.” Just very curious. “I heard you mention our friendly neighborhood watch to Newt. What excuse did he make to come spy on Crowley?”

Aziraphale tsked as he busied himself with finding his angel wing mug in the cupboard. “No excuses this time. It was Mrs. Tyler who set up the appointment, and it’s the grandfather clock that she’s been meaning to get fixed for quite some time now.”

“Oh.” She folded her arms, leaning back against the counter. She still wasn’t convinced R.P. Tyler hadn’t arranged it somehow. Maybe he’d reminded her of the old clock. He’d definitely be there to deliver it. “That’s good. Having another clock to mess with should calm him down some. When are they coming?”

“Tomorrow morning, around eleven.” He didn’t let the question distract him though, brow furrowed as he turned to her. “What do you mean ‘calm him down some?’”

“He’s like a solid wall of stress. He can hide it from everybody else behind his sunglasses and attitude, but he always has gray around him. I’ve never actually seen anything like his aura, not as consistent as this.”

It wasn’t exactly surprising, not given everything the man had been through and the hurdles still poised before him, but Anathema didn’t know his backstory. Of course, Aziraphale couldn’t discount her unique and uncanny ability to read auras. She was too precise for him not to believe her, not with everything his great-aunt had taught him. The only person she couldn’t seem to get an accurate fix on was Adam, probably due to the effervescence of youth. He did seem to be full to the brim with it.

So, no, it shouldn’t have been surprising, but Aziraphale was still swept up with a protective urge to keep Crowley’s worries safely sheltered from the world regardless. Even knowing Anathema would do him no harm with this knowledge, it was knowledge that hadn’t come by word of mouth. Without his say-so.

“Gosh… Oh, I do hope the new position isn’t causing him too much stress. I was rather hoping it would be the opposite,” he fretted aloud, watching as Crowley scribbled a few more things on his list until the kettle whistled.

She shrugged. She wasn’t exactly a therapist, the viewing of auras more art than science. An art she was very adept at, but art nonetheless. Interpretations abounded. “I don’t know. The calmest I’ve seen him was when he was working on Brian’s clock, though. And it’s not always the same shade of gray. It’s definitely lighter than it was that first day he was here, but it’s... constant.”

The calmest Aziraphale had seen him had been after a bottle of wine, the slope of his spine curving to match the cushions of his sofa as he steadily slumped and offered silly little smiles. He hummed, still frowning even as the memory slid down his throat the same way the wine had and warmed him somewhere in the middle. Perhaps Anathema had a point. 

“Well, I’m sure once he’s found a place to settle in and steady work starts trickling in, he’ll begin to feel more at ease. It’s quite stressful to make rather large life choices, so I wouldn’t blame him if he is.” Quite a few rather large life choices for that matter, more than anyone else in the shop knew, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to be the one to spread about Crowley’s business, not even to Anathema. “You must know the feeling, making such a big move yourself, coming all the way out here. Surely that was stressful for you, my dear girl.”

“It was, but at least I had great-grandma Agnes's book guiding me a little. And grandma wrote to you before I even booked the original flight, so I didn't stumble here. I wanted to be here.”

The mention of Agnes’s book pulled a smile from him. While she never sold a single copy of any of them, she always mailed one of her author’s copies to her daughter, Virtue, after she moved to America when she married Mr. John Device. From what his great-aunt had told him, Virtue passed the books down to her children, where they inevitably ended up in Anathema’s possession. Her first book was a book of prophecies, based on her own gift and provided glimpses into the future for her descendants. Aziraphale had read through it dozens of times, to the point where Agnes would have to take it from him to keep him from driving her spare with all of his theories. He’d seen Anathema’s name pop up a few times before she’d even been born, so the letter from Virtue had not been entirely a surprise, though it did fill him with curiosity, wondering what this second cousin once removed of his was like. Like him and Agnes, the Device side of the family had always been a bit on the outside of things. The “others” that were often forgotten, whether accidentally or on purpose.

Still, now that she was here and eager to learn about this side of her family that she’d grown up quite isolated from - after all, one couldn’t get much farther from Tadfield than Malibu, California - Aziraphale wanted to try to bridge that gap for her. He’d given her old pictures of Agnes and some of her old spell books when he found out she was a practicing witch herself. He couldn’t give her everything, no, some things meant far too much to him to part with just yet, but he could start the foundation that would hopefully end up with some kind of relationship with the likes of Gabriel, Sandalphon, Uriel, and Michael. Oh, and Uncle Met, of course. That whole line.

“I suppose you did have Agnes’s guidance to get by on, so the future wasn’t completely unknown,” he mused, stirring his cocoa as he reminisced, well on its way to cooling off. “And you must know, I wanted you here as well. It’s been such a delight getting to know you this past year. Your great-grandmother would be proud.”

“I hope so.” She wasn’t always so sure about that. 

There hadn’t been anyone to take the prophetic book away from her, nor anyone to ask questions. Agnes had always had a flair for the dramatic and, like her sister, a deep affection for games. Instead of writing, “Anathema, fly to England and your cousin will help you flourish professionally, encourage you to put down roots, and introduce you to an almost-loser of a boyfriend” the pages on her were scattered and out of order, some of them not even seeming applicable to her until after they’d already happened.

One of the best things Newt had managed to do was pull her nose out of prophecy and into the present, to not get lost in things she couldn’t control. To enjoy the things Aziraphale had gifted her without feeling as if she hadn’t quite earned them. Family hadn’t ended up resembling the idyllic fantasies of a young girl, but she was very happy with the one piece that had worked out. 

“According to the gossip chain,” Madame Tracy, “my landlords might be planning on selling the cottage. If that’s true, I was thinking about- I’m hoping to get first dibs.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he gasped. “Oh, really? That’s wonderful, my dear girl! Well, I shall hope for you as well. It truly is a darling cottage.” He’d been over a few times in the past year for tea and what the Americans called lemonade - which he quite honestly enjoyed much more than the lemonade he was used to, especially when it was mixed with iced tea to create that beverage named for the nice young man who created it. At least Aziraphale assumed that was who it was named after. “You know, I do see them at church on the occasional Sunday. Perhaps I can discreetly poke about and find out what they’re planning.”

He wasn’t very good at being discreet, but the townspeople knew and generally liked the old-fashioned Mr. Fell. “Just don’t let neighborhood watch hear you. He doesn’t exactly have a high opinion of the flighty American, and I don't think anything I do tomorrow would change his mind.”

“Don’t take it too personally, my dear. There are few things, if any, that can change the mind of one R.P. Tyler.”

----

Crowley didn’t consider himself to be an idiot. Yes, some bad choices had been made with bad people, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever had suspicions that Luci and the rest were decent people. He was a good judge of character. Good enough that he didn’t always have to meet someone to know what to expect.

R.P. Tyler was one of those people. Aziraphale had described him as neighborhood watch, tacking on a “he means well.” That wasn’t a safe description of anyone, particularly coupled with Tracy’s description of his rather nice, interesting wife, and their adorable sausage dog, Shutzi. Crowley hadn’t asked about them, though, only about the man himself. When pressed, Tracy had given his cheek a pat. “Oh, you know the old saying, dear, ‘if you haven’t got anything nice to say.’ Oh, but they do have lovely apple trees.”

Right. It all added up to him being a gossip like Madame Tracy, but with Shadwell’s charm. Less, if that was possible, considering Newt’s particular shade of green as they waited for the couple to bring in the old clock. The sound of a backfiring lorry heralded their arrival just after ten, over thirty minutes earlier than scheduled. From his station, he watched Aziraphale briefly close his eyes in what he imagined to be a quick prayer for strength, his own lips twitching when the man of the hour beat him to the door.

It was hard not to grin wickedly when Mr. Tyler’s gaze landed on him, obvious from the way his shoulders straightened and the lines of his face settled into instant disapproval. And then he did grin when Shadwell’s “ach!” thundered. “None o’ye traitors told me it was this one visitin’. Bloody blowhard thinks-”

“Oh, Mr. S, you just hush, you silly old thing,” Tracy interrupted, her fondness a ready distraction.

Somehow Mr. Tyler’s disapproving wrinkles deepened. “Mr. Fell, I did not come here to be insulted by your employees.”

“Of course you didn’t, Mr. Tyler. I’m terribly sorry that this is the welcome you’re receiving.” Aziraphale clasped his hands together, his voice ringing with the most sincerity someone in the customer service field could hope to have as he strategically positioned himself between R.P. Tyler and Shadwell. “I’ll have a word with him, I can assure you. Now, might we assist you with bringing in your clock? I believe I have just the sack barrow to ensure safe transportation.”

“It’s in the lorry.” He looked beyond Aziraphale to study the shop occupants and their projects, sniffing the same disapproving way he did every time he saw Deirdre working. In his lofty opinion, her energy would be better suited wrangling her menace of a child and his gang of hooligan friends. He quickly settled on Crowley again, though, as Deirdre and the rest weren’t the current targets of his curiosity. His ire, yes, but that was hardly new. The stranger with his too-fancy car which drove far too fast through town wearing too tight jeans and too dark sunglasses was very new, very interesting, and very clearly up to No Good. “So. That’s a clockman, is he?”

“My clockman, yes. Mr. Tyler, might I introduce Mr. Anthony Crowley.” The first name might make him seem more approachable than the sunglasses first suggested. “He’s new to the area, but I’m sure someone like our dependable neighborhood watch would have invaluable information on how to make one feel at home in our humble village.” His smile was sweet and serene, looking every bit the picture of an angel as Crowley so often put it.

If his back could've straightened more, it would have. As it was, he was rescued from reply by his wife stepping in. Or they were all rescued from him, depending on viewpoint. “Good morning, Mr. Fell. I know we're a bit early, I hope it's not a problem. Got a bit of shopping to get to today.”

“Not a problem at all, Mrs. Tyler. Please come in. Have a seat.” He gestured to a pair of stools they’d brought out, set up at Crowley’s work table.

Newt fetched the sack barrow from the supply corner at Aziraphale’s request, taking care to grab the one that didn’t have the wonky wheel and followed R.P. Tyler to where his lorry was parked. After seeing that Mrs. Tyler was settled, Aziraphale beckoned for Crowley to join him to see about getting the clock safely inside. Though his well-manicured hands and curves about the middle implied a rather soft lifestyle - which, to be fair, was rather the case most of the time - he could be quite the heavy lifter when it came down to it. Before Anathema had come on, it had really been down to Newt, Shadwell, and himself to move most of the furniture pieces in and out of the shop, Deirdre and Madame Tracy not quite having the constitution to handle some of the bulkier items. 

The grandfather clock was protected from the elements by a large sheet. Newt was trying not to get too tangled up in it as he unwrapped it. They used the sheet to keep the wood from scratching against the trailer as they carefully slid the clock out bottom first. Aziraphale held the sack barrow steady, using his weight to brace the clock as Crowley and Newt eased it down onto the dolly’s lip.

One of the problems with the antique became immediately apparent: a long, deep split right in the center of the back. They could see the pendulum through it, metal dull and immobile, and it was the next obvious problem. One of the short, stubby legs which supported the thing was gone and there were a dozen stress fractures caused by its snap. Newt and Shadwell were going to have their work cut out for them, but so was Crowley. It gave three surprising, aborted attempts at chimes when they muscled the thing onto Crowley’s work station, and Mrs. Tyler sighed.

“Oh, the poor thing. It used to chime properly every hour,” she lamented.

“What’ve ye done to it?” Shadwell bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at Mr. Tyler. “Lettin’ a fine piece o’furniture like this rot away! S’cruel.”

R.P. bristled. “I haven’t done a thing. It’s just old.” He shot Crowley an unimpressed look. “And don’t you know it’s rude to wear sunglasses indoors?”

“Is it?” he replied lightly, gently opening the scratched glass to get a better look at the actual face itself. It was as off-colour as the pendulum, and though it tried hard, the second hand wouldn’t tick past the three. He was already itching to fix it.

“Mr. Tyler, while I don’t mean to contradict,” except Aziraphale absolutely did, that was why he was speaking up, “sunglasses are intended to protect the eyes from harmful ultraviolet light. And seeing as I do have- well…” He pointed up at the ceiling, and the two skylights bright above them. “Perhaps one might consider it an extra precaution rather than an attempt to be rude.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t believe-”

“Yer beliefs aren’t worth me spit,” Shadwell claimed, though he certainly had his own theories about what Crowley was hiding behind those dark lenses. That was in-house business and R.P. Tyler was certainly not in-house.

Since Mrs. Tyler was watching him as if the bickering wasn’t happening, Crowley followed her lead. “So, judging by the accents and style of the face, I’m pegging this as early 19th century? Flame mahogany, J. Carr Garstang. English traditional.” He gestured at the ornate brass bird atop the clock, poised mid-flight with a missing wing. “Wouldn’t happen to have that bit, would you?”

“Yes, but the previous clockman said it would be impossible to fix.”

“He wasn’t me. Have it with you?”

She opened her handbag and withdrew a tissue, passing it over and watching Crowley unwrap the brass wing. Brass couldn’t be easily welded, but he could solder it if he could get his hands on the right equipment. He’d have to talk to Aziraphale about it. “Right. How long’s it been broken, then?”

“Oh, nearly a decade, I think. The chimes were going off whenever they felt like it, it seemed, but I always did like the sound when I was a girl. It’s only been making those odd sounds since it toppled over last year. It’s been in our attic since.”

“D’you have the leg?”

“Oh, Heavens, no. It disappeared, I’m afraid.”

“Ah.” Crowley glanced at Newt, followed his fascinated/horrified gaze to Shadwell. He seemed to have decided his point was better made at max volume, Tracy scurrying over to put a stop to that foolishness before Aziraphale’s patience completely frayed. He elbowed Newt for his attention, gestured at the clock. “The leg’s gone amiss. You and Shadwell can handle it, can’t you?”

“Er- yes?” he answered Crowley, then remembered that it was the client he needed to be addressing and swiveled to face Mrs. Tyler. “I mean, yes. Um. The other legs look like they’re in good enough condition, so we can carve a replica to replace the one that’s missing. With some colour and glaze, should be able to get a close match. As for the stress fractures…”

Newt leaned over the clock’s case, pushing his glasses up when they started to slip down the bridge of his nose as he followed where the wood splintered. “We can try and glue the cracks together, but we may have to sand down the sides a bit. Wood can expand and shrink when there’s a lot of moisture in the air, sometimes, and that might’ve put too much strain on the back panel and the base. But it is possible to fix,” he assured her.

“That’s lovely news. It’s in such a state.” She gave the enormous clock a pained look. “It’d be nice to have it pride of place again.”

Crowley hummed, closing the glass again. They’d likely have to replace it. It had probably fallen more than once. “With them working on the case, I can handle the rest. The face used to be two-toned, didn’t it? It’s lost almost all its silver.”

“And the numbers were black. I remember that.” She nodded firmly. “Now I don’t want it pristine, of course. He’s an old gentleman and I’d like to keep as much of that as can be, but some polish won’t hurt. If the face could shine again...”

“Leave it to me. Oi, angel?”

“Yes, Crowley?” His voice lilted a little extra bit, putting in every effort not to sound as frayed as attempting to coax Shadwell away from R.P. Tyler had made him.

Crowley’s smile might’ve been pitying under all the amusement. “Newt and I’ve just about got our end sorted.”

That caught Mr. Tyler’s attention immediately. “Already?” He hadn’t even gotten a chance to interrogate him. 

“Yup. Your wife knows what she wants done.”

“I’ll put together a quote sheet,” Newt told him, and it was a blessing in disguise that Aziraphale had never moved towards an electronic system and did them all on paper. He then looked at Crowley. “I’ll leave room for you to write down what you think the estimate for the clockwork will be? Then we can sum it up, give them the total.”

Crowley nodded. “I'll need to get a look at the gear trains to say what exactly needs doing, but that's fine. I should know by the time you're done.”

It was too bad that most jobs involving crunching numbers required one to be savvy with computers - or at the very least able to power one on without shorting out the entire block - otherwise Newt might have had a different calling as an engineer or an actuary. While he might not have been confident in much, if given a piece of paper and a pencil - and sometimes an adding machine - he could do sums on paper like it wasn’t any more complicated than breathing. Within five minutes, he had an estimate ready for the woodworking piece of the grandfather clock, price permitting that they were able to seal the cracks by cutting back the boards. Neither he nor Shadwell would be able to tell for certain until they started taking the case apart.

“It may end up being a little less if we don’t have to cut as much as I’m anticipating. This is sort of on the high end of things,” he told the Tylers. “If it looks like it might be more once we take a closer look, I’ll call you before we start anything to make sure it suits your budget.” Though if it didn’t, then it wasn’t too unlikely that Aziraphale would work some kind of miracle to make it happen. “But again, this is just for the frame. I’ll add it up once Mr. Crowley’s finished with it.”

From what Crowley could tell, it would need a complete overhaul. He couldn't and wouldn't know the state of the movement until he cracked everything open, but a quick confirmation from Mrs. Tyler told him the clock hadn't been serviced in over thirty years so he'd definitely have to replace it. Rebalancing the pendulum was going to take some effort, but he could handle it. And he could get everything cleaned, repaint the face if he could get some paint off Anathema or Deirdre. He wasn't proficient at maths by any stretch of the imagination, so verbally explained his estimates and let Newt handle the sums. 

When it came out to four digits, Mrs. Tyler calmly proved just who was in charge of their household by opening a checkbook and following Aziraphale to his station to provide a down payment. Twenty percent of the estimate was scrawled in her neat script while R.P. Tyler spluttered unhappily and sent Crowley vaguely accusatory glares as if it was his fault.

“How do we even know you know what you're doing? The numbers might be inflated. Londoners are always doing those sorts of things. Scheming.”

If anything, it was the opposite. Crowley had only added fifty pounds to what he would've charged fifteen years earlier, a weak adjustment for inflation considering the value of the clock. When it was finished, it would be worth far more than they were putting into it. “Luckily for you, it's only an estimate.”

“And how much do you suppose that clock is worth once you've finished taking out of my pocket?”

Crowley eased his hip against his table, eyeing the clock again. “A nineteenth century Lancashire piece like this? Once it's properly restored? Mm. Five thousand pounds, depending on the collector.”

The loss of Mr. Tyler's voice was a miracle unto itself. It lasted long enough for Mrs. Tyler to look up in concern, but her concerned question of his name snapped him out of it. “Well! Get on with it, then. The sooner it's finished, the better. It's a fine, family piece, you understand.”

Crowley's gaze flicked to Aziraphale, though no one knew, and his lips quirked. “Right.”

Though he hadn't heard the entirety of their conversation as he took care of Mrs. Tyler's receipt, the sense of his stare only led Aziraphale to believe he was up to no good. In the best possible way, understand. He gave him a look, as if silently asking him to behave.

They could have a good laugh about whatever he'd done to shock R.P. Tyler speechless once they'd gone. “We'll be in contact with you should we have any questions or updates; otherwise, we'll telephone you once it's ready to be picked up,” he finished telling Mrs. Tyler.

“Thank you, Mr. Fell. It's been in my family such a long time. I would love to hear it chiming properly again.”

“As would we, my dear lady. I can assure you it’s in very good hands.” Lovely hands, he’d even venture to think, but never to say out loud. That would simply be humiliating.

“Certainly confident ones.” She rose to collect her husband, offering Newt and Crowley a pleased smile. “Thank you so much, gentlemen. I’m looking forward to seeing it finished.”

“We hope that you’ll like it,” Newt put in, then after a look from Aziraphale offered to see them to their car.

“Oh, Mr. S, I think I have a nice cup of tea waiting for you just the way you like it.” Madame Tracy physically manhandled him over to the kitchenette. “You can get started on that old clock once Mr. Crowley’s got all he needs out of it.”

“Should break it further jes to spite 'im,” Shadwell muttered, Tracy tutting over him whilst getting him his cuppa.

Shaking his head, Crowley eased the massive grandfather clock onto its back. “Well, that was fun.”

“Fun for you,” Aziraphale huffed, polite smile finally cracking as he leaned against Crowley’s work table and heaved a sigh of relief. “But I suppose it could’ve been worse. Mrs. Tyler certainly seemed taken by you.” When his lips quirked up this time, it wasn’t his customer service smile that graced Crowley’s sight, but one of his soft, genuinely pleased ones. “It looked like it all went rather well.”

“Think so. Seems like she appreciates someone who can ignore her husband as well as she can.” Crowley plucked up a screwdriver to remove the glass panel. “The real question is how a town this small manages to contain the amount of attitude between Mr. Tyler and Sergeant Shadwell.”

“There are some questions even I do not have the answer to,” he sighed, allowing himself to sound a little overdramatic. “I suppose, in the end, they both mean well. In their own ways.” He watched Crowley work for a moment, his fingers very carefully laying the glass aside on a cloth, and recited his question mentally several times before giving voice to it. “How did you feel about it, my dear? I hope Mr. Tyler didn’t cause too much offense.”

“If I got offended by every person who was rude about me wearing sunglasses or existing, I’d’ve had a stroke by now. Besides, this isn’t a job for him, s’far as I’m concerned.” He unscrewed the door next, hum soft as he stroked a finger down the pendulum. Greasy, dusty, dented. “He thought it was junk before I put a number on it, and I gave him one at the low end of the scale.”

Aziraphale straightened suddenly, gaze darting between Crowley and the clock. “Oh, but he can’t possibly be thinking of selling it! It’s been in Mrs. Tyler’s family for decades!”

“If you think that woman would let him so much as call a proper appraiser, you’ve lost the plot.” Crowley had to wiggle the hood a bit to get it lifted off the clock face, but the sticking didn’t bother him much. It wasn’t uncommon. “He’s just the sort who enjoys flaunting things. As humbly as can be, but I guarantee you’ll hear it mentioned come Sunday.”

He still looked concerned, though much of his distress had been assuaged by Crowley’s adamance. But he couldn’t help taking offense to the notion that he’d “lost the plot.” He’d never once lost track of any point in any plot he’d ever read, not even Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury or Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake. To suggest he had was rather an affront to, well, everything he stood for. He almost had a mind to keep his next thought to himself - not out of pettiness, of course, only because rudeness shouldn’t be rewarded - but he thought about the kind of aura Anathema claimed to have seen surrounding the man and the worry he harbored within him. He had to throw him some sort of lifeline, a few seeds of optimism. 

“I hope that they do,” he told him with a little huff, straightening his waistcoat with a sharp tug. “It would provide me an excellent opening to promote your services to the town. And if someone is able to make Mr. Tyler impressed, well, that’s someone worth looking into.”

“If someone’s able to keep him quiet for a few seconds, you mean. If he and Shadwell had talked over each other anymore, you would’ve gotten a noise complaint from London.” Crowley tested the weights by the pendulum, walked around the table to check their connection behind the face. “Now help me get the works out, angel. I don’t want the weights and the pendulum dragging across the back.” 

“Do you trust me not to lose the works?”

Crowley managed to convey just how unimpressed he was with the bland question even with his sunglasses on. “Well, thankfully they’re attached to the saddle board so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Well, I thought I should check. After all, if you think I could lose a plot, then Lord knows what else I could lose.” He rolled his eyes, but joined him on his right side to offer his assistance nonetheless. “Honestly, Crowley, my career is in books.”

“That’s not-” Crowley quietly studied him for a moment, trying to figure out where the disconnect had happened. “It’s slang. Means...” He waved a hand as if trying to spin the words out of air. “Just means you have something confused.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not a very accurate saying. I’ve never once been confused about a plot- well, a book’s plot. I suppose some film plots can get a bit convoluted. I didn’t consider that.”

“There you are, then. Bad movies lose their actual plots all the time.” Problem solved. “Now you hold the saddle board here and very slowly draw it out. I'll hold the pendulum and the weights up.”

Aziraphale gingerly grasped the edge of the wooden board the works were bolted to. It simply rested on the sides of the case intended to support it, no other supports needed when the weights and the pendulum kept it in place. He kept one eye on Crowley’s hands, this time solely for the purpose of checking to make sure he held the pendulum steady as he moved the works out of the body of the grandfather clock.

They managed to get it onto a stand, though the pendulum was tilted even with the weights offering support. Crowley pushed his glasses down his nose, flicking on a thin torch so he could study the gear trains. It was far worse than the mantel clock had been, but that only made it more interesting and the eventual finish more impactful. He’d been right to ask for a morning appointment, more than ready to roll his sleeves up and get to work on it.

“This old thing’s a complete mess.” If there was grey in his aura, there was plenty of colour too when he looked up from the gears and smiled at Aziraphale. “Should be fun.”

Aziraphale smiled back as he watched Crowley dive right in. Yes, he certainly hoped so.

Chapter Text

The crunch of gravel beneath tyres caught Aziraphale’s ear, and he very nearly bustled outside of the shop to greet who he hoped it would be. But the sound of the engine idling didn’t match the low rumbling of the Bentley he’d grown quite used to seeing on his property, and the unmistakable chirp of the lock setting in place sent chills down his spine. Oh, he knew only one car that made that sort of sound. 

Aziraphale straightened so suddenly his stool nearly toppled over. Madame Tracy and Anathema were the closest to him, both of them watching surreptitiously as he removed his gloves and reading glasses, then tugged hard on his waistcoat, where the corduroy had been rubbed away over the years. Steeling his expression, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention, just in time for a man in a sleek grey suit with a cashmere scarf to stride in.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale greeted, forcing his lips into an upward curve. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Surprise!” The man clapped his hands, rubbing them together as he directed a winning smile in Aziraphale’s direction. “I was just on my way to Oxford, thought I’d stop in and check up on things. See how everyone’s doing.” He shifted his smile to Tracy and Anathema, nodding encouragingly at them in the hopes to elicit an agreement of some sort. “We’re doing well, right ladies? Yes? Good.”

“Well, that’s very… kind of you.” Aziraphale waited for him as the man quickly surveyed his surroundings, no doubt following some sort of internal checklist of criticisms just waiting to be unleashed. “Tea?”

He made a face like Aziraphale had forced an entire lemon into his mouth. “Oh. No. Don’t know how you can stand to drink the stuff,” he snorted. “No, I won’t be around long. Just stopping in, like I said. Thought I’d meet the new hire. Welcome him to the team.” Gabriel spread his arms wide as he continued his scan of the barn. “Where is he?”

Aziraphale could not have been more grateful that he’d given Crowley the day off to tour some of the nearby flats for let. He needed time to mentally prepare for that meeting. But what was more concerning to him than Crowley’s reaction to meeting someone he’d openly complained about, was why Gabriel felt the need to welcome Crowley specifically.

“Wh- why do you want to know?” he asked, then immediately gave his brain a mental slap.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “I just told you why.”

“Yes, right. Sorry, still in the- ah… the restoration headspace.” Aziraphale gestured haphazardly at his workstation.

“He’s not here,” Madame Tracy spoke up, shifting Gabriel’s attention from Aziraphale so he could recollect himself. “He’s got the day off, love.”

“Day off?” Gabriel’s brow furrowed, and Aziraphale fought not to roll his eyes at how the man couldn’t seem to comprehend something so humane as to give an employee a day off. “He just started and he’s already asking for time off?”

“I encouraged it,” Aziraphale told him. “He’s only just relocated out here, Gabriel. He’s been staying at the local inn while looking for a place to lease.”

“And what was he doing last weekend? He couldn’t have found time to check out rental listings?”

“Oh, well, he had a bit of car trouble,” Madame Tracy added with a cluck to her tongue. “Poor dear. Mr. S and Newton had to help him roll the old girl all the way from town when he first got here. He had to get her all fixed up before he could go looking at flats, dear. And that was after he took the time to fix up my scooter. Good as new now. I don’t think it’s run this well since before I got my knee implants.” She lifted her skirt with a wink, not enough to flash anyone anything aside from her ankles, but it still had Aziraphale choking his laugh into his fist as he watched Gabriel visibly recoil. “You know they’re just not what they were.”

“That’s… wonderful. Good for you. Aziraphale, might we talk a moment in private?” 

He cleared his throat, rocking up onto the balls of his feet. “Of course.”

With a sweep of his arm, Aziraphale gestured for Gabriel to lead the way out of the shop, then exchanged glances with the two women. Anathema offered him a thumbs up and a grimace, so he supposed that evened out to something neutral, while Tracy shook her head with sympathy. He sighed. Right, well, hopefully this wouldn’t be too painful.

They passed Sergeant Shadwell and Newt on their way to the house, the pair of them helping a client load a cast bronze, Victorian style park bench into the back of their van, freshly restored, with the wooden slats protected with a gleaming coat of varnish. Aziraphale watched the client’s face as they admired the beautiful craftsmanship, when it had first arrived the metal had been corroded and lacked any fine detail, and the wooden slats had cracked and warped from constant exposure over the years. The client was intending to surprise his wife with their old garden bench for their 50th anniversary, and Aziraphale could see, even at this distance, the happy sheen of tears glistening in his eyes. 

Gabriel cleared his throat. With a contented sigh, Aziraphale clung to the memory of that man’s face, knowing that stories like this were why he put up with… well, everything else, really. He followed his cousin into the foyer, brushing past him so he could clear a space for them to sit at the dining table. His library books were piled atop it, along with the old television set he’d pulled from out of the closet just to make sure it still worked. Gabriel watched him push it onto one of the chairs, then the books were carefully set on the seat of a second chair. 

“This won’t take long, Aziraphale,” Gabriel spoke up after his attempt to tidy up a bit and made no move to sit in either of the open chairs. He stood in the doorway and waited for Aziraphale to straighten up, dust himself off, and stand at attention once more. “I’m curious as to how you managed to find a qualified candidate so quickly.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale swallowed, his pulse jumping a bit frantically. He knows. He knows about his criminal record. 

“When did you even hold his interview?” he asked.

“Last Saturday.” At least he could answer that confidently. “At half past ten in the morning. It was all in the paperwork.”

Gabriel tilted his head just an inch to the right, looking at him as if another angle would reveal the cracks in his story. “We spoke that Saturday,” he said slowly, then raised both eyebrows. “You didn’t mention it.”

“As I recall, you did say you were rather busy,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And it wasn’t the topic of our discussion. Besides, you’ve always left the hiring to me. I’d think it would be a bit of a wasted effort to inform you of every little detail. I mean, you have said as much, in the past. I didn’t want to trouble you with something as trifling as an interview.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Gabriel chuckled, but it didn’t sound like he thought Aziraphale was very funny.

“Well, perhaps I’m learning.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be something. But I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “Still, might as well meet him while I’m out here and check on the rest of the staff. Will he be in Tuesday afternoon?”

“Yes, he should be,” Aziraphale replied stiffly.

“Great. I’ll swing by on my way back to London.”

Of course he wouldn’t ask for permission, and of course Aziraphale wouldn’t demand it. “What time should we expect you? So we’re not in the middle of anything.”

Gabriel blew out a long stream of air as he pursed his lips. “Let’s say… three-ish? Can’t tell now. My morning’s full with meetings, then I’m having lunch with one of my clients, but we’ll call it three.”

“Alright, I’ll tell- I’ll, er, let Mr. Crowley know to expect you around then.”

“Make sure you do.” Gabriel pointed at him, his smile too wide; it made Aziraphale’s stomach turn even as he smiled back. “Good talking with you, Aziraphale. See you Tuesday- oh.” He wagged his finger in the air as he chased a thought. “How did ordering through that new supplier go? Have you tried it yet?”

“Oh, yes. It was- well, how do I put it-”

“Any problems with the order?”

“Well, no, not problems per say, but ah-”

“Perfect! See, I told you it was a good idea. Alright, talk to you later.”

“But I…” Aziraphale started, but his voice failed him as it turned to smoke in his mouth, wispy and drifted away on the slightest breeze. The fight fled from him and his shoulders sagged under the weight of the realization that maybe he had chosen the wrong thing after all. “Right. Yes, later. Mind how you go.”

Gabriel’s matte silver Rolls-Royce Ghost purred to life and carefully pulled out into the road. The fancy car suited him, much in the same way the Bentley suited Crowley. Perhaps it was the same with cars as it was with dogs, where people said that owners and their canine companions resembled one another. Aziraphale shook his head and trudged back to the shop, convincing himself to strengthen his resolve for Tuesday and be prepared to speak with Gabriel man-to-man. Yes, he’d simply been unprepared this time. He hadn’t expected to see Gabriel today, or to have to talk about the results of the new supplier or hiring Crowley. Now that he knew what to expect, it would be easier to get his facts straight.

It didn’t escape his notice that he had four sets of eyes on him as he reentered the shop. They tried to be subtle, but there was always an element of curiosity whenever Gabriel came calling without notice. Normally Aziraphale ran things swimmingly, always checking in on projects, asking how things were going, lending a hand when needed. It was harder to keep that up after these visits, no matter how short.

“Everything alright, Mr. Aziraphale?” Madame Tracy asked, her tone light, trying not to pry.

“Tip-top, my good lady. Just a check-in, that’s all.” He straightened his bowtie, centering himself as he did so. “Newton, Sergeant, how did things go with the bench?”

“Oh, it was… fine. Good. His wife’s really going to like it, he thinks.”

“Wonderful.” He put on a smile, and honestly it wasn’t so hard. Not when there was still something good in the shop. So many good things. 

“He wanted to talk about Crowley and your aura's off,” Anathema pointed out, suspicion living behind her lenses. “It wasn't just a check-in.”

“Ach,” Shadwell grunted, fist thumping on his workbench. “Talkin' 'bout ye're witchery in a place o'business. Bad enough we got grown men cryin' over woodwork like southern pansies.” He'd been northern, but people were typically split into four distinct categories with Shadwell: southern, American, witches, and Madame Tracy. Sometimes Newt fashioned himself a neat little fifth category, but then Shadwell would remember he was dating an American witch and it was back to four. He pointed at him now. “Control yer woman, lad.”

“Excuse me,” Anathema retorted, drawing herself up to her full height. “I don't need to be controlled.”

Newt stiffened, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No,” he nearly squeaked. “No, she certainly does not.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged once again, but this time it was a well-worn look for him, almost comfortable in its familiarity, as he rolled his eyes. “Sergeant, please. We’ve talked about this. I don’t want to have to get out the workplace harassment brochure again.” Though it had been a few months, perhaps he was due for a refresher course. “Now, dear Anathema, I can assure you it was… mostly a check-in. Gabriel was suspicious because I hired Crowley so quickly is all. And he doesn’t exactly... understand the work we do here, or the day-to-day, rather, so to explain how he seemed like a good fit would simply- well, quite honestly it would be like trying to convince Sergeant Shadwell here that I’m not a great southern pansy myself. A fruitless endeavor.”

It was rare that even Shadwell couldn't argue against something. Anathema accepted it with a sigh. “When's he coming back?” 

“Tuesday afternoon on his way back to London. I’ll make sure it doesn’t cause any disruptions to you all and your work. He’s at least given me somewhat of a timeframe to expect him,” he assured them.

“Oh, it’s hardly a disruption.” Madame Tracy waved off, then winked. “It’s exciting to have a well-dressed man around now and again. He’s very posh for an American. No offense, dear,” she told Anathema warmly. “An American bloke, I should say.”

Shadwell grunted. “He's the worst sort.”

Anathema sent him a sugary smile. “Worse than witches?” 

“Dinnae press yer luck.”

That sort of banter was typical for Divine Restorations & Repairs, and Aziraphale found himself smiling a little easier. They could be frustrating at times - Shadwell - but he had a great group of people working for him, and all exceptionally talented, give or take a few quirks. Shaking his head fondly, he made his way back to his work table, mentally preparing to dive back into his work when the crunch of gravel beneath tyres reached his ears again.

This time it was the low rumbling he’d hoped for.

“Crowley,” his name had somehow become a greeting all on its own, escaping him in a pleased sort of sigh before he could stop it as the man sauntered in, “I didn’t think you’d be coming in today.”

“I finished up, figured I'd rather come by than sit around the inn bored.” He just wanted to work on the grandfather clock and maybe talk Aziraphale into getting dinner with him, but it and the stress behind it faded. He couldn't read auras like Anathema, but he understood people. There was something too close to relief mingling with the simple pleasure on Aziraphale's face. Something was wrong, and he doubted he'd be able to get the truth in front of everyone. “Can I borrow you outside, angel?” 

“Oh, er… yes, of course.” Aziraphale smoothed his hands down over his waistcoat, glancing about the shop before pressing forward, following Crowley out the barn doors and over to the Bentley. “Is everything alright, my dear?”

Crowley leaned against the car, a brow arched. “I don't think so. What's happened?” 

“I meant with you.” But Aziraphale had started to fidget, fingers twisting the ring on his pinky. “Nothing’s happened here- well, except we will need to mentally prepare ourselves for Tuesday. Gabriel is in the area and wants to ‘welcome you’ to the team personally. To be fair, I think he’s simply just trying to rattle me as payback for giving him grief over the whole supplier debate. But I want to give you a heads up. Other than that it’s just been… well, business as usual.”

“So it was good until he showed up and upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

Crowley shrugged. “You're not fine either.”

“I-” Aziraphale started to argue, but cut himself off to breathe deeply and reassess his feelings on the matter. He had told Crowley he’d still talk to him about these kinds of things, but in this case it was ridiculous to be upset, nothing had even really happened. “I am fine,” he insisted, though a bit softer this time. “I don’t like when he shows up out of the blue, and it does put me a little… on edge, I should say, but it’s really no cause for concern.”

He'd say it was. It sounded like he'd managed to rattle Aziraphale, if that really had been the goal. So Crowley would just have to do what he could to fix it. “Do I have to behave when he shows up next?” 

Aziraphale tsked, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t force you, but I would appreciate it if you did. At least a little.”

“Well, I s'pose I might. Just a little, though, to give you one less thing to be on edge about.” Crowley's lips quirked. “I'll just have to make faces behind his back.”

“You wouldn't dare!” he gasped as he lifted a hand to cover his mouth, but he just wasn't quick enough to hide the traitorous upward tilt of his own. “You wily serpent.”

Crowley straightened and circled him, thumbs hooked in his pockets. “Well, now I have to prove you wrong. When's he coming? I can practice behind Shadwell.”

“Oh good Lord.” He rolled his eyes, his amusement still palpable as he followed Crowley's orbit. “Around three o'clock, which means he could surprise us at two or keep us waiting until four.” But he wouldn't want to get into London too late, so two was more likely. 

“Right.” Seemed like an awful time to pop in. Not early enough to have it over with, not late enough that everyone could leave after he left. “Plenty of time to practice.”

Aziraphale tsked again, shaking his head in order to stop himself from continuing to follow Crowley. “Yes, well, just don't let him see you. Heaven knows what witchcraft the sergeant will think you're up to.”

“There's no fun in getting caught.” Crowley settled himself at Aziraphale's side, lips quirking. “He and Newt have time to start on the Tyler clock yet? I know they had the bench pickup today. That go alright?” 

“It did rather. The gentleman was so grateful. But ah, I believe they intend to work on it the remainder of the afternoon.” Aziraphale perked up a bit, his smile brightening. “And what about you, my dear? How was today? Did any of the flats leave an impression on you?” 

His shrug was a little jerky, a little defensive. “Some did, I s’pose. Did the applications where I could. I might have to look closer to London than I'd like, but... I'll know in a few days.”

“Oh… what do you mean? Closer to London, I… well, that would be quite the commute, my dear.” And surely he wouldn’t want to stick around for dinner at the pub or for a glass of wine or to watch those films they’d talked about if he had to drive so far.

“Couple of hours, yeah. I already timed it. There's not really much choice, though. I haven't got any sort of credit to speak of and, if my last landlord is in the same building or even alive, what's she going to say? That I broke the lease early because I got arrested? They're more used to that in the city than they are around here, angel.” 

“But you were wrongfully accused. You were acquitted. Certainly they should be open to listening to you.” But there was a niggling doubt festering in his chest, the same one that didn’t want to think about what would happen if Gabriel found out he’d hired someone with a criminal record. That doubt was still overshadowed by the shine of optimism, of faith in good people. “If you reached the right people… well, someone ought to understand.”

Crowley didn't have that optimism. He'd met his quota of angels, and there were no right people. “Well, I got two uncomfortable, direct nos and the rest don't seem to be in my favour. Nearly anyone's better than the bloke with no credit, a fifteen year gap of anything worthwhile, and a job that's barely started.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale pressed hands over his heart to push down the urge to acknowledge that he had a point. “You’re so much more than that. And if they don’t see that, then they’re the ones missing out on a tip-top tenant.” Not that knowing that would solve the issue of him needing a place of residence. He reached forward to take one of Crowley’s hands in both of his and gave him a squeeze. “I’m quite certain someone will see that and take a chance. Don’t give up yet, Crowley.”

He looked down at their hands, quietly considering them for a moment. “We'll see. I'm supposed to hear back in a few days.” And he plainly couldn't stay at the inn much longer than that. He'd wasted too much time. 

“Please keep me informed. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” He gave the back of his hand a gentle pat, not quite the suave kisses Crowley had been doling out each night they parted, but it didn’t seem like the right gesture. Not the right moment. Aziraphale fought back his blush as he gently released his hand. “I can ask around, in town. See if anyone knows of the landlords in the area who could put in a good word or two.”

“Lie for you, you mean.” Crowley waved a hand when Aziraphale's brows drew together. “No, I know what you mean, angel. But you don't need to. If it comes down to it, I can handle a commute.”

He couldn't deny that the comment had stung, thin barbs to the words that scratched on their way down, but Aziraphale had to remind himself that Crowley had every reason to feel that way. That this wasn't about him. “Right. Well… I'll leave you to it then.” He nodded, more to himself than anything, and clasped his hands behind his back as he headed towards the barn. “Some of the tools you requested came in. I've left them at your workstation. The rest should arrive by Monday.” 

Crowley sighed. Upsetting him all over again hadn't been the intention. “You can’t just go off on that. I didn't mean it, Aziraphale. I'm stressed, and I've got a temper. They don't mesh well sometimes.”

“No, no. I overstepped. Of course it would be stressful, I don't blame you one bit,” he assured him, pausing to look back. “It wasn't my intention to upset you either.”

“The whole fucking situation's upsetting,” Crowley muttered, reaching into an inside pocket of his blazer to grab a carton of cigarettes. “You didn't overstep. You're just being...” He gestured with the cigarette he'd tapped out, traded the carton for a lighter. “You. You're generous, angel.”

Sometimes he wondered if he was though, truly. In this instance, for example, was it true generosity or the selfishness of wanting to spend more time with this man and keep him as close as possible? Aziraphale watched the tiny flame flicker to life and kiss the tip of the cigarette held in place by Crowley’s lips and teeth. If he were to live elsewhere, well then, things would change. No matter how new all of this was, Aziraphale still didn’t consider himself all that adaptable to changes he did not permit - and only permitted after extensive thought, research, and reflection. Though of course he wanted Crowley to find good shelter, a place where he could comfortably start over, which might have been… generous to a point, he didn’t want him so terribly far either.

“You know, I was thinking about dining at the pub tonight,” he said lightly. “If you feel up to it and don't mind waiting a bit, we could go after I lock up. My treat.” Was it generosity, or just a way to get what he wanted? “That way neither of us have to… ‘go off on that.’ And while I don’t want to assume, I’d think we could both use a little something to de-stress a bit.”

Crowley blew a steady stream of smoke into the air. It was what he’d wanted anyway. “Yeah. That’s... Y’know, it’s why I’m here. I think I’ve had enough stress today, and this place is just...” He waved a hand.

Aziraphale looked at the barn, a constant the entire time he'd lived in Tadfield. A safe harbour to weather out storms. “I believe I know what you mean.” He flicked his gaze back in time to watch Crowley take another drag. “Though this place doesn't permit smoking inside, bad for the furniture, you see, and the books, but out here it's perfectly permissible.” 

“Angel, you can’t even smoke in pubs anymore. I wasn’t planning on walking in there with this.” He didn’t even know why he’d bought a pack, but cigarettes had been behind the counter when he’d bought a prepaid phone card. So much for quitting. Again. “I’ve got a phone number, by the way.”

“Oh! You've purchased a working mobile telephone? Well, I suppose that makes sense. How else would prospective landlords get in contact with you?” he managed a chuckle at his own oversight. “Well, when you're finished with that, I can update your file with it.”

He didn’t want to explain that he’d bought the phone directly after getting the Bentley in order but had waited to get the plan. It seemed a touch foolish in retrospect since the miniature computer in his pocket had cost the better part of a down payment. It definitely would’ve gotten him another week in the inn. “Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute, angel.”

“Right. I’ll see you shortly.” Aziraphale was distracted from going back inside as he watched the soft glow of the end of his cigarette.

The smoke gently curled and framed Crowley’s face for an extra few seconds, not quite giving him an ethereal appearance, but certainly transcendental in the afternoon light, sun shining through gossamer wisps of the grey haze he exhaled. Aziraphale hadn't known Crowley smoked, though he supposed it made sense given the life he’d lived before. The times they’d grown up in. He swallowed, realizing he’d been staring for longer than was considered polite. He straightened his shoulders and offered him an awkward wave of sorts, then he disappeared back into the barn.

“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley murmured to himself, not entirely sure what to think. But he let it go. He had enough to stress over without wondering if Aziraphale was judging his smoking or whatever else that lingering look could've meant.

----

Aziraphale looked forward to Sundays.

There were always at least half a dozen things in the orbit of his to-do list during the week, various tasks to keep in mind to keep the shop in tip-top condition. When one ran a business - a business on their own property at that - there was hardly a moment where it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind in some capacity. He’d catch himself running numbers while he ate dinner or fingers itching to finish working on a client’s book as he readied himself for bed. There was little in the way of distraction once he locked up the barn and closed his front door.

Sundays were a treat though. A reward for getting through another week. He’d have his morning tea, then enjoy a leisurely stroll into town for the morning service at the church. He’d sit in his usual pew and reflect on the readings for the day before acting upon his role as part of the Welcome Ministry. He stood at the doors and greeted his fellow church-goers, passed out pamphlets, and wished blessings and good tidings upon everyone who entered Tadfield’s small chapel. After the service, he’d mingle with the good people of Tadfield over tea and other refreshments, catching up on the goings-ons of town life.

Of course, the nibbles would be just enough to stir up his appetite, so he’d stop by the pub for Sunday brunch before walking to the grocery to do his shopping for the week. Sometimes, if he bought too much to carry back on his own, the grocer would offer to deliver them to his house later in the afternoon. It was such a sweet gesture, and offered at no additional cost, though Aziraphale would always give him a few extra pounds for the trouble. On those days, he’d take advantage of not having to rush home to put the eggs and milk away, and would stroll through town, see who was open and stop in to admire their wares. Only the barber, the florist, and the antique shop had regular Sunday hours, and though he didn’t have much of a green thumb, he tried his best to support them all.

The rest of the day would be spent in the quiet of his home. A record of the likes of Schubert or Dvořák on, a bottle of wine decanting, and the softened pages of an old book at his fingertips. He could lose himself for hours, until the final sentence was read or the last drop of wine licked from his lips. Yes, he did enjoy his Sundays.

This particular Sunday, however, as he started the day and put on his Sunday best, there was the slightest twinge of disappointment. The realization that there was no excuse for Crowley to come around was like a sour note plucked from a violin slightly out of tune. Not quite right, despite it being expected. This was how his Sundays always went, after all, barring the last where things had been reworked to accommodate Crowley and the Bentley. That had been an outlier of an occasion. Certainly not something one would expect to continue.

Though they’d had a lovely dinner and drinks the night before, despite their respective worries. Aziraphale had been reluctant to leave the pocket of warm, hazy attention that they’d settled in after indulging in plates of fish and chips and sticky toffee pudding. With bellies full and slow pours from the bottle Aziraphale purchased, they carried on conversation only a little tipsy, just enough to buoy their moods above the sinking depths that threatened to drag them down into the tangle of their mutual disquiet.

On the walk home, after wine-stained lips touched the back of his hand to keep him warm on the journey back, Aziraphale couldn’t stop wondering if those lips would taste like the salt on their chips, his mouth like the tang of vinegar and wine. If he’d be able to find the hint of sweetness from the single bite of pudding he’d endured because Aziraphale insisted. Thoughts that made him blush in the daylight, but had very much nearly tempted him into turning around just to see.

But wouldn’t that be taking advantage? It didn’t matter if the attraction seemed to go both ways - though he still had his doubts, because how could it possibly? - it wasn’t as if Crowley was in a position to feel as though he had a choice. The last thing Aziraphale wanted was to snip whatever threads of trust the man had decided to hook in him, for whatever reason. If once things settled enough and Crowley’s worries ebbed, and if they both seemed… interested in whatever it was they were dancing around, then maybe he’d think about it.

In any case, that didn’t help with wanting to be around him as a friend at all. Because he did like the novelty of having someone to talk about… well, anything with, and Crowley had such engaging stories to tell. Aziraphale did always enjoy a good story with a stylistic narrator and wily protagonists.

He went through the motions of his Sunday, the words of Exodus 14:19-31 and Matthew 18:21-35 unable to stick as he sat in his pew and tried to commune with God. Though, he did vow to try and be better with his forgiveness. If he could not forgive Gabriel for the manner in which he spoke to him, only trying his best, then how could he ever expect forgiveness himself? 

It was easier to be present as he partook in the refreshments after church, several people coming up to him to inquire about the clockman they’d heard about from Madame Tracy and R.P. Tyler alike - “Is it true he’s tripling the value of their old clock?” - as well as wondering what a Londoner would want to do in their small town. 

“Well, can you blame anyone for being charmed by our way of life out here?” he’d deflected with a charming smile of his own, before asking about the word on real estate and flats for rent. Surreptitiously, of course. 

Even so, he bowed out rather earlier than usual, though it wasn’t until he crossed the threshold of the Discerning Duck did he realize that Crowley was likely just upstairs. That he likely hadn’t had breakfast yet, if he intended to have breakfast at all, and possibly didn’t have any Sunday plans at all to speak of aside from waiting to hear back about flats.

“Good morning, Mr. Wallers!” he greeted the innkeeper cheerfully, as per usual, and exchanged the token pleasantries before daring to ask: “You wouldn’t happen to have seen Mr. Crowley come downstairs today yet?”

He had not, in fact, so the man placed a call to Crowley’s room from the front desk on Aziraphale’s behalf. Eleven was not too early of a time to call on someone for brunch, he reasoned as he waited for the line to pick up. Any later and it might as well have been lunch.

Thankfully for his mealtime sensibilities, it didn’t take Crowley ten minutes to appear in the pub. He tapped Aziraphale’s right shoulder, though settled at his left side when his head swiveled. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

Oh, he was very much in the present moment now. Aziraphale’s face lit up once he found him, the little trick a darling one. “Crowley,” he greeted brightly. “Good morning, my dear. Thank you for joining me. I know it was last minute.”

“S’fine. I had to pop down here at some point.” And he was just fine with having a distraction from staring at his phone. He wasn’t going to get an answer a day after filling out applications, no matter how strongly he glared at the device. 

Even with the tinted lenses, Aziraphale was starting to learn to read beyond what his eyes could tell him. The tense lines of his shoulders, the set of his jaw… He didn’t need to be adept at reading auras to read Crowley, it seemed. He placed a hand at his elbow to guide him to their table, in the hopes a bit of contact might offer some comfort. “Shall we then?”

They took their time with brunch, neither in a hurry to go their separate ways when the day was so young. It was by chance Aziraphale mentioned his planned trip to the store afterwards and Crowley’s lips twisted in a way that revealed his interest without him having to outright say so. 

“Have you been to the grocer’s yet, my dear? I know you don’t have much in the way of preserving food in your room, but I suppose there are always non-perishables or nibbles to keep on hand,” he commented airily, building up the nerve to outright ask him if he’d like to come. After all, most people likely didn’t think a trip to the grocer would be all that enthralling.

“I've been thinking about that, actually.” One of the many things on his busy mind was food and how to slow burning right through his funds on it. Besides, he did need a couple of small things. “Should make my way there.”

“Well, if you don’t have anything else on for the day, could I tempt you to join me?” Aziraphale took a careful sip of his bellini. It wasn’t a proper brunch without a nice bellini. A mimosa could work as well.

Slow and fond, Crowley smiled. “In the business of tempting, angel?”

“Ah.” A flush blossomed across his cheeks and he blamed it on the bellini as he took another sip. “Not especially, no. I suppose that’s more your line of work.” His attempt to recover only dug him further into the hole as his gaze skimmed along the lines of his neck and torso. He cleared his throat and drained what little remained in his glass. Hurriedly dabbing at his lips with his napkin, he did a quick pivot. “I completely understand if it’s not at all how you’d want to spend your Sunday, I simply thought I’d offer- er, extend an invitation. If you were interested.”

Crowley set his own empty glass down. “Oh, I'm interested.”

Aziraphale flicked his gaze up to meet his, the sunglasses doing nothing to mask the amused stare he could feel right through them. His fingers tightened around his napkin, still crumpled and held halfway between his traitorous mouth and unsteady heart. In texts, he prided himself on his ability to read between the lines and pick up on all manner of context clues to piece together plot elements. Here, he couldn’t quite tell if what he was picking up on was truly subtext, or if Crowley was simply teasing him. Or both.

Either way, even if it was subtext, he’d promised himself not to take advantage. “Wonderful. I should be glad to have the company.”

“Mmhm. Saves you from having to carry grocery bags all the way home.” And it was more time to keep his mind off of the impending refusals. 

The threat of them circled him like a snare, a trap waiting to be tripped, but hope still lingered somewhere. Crowley just didn't want to think about them. He'd rather think of lovely blushes and mixed signals. 

“Hm? Oh, but that isn’t why I invited you along.” He hadn’t even considered Crowley offering him a ride home. “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way. I’ve managed the trip before, my dear.”

“Angel, I don't offer things I don't want to do. I'll take you home.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale graced him with a soft smile, one that almost didn’t know if it should be there or not, but couldn’t help itself regardless. “Thank you.”

A ride home from the store also had the added benefit of providing an opportunity to insist that if he was going to be so kind as to offer him a lift, then he must stay for tea afterwards. “I can make us some scones!” he’d suggested, inspired by the very notion. He’d never made his own scones before, but it seemed like this was a special enough occasion to warrant the effort. Though he did plan on purchasing pre-made ones as well, just in case his didn’t turn out.

But before the grocery store, Aziraphale realized Crowley was in need of a proper tour of the town. He knew where the bakery was, and that was about the extent of things, apparently. Becoming familiar with the town was long overdue, in his opinion.

Tadfield didn’t have much, but it had enough to get by and anything it didn’t have wasn’t more than a fifteen minute drive in any direction. In addition to the bakery, there was also the ice cream parlour and a butcher, that often sold cuts of their meat to the grocer. The florist and the tailor were also set up nearby, and the barbershop, which Aziraphale popped into to set up an appointment for the following Sunday. He was a bit overdue for a trim.

There was a farm on the other end of the town, opposite where the shop was, and Jasmine Cottage was just down the lane from it. “Anathema is renting it at the moment, but the word on the street is that she might be able to purchase it from the owners,” he told him in a hushed voice. “But nothing’s for certain yet. Don’t want to go about making ripples in the pond, if you know what I mean.”

It was a charming little brick home, surrounded by greenery, and absolutely ruined by the Reliant Robin parked out front. “It's a nice enough spot to plant some roots.”

“Yes, I rather think so.” He preened, more and more pleased by the idea that Anathema wanted to stay in Tadfield long term. Plant roots, like Crowley said. “Unfortunately this is the only property these particular landlords own, otherwise I’m sure they would’ve been understanding about your circumstances. Though I did inquire as to if they knew of anyone in search of prospective tenants, in case there are any out there who aren’t advertising on the internet. They gave me two addresses, but they looked rather familiar. I’m afraid they might’ve already been on your list.”

“Probably. I put in for just about everything I could find.” Though it was sweet, if pointless, for him to try. 

“I thought you might have.” Aziraphale still fished out the piece of paper - the pamphlet from church - he’d written the addresses and contact information on and handed it to him. “I know what you said about putting in a good word for you, but I still wanted to do something. Or at the very least make an attempt.”

Crowley checked the addresses, biting back a sigh and the urge for a cigarette. One had been an immediate refusal and the other, he was waiting to hear back. Maybe if he’d asked Aziraphale along... But that was ridiculous and felt a little too close to using him. Not something Crowley had been averse to in the past, prison included, but not something he wanted to do here. At least not with him.

Aziraphale had done more than enough for him already and it had all been done freely. He wouldn’t take advantage. “Right. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

Aziraphale twisted his own as he nodded, the little spark of hope flickering a bit when Crowley’s expression remained unreadable, and purposefully so. Crowley didn’t want him to see any trace of disappointment. So he had seen them already. Well, it had been worth a shot, he supposed, unwilling to let the light go out just yet.

“Of course. Good news may still knock upon our door.” But picking up a few bottles of wine at the grocer couldn’t hurt.

Chapter Text

If Anathema could've seen Crowley's aura, she would've been shocked to not see a single tendril of grey. By the time they'd made it through the grocery store - with Aziraphale judging the produce very methodically and going down every single aisle “just in case” - it was nearly time for supper. After one careful “Well, my dear, I would feel awful sending you off hungry and you did help select the wine,” Crowley agreed to stay a little longer. 

A lot longer. 

Long enough to discover that Aziraphale was both competent and incompetent in the kitchen. Crowley considered himself to be... fine. He'd been cooking his own meals most of his life and handled the basics well enough as long as he had a recipe and a microwave. It was one of the things he tended to find simply boring, so he rarely made anything difficult. 

Aziraphale, it seemed, liked to experiment. Even with the pasta recipe Aziraphale himself picked, he started to add spices which weren't called for and taste-testing or having Crowley taste.

“It needs something, doesn't it?” 

Since he typically bought sauce out of a jar, he'd shrugged and Aziraphale had tipped in this and sprinkled in that. It should've been a disaster, but that was saved for scones. 

Crowley had always assumed that baking and cooking were the same thing. 

Baking and cooking were not the same thing. 

This fact wasn't helped by Aziraphale's sugar and salt containers looking very alike and a bottle of wine getting opened before dinner had finished cooking. Unfortunately, this meant three grams of sugar went into the batter with thirty-five grams of salt. That would've been bad enough, but they over mixed the batter. Then they left it in the freezer too long in favor of pouring the next glass and exploring Aziraphale's record collection. 

Next, Aziraphale or Crowley or both of them - it was most certainly both of them - misread the Celsius versus Fahrenheit and, well, was it their fault ovens went up to four hundred twenty-five degrees Celsius? No, but at least they caught it before it had finished pre-heating. Clearly, that called for another round of wine whilst waiting for the oven to cool down to the proper two hundred eighteen degrees. 

Nearly forty-five minutes later, fifteen minutes longer and several shades darker than they should be, the monstrosities came out of the oven. Crowley tipped his head and studied the lumpy, pancake-flat, definitely not scones. Without a word, he picked one up and tapped it against his glass. Like a spoon to glassware, it tinked brightly and he couldn't possibly hold back his laugh when the sound only made Aziraphale's pout deepen. 

“Crowley!” he admonished, snatching the scone from his hand while he was too busy cackling to stop him. “Really, I’m certain it’s not as bad as all that-”

He meant to bite off a bit of the edge, just to prove that they didn’t have to look good to taste good, but his teeth made contact with the hardened dough with a similar tunk sound and that was that. Didn’t even make a crack. Frozen with the not-scone still between his lips, Aziraphale slowly tried to bite down harder. The eventual snap it made echoed in his kitchen, and only then did he remove the over-baked good to examine it and the piece he managed to break off.

“Gosh,” he said, as realization dawned on him, “this is awful.”

“Look on the bright side, angel. At least now you know how to make bricksss.”

That brought the pout back along with an affronted gasp and Aziraphale tossed the scone at him. “How very dare you!” But he couldn’t quite smother his own laugh when Crowley ducked out of its path and it clunked against the countertop instead. “Oh, good Lord.”

“Oh, I don't know that They have anything to do with this. Probably the other side's fault.” Out of wicked curiosity, he picked it up and dropped it onto the counter. It bounced and he started laughing all over again. 

This time Aziraphale joined him, covering his mouth as he tried to muffle his giggling. “Are you saying our scones're the Devil’s work?”

“Possibly. Calling them scones is a bit generous, though.” He turned the offensive thing on its side. “Normal ssscones have a bit more of a rise than this, for one.”

“Well, then, that’s all your influence.” Aziraphale flicked some flour at him that still clung to the countertop even after their attempts to clean - granted the attempt fell a bit flat when it was in between topping off their glasses. “I’m typically very good at getting things to rise- not like that, you serpent! I see that look on your face!” 

“Oi,” he protested, trying to pat the flour off his black shirt and, well, he really did try to temper said expression, but the mirth in his gaze didn't have sunglasses to hide behind. “Like what?” 

“I’m not going to digni- dinify- I’m not going to answer that, you know exactly what,” Aziraphale huffed, turning away so the openness in his eyes would stop turning his knees to jelly and busied himself with scraping the rest of the not-scones off the baking sheet. “I’ve made- oh, well, I suppose that doesn’t quite rise the same… well, the point is I have made a pie or two and dabbled in cakes in the past and they’ve all turned out rather lovely before.” He didn’t sound like he was completely sure of this.

Crowley wasn't completely sure of it either, fairly certain the attempts had even been something akin to rubbish. “Sss'pose they make box mixes for a reason.”

“Well, that’s no way to bake,” Aziraphale tutted, slurring a bit in his drunken indignation. “I might as well go to a bakery and buy from a professional if I’m going to resort to box mixes.” He set the baking sheet in the sink with the mixing bowls and pots from their pasta, then fetched a tin of biscuits from his pantry. “I know I bought the ready-made scones, but I didn’t think the day would get away from us like that.” He offered Crowley one with pink icing. “We can save them for tomorrow. Or- er... another day.”

Crowley took the biscuit more because it was offered than out of any real want for it. “Tomorrow” had indeed sounded too good to be true. A moment of forgetfulness about the dates, probably, and not a suggestion that they spend both off days together. Again. “Think it's more the bottle that got away from us than the day.”

“Oh please, by the time we started on the bottle it was already too late for tea,” Aziraphale pointed out, picking out two biscuits for himself, then reached for the wine to add a bit more to each of their glasses, finishing off their second bottle with this next refill. “At least we had dinner before drinking an entire bottle this time.”

“How responsssible of us.” They were still on their way to drunk. “For the record, it's never too late for tea.”

He visibly perked up, lifting his glass as if to toast to that. “I like the way you think, my dear. D’you want some tea? I can put the kettle on...” He trailed off as he looked around the kitchen for it, having moved it out of the way at some point between the pasta sauce and the scone dough. “Wherever it's got to.”

Crowley had hidden it, but he’d been quite a bit more sober then and couldn’t quite say which cabinet it was in. Or if it was even in a cabinet. “S’fine. Should probably put everything away, though.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement around the rim of his wine glass. “I’ll take care of it, dear.” He waved off, rolling up his sleeves to start on what was already soaking in the sink. The leftover farfalle pasta and what Aziraphale claimed was his take on a puttanesca sauce had already been tucked away in the fridge, but the cutting board, knives, pots and spoons had formed quite the stack when his attention had pivoted rather sharply from dinner to dessert. “Make yourself comfortable. Oh, you could put some music on. I think our last record reached its end.”

Oh, he'd had far too much wine for Aziraphale to be rolling up his sleeves. “Wha- Right. Music. Sure.” Crowley shook his head at himself as he turned to step into the living room and sort through the record collection. He swapped Bach for Mozart, but returned to the kitchen instead of sinking onto the couch to watch him. “Are there any classsical composers you don't like?” 

Aziraphale frowned as he scrubbed at a stain in his wooden mixing spoon, shaking his head at first before reluctantly nodding in a so-so motion. “It might be considered contro- controversial,” he enunciated slowly to keep from tripping over it with his wine-soaked tongue, “but if I had to choose, I suppose I wouldn’t miss Elgar from my collection.”

“Bleh,” Crowley agreed. “He'sss overrated.”

Aziraphale's lips quirked up as he looked over his shoulder at him, both amused and terribly fond by his immediate agreement. “My dear, he was the first world renowned English composer since Purcell. Hardly think that's overrated.”

“Right, but what did he do with his... renownment? Is that even a word? Don't care, you understand.” He waved a hand, immediately knowing it wasn't by the shift in Aziraphale's expression. “Anyway, he wrote bloody Pomp and Circumstance. That's one of the most dull sssongs ever.”

“It’s the music to one of our patriotic songs.” Though he didn’t disagree.

“That doesn't make it a good tune. That just means we're stuck with a dull patriotic song because sssomebody didn't have good taste.”

“I do prefer ‘God Save the Queen,’” Aziraphale mused, switching from spoon to knife. “What about you? Is there a classical composer you favour over others?”

“Mozart,” he decided without hesitation. He’d never thought about it heavily before, but he was a determined, opinionated sort of drunk. “Or Vivaldi. People who put some passion into what they write, who can tell ssstories and ssstir up imagination.”

His opinions garnered a grin from Aziraphale, the man shamelessly delighting in them, even elbow deep in soapy water. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of Mozart,” he teased, belatedly recognizing the upbeat tempo of his Concerto for Clarinet record. “Vivaldi I can see. You share many similarities.”

Crowley wandered closer, finding a clean spot of counter to boost himself onto. It was absolutely childish, but Aziraphale's very put-upon glance only made him grin. “Why, because his name was Antonio?” 

“For a start.” He couldn’t quite maintain a straight look, not with over half a bottle making its way through his veins. “The red hair’s a bit on the nose as well.”

“Well, he hid his under a baroque wig. Not really my ssscene.”

“No, I should think not.” But the mental image had been planted and it got a good chuckle out of him. “Nor would the priesthood be a calling you’d seem inclined to.”

“For a dozen reasons,” he agreed. “Something like it ever call to you?” 

Aziraphale scrubbed at the inside of a bowl for a moment as he considered the question. “Something like it. For a bit.” In the end it hadn’t been so much a calling as it had been somewhere to hide. Or something else to fill the hole that books and food could never. “But I came to my senses quite quickly. I would’ve made a bloody awful priest. Like my earthly goods and worldly… things a bit too much. And I would’ve had to convert and that’s-” He waved his hand as he slurred a bit, flicking little suds and droplets of water onto the kitchen window. “More’ve a hassle than I wanted to put up with.”

Crowley glanced at the window, blinking at the lack of sunlight. He hadn't known it was quite that late. “Least you knew it wasn't what you really wanted. Doesn't ssstop you from doin' your good deeds.”

“No, and I still love God and all… all creation. Creatures big and small.” He dried off his hands so he could reach for his wine glass. “Don’t have to be a priest to do that. I can be a greeter. I’m good at that. Don’t have to denounce worldly pleasures to say ‘good morning’ to people.”

Crowley smiled. “That's probably the least sssurprising discovery about you so far, angel.”

Aziraphale made a questioning sound as he drank, but had to clarify once he set his glass aside. “What sorts of discoveries? What's so surprising, my dear?” 

Crowley waved a hand. “Well, you know. Just discovering all of you. You're interesssting and not quite how one would expect just to look at you.”

“Oh…” His fingers itched to find his wine glass again. “Oh, that's very kind of you, Crowley, but you don't have to say that.”

A brow arched. “You asked. All I did was answer.”

“Well, I'm aware I'm hardly someone people would call interesting. I'm exactly how I look. Fussy, middle-aged man that reads books all day and enjoys food a little too much. It's all right there on the label.” He did take another drink, partly to prove his point and partly because his mouth felt too dry without it. 

It didn't prove a thing to Crowley. “Tha's bollocks.”

“S'fact.”

“S'not. You're particular, but that doesn't make you fusssy. You don't read books all day. I've been with you ssseveral days now and you've done a lot more than that. And food...” He waved a hand again, annoyed that his words were blocked by incoherent noises. “Well, what the Hell'sss wrong with enjoying food? Nothing. The answer's nothing. You burn off plenty of calories running about the shop all bloody day, helpin' everyone do something or other. I see you. Tha'sss facts.”

Aziraphale blinked at him for a moment, struck dumb by the impassioned rant longer than he expected to be. “No need t’get so upset, my dear,” he slurred after a beat or three. “Not on my account. Though it’s… it’s really rather nice to hear. Coming from you eps- ‘specially.”

Abruptly wishing he had his sunglasses on while embarrassment zipped up his spine, Crowley averted his gaze. “M’not upssset. M’right.”

Oh, he was rather cute when he pouted. Aziraphale hid his smile with another sip, then reached out to give his knee a fond pat. “Of course you are, Crowley.”

“Ngk.” Crowley looked down at his knee, then to Aziraphale’s hand to travel up. He was interesting, and only got more so as the days went. “Should probably finish clearing off your counters.”

“Mm. Yes, s’pose I should.” Aziraphale surveyed the rest of the kitchen, then his nearly empty glass. “Should open ‘nother bottle, too. That was scrummy.”

“Yesss.” Crowley wiggled off the counter to give Aziraphale one of the several corkscrews he appeared to own. “You handle that bit.”

“Then what bit will you handle?” he asked, taking the corkscrew anyway.

Crowley’s smile was a little too fond, but he was a little too drunk to temper it. “The clearing bit. You don’t like to clean.”

While he’d softened under that smile, returning it with his own, equally fond and equally drunk, the last part kicked him a few times until he was gasping. “That’s- I clean. I keep- I keep a very clean home, I’ll have you know.” He pointed the corkscrew at him, keeping one eye sort of on him as he wandered over to his wine collection. “I jus’ I like to see the things I like. Out. In the open. Free.” He gestured in particular at the stack of books still on one of the dining room chairs and then again at his treasured angel wing mug. “They’re meant to be there.”

Crowley shook his head, smile only more fond as he reached for the scattered ingredients for their doomed scones. “Then get more shelves and maybe some glasss cupboard doors.”

Aziraphale tutted, like it was a ridiculous suggestion, and focused on opening the bottle of Quinta do Noval and pouring them each new glasses of the tawny port so not to muddle the flavors. He wasn’t that far gone. It also encouraged him to go back to the sink to finish the washing while Crowley tidied. Soon enough, only a few traces of their kitchen escapades remained - they still hadn’t found the kettle and Aziraphale didn’t like where the colander used to go so he’d find a new home for it in the morning, and the kettle with it, ideally.

They retired to the sitting room, where Aziraphale sagged into the cushions of his armchair and Crowley slithered his way onto the couch, new glasses and bottle in tow. And a few more of the biscuits. While they suited Aziraphale’s urge for something sweet to nibble on, they were a poor substitute for scones.

“Will you have scones with me tomorrow, dear?” he asked, examining the iced edges of one of the biscuits. “I rather think I can’t bear to get through the weekend without them. My weekend, that is. S’Monday tomorrow.”

Crowley blinked at him. Oh. “Yeah. Come ‘round teatime, if you like.”

He lifted his gaze, a little extra sparkle in them as he smiled. “Oh, yes. That’d be lovely. We can have tea, s’long as I have a kettle.” Nevermind that the shop had two in case he couldn’t find his.

Crowley was pretty confident he’d remember where he’d hidden it when he was sober again, so nodded. “Sss’gotta be somewhere in there. You should jussst le’me organize it. The kitchen.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Aziraphale protested.

“Don’t recall you doing the asssking. I like organizing things.”

“Yes, but my dear fellow, it’s-” He floundered a bit for words and reason, which was rather difficult to do at the moment. “Well, it’s- I should be helping you. Organize and settle, that is, when you move.”

“I have one box.” He shrugged. “Not hard to sssettle and organize one box.”

“You’ll need more than one box. You’ll need… pots. A kettle.” He nodded for a little bit longer than he needed to. “Clothes hangers. For your clothes.”

Crowley shrugged again, loftier and more dramatic. His wine came dangerously close to spilling over. “Well, eventually. Have to- to get a place first, don't I? Enough clothes to even jussstify an armoire. I-” Furniture. He broke off, head falling back and gaze lingering on but not seeing the ceiling. He'd done the maths wrong. He didn't have another week at the inn. He wouldn't make it to the new year if he had to buy a bed or a couch, and pots. Of course he needed pots. Shit. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale forced himself to sit up a bit straighter when he didn’t continue his thought. “S’everything alright?” 

He wasn't drunk enough to lay that realization bare, to expose how close he was to sleeping in his car. He hadn't needed to resort to that since he'd been in his twenties and never in the Bentley. Crowley briefly closed his eyes, took a steadying breath. “M'alright. Just too drunk to make any proper plans.”

“Oh… poor dear. Well- oof. Well, if you’re too drunk for plans, then you- you might just be too drunk to drive home.” Aziraphale pushed himself up out of the chair, but nearly fell right back into it when his head became so light he almost forgot how to keep it attached to his shoulders. “No, no. Definitely too drunk. I’ll get you some water. Yes, that should do nicely.”

“I've-” He'd driven under worse conditions when he'd been foolish and reckless and truly hadn't given a damn, but never in the Bentley. He’d never put a scratch on the Bentley. “Right. Water. Don't wanna- I'd rather avoid the hangover.”

“Preciou- precisely. Don’t move, I’ll be just… two lambs and a shake.” Aziraphale shook his head as he took careful steps back into the kitchen. “Two shakes and a lamb’s- oh, you get the idea. You know what I mean.” 

It brought his smile back. Crowley gestured with his glass. “Unfortunately. You're teaching me all your little sssayings.”

Aziraphale tsked, casting him a half-heartedly unamused glance - when in fact he was all-too pleased by the return of his smile. It suited him much more than worry, he didn’t want him fretting. “How’s that unfortunate?”

“They're ridiculous.” Crowley waved him along with his free hand. “Go on, then. The lamb’sss had plenty of time to shake itsss tail now.”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale fetched two glasses of water, all the while thinking about how he liked his sayings. They were good, sensible sayings. Nothing potentially offensive like ‘lost the plot.’ He’d have to tell Crowley that, he decided, setting the water down on a coaster in front of the aforementioned man. Only a little spilled, but it was only a few drops on the carpet, not something important like a book.

He forgot to say anything though, when he looked over at him. In the minute he’d been gone, Crowley had somehow slouched even further into the couch. It looked like it would be uncomfortable for any other person, but Crowley’s loose-limbed sprawl suited the lines of his body, the curve of his spine as if lounging in a drunken haze was the peak of decadence. His eyes had been a bit out of focus, oblong pupils and golden iris looking at the seam where the wallpaper met the fireplace without really seeing it, but as soon as the glass touched the coaster, his neck swiveled so he could look at him instead. As if his attention was magnetized to Aziraphale’s mere presence.

Aziraphale smiled at him and resisted the urge to stroke his hair back, strands falling out of their neat style with a hint of a curl to them. If Crowley’s hair was longer, Aziraphale was certain it would fluff up in waves suited to a boudoir Renaissance scene. “Feeling alright, my dear?”

“Mmnn, yeah.” His mind was busy, but slowed by alcohol and a sense of... safety? Could that be what it was? It wasn't a concept he was familiar with, but it seemed to make sense. He was normally more alert than this. Even at the inn, he never fully relaxed. “Maybe shouldn't've ssstarted another bottle.”

“Maybe not,” he chuckled, bracing a hand on the arm of the sofa nearest Crowley’s head to keep from swaying. “We’ll save the rest.”

Crowley looked down, blinked at Aziraphale's hand and almost wished- “Right. 'Nother ssspecial occasion.”

“Or Saturday night. Wouldn’t do to wait too long. Don’t want the taste to oxen- oxida- go off.”

He grunted in agreement, letting his gaze travel up his arm to eventually meet his eyes. “Counts. You should... sssit.” Before his hands decided to make a mistake. 

“Oh. Yes, I- I should, shouldn’t I?” He looked down at the couch’s arm before giving it a pat and making his way back to his chair. “Drink your water, my dear.”

He drained what little remained of his wine first, then swapped glasses with an unsteady lean. It was a miracle that nothing spilled as he settled back down in the corner, legs impulsively stretched across the cushions. “Tomorrow's too sssoon to hear back, innit?” 

“Hear back? Oh, ‘bout the flats? I don’t think so… depends how long they want them vacant for,” Aziraphale hummed, following Crowley’s lead so no wine went to waste. “Not long, prob’ly.”

Crowley made a few incoherent noises, not quite agreeing, not quite disagreeing. “You've never been homeless. Sss'very... difficult.”

Aziraphale looked up from his glass, lips pursed against any sort of response that wasn't carefully considered first. He hadn't expected Crowley to just come out and say it so simply, but the truth of the matter was that he was homeless. Yes, he had a place to stay for now, but that wasn't a home and it wasn't viable long term. 

“No, I haven't,” he said slowly, trying not to trip over his own tongue. “It does sound rather… Hard. Not knowing what comes next. I'm very sorry you're going through it, Crowley.” 

Crowley waved it away, not wanting pity. “Ngk. Return to form, I think. Was born that way, ssspent most o'my teens and some o'my twenties that way. I was twenty... four, I think, the lassst time. Lived outta my car. Not the Bentley. Had a- a little beat up piece o'nonsense. Looked a messs, but it was quick enough to get away from police when Lucifer and the guys were just about caught. Shoulda used my cut to buy a home, but it- it all went to ssstorage. My safekeeping for grandad's things. Ssstuff they weren't allowed to know about.”

He was and wasn't talking to Aziraphale, head tipped back against the couch and bleary gaze tipped upwards as if talking more to Someone who never seemed to hear him. “Swore it'd never happen again. Lived in a lotta ssslums, but I didn't care. It was a roof. It was a place I could...” Pretend in. Pretend he'd go on the straight and narrow this time, pretend he wouldn't answer the phone when certain people rang him, pretend he'd find something to make everything feel worthwhile. “Be. Now I'm... It'sss... Inn's nicer 'an most places I lived and I can't... Dunno how they thought what they gave me would last fifteen years when it hasn't lasssted one.”

The record crackled quietly, having gotten through Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto and long since moved onto his Clarinet Quintet in A. The melancholic Larghetto filled the space in between their breathing as they lingered in the shadow of Crowley’s past. In complete contrast to the lightness in his head, Aziraphale’s heart steadily sank with the weight Crowley carried with him. As if the man hadn’t been punished enough.

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair, unconsciously mirroring Crowley as he watched him lie there. He didn’t think he’d have known what to say sober, let alone drunk off three bottles of red, but he didn’t think Crowley was looking for some miracle of a response. He just needed someone to listen. He momentarily flicked his gaze up, and sent a little prayer with it. A silent plea to look out for him and see him on a path to safety. It might have taken a moment longer than normal to get his thoughts in order, but the sentiment was strong as it filled his head.

“You’ll find a nice place to live, Crowley. I believe that,” he murmured, watching him again. “Nicer than the inn, even.”

Crowley closed his eyes, the bubble of hope painful. “Not if...” Not if he got turned down. The flats and rooms he'd applied for would all be better than what he could get closer to or in London. Right back into slums. Right back into the Hell he was trying to leave behind. He didn't need or even necessarily want Heaven, but something in the middle would be alright. “Need to keep looking, I sss'pose.”

“That’s the spirit.” Aziraphale tried to sound encouraging, tried to offer him a smile even if he wasn’t looking. “The right place will turn up. You’ll be… exactly where you’re meant to be, I think. And it will be somewhere nice. And good and… windows that face the sunrise. And a roof that makes the raindrops sound like music. And it’ll be yours.”

Lips quirking despite himself, Crowley finally looked at Aziraphale again. “You're sssuch a bloody romantic.”

“It’s the books.” He wiggled happily all the same. “Lovely descriptions of settings in books.”

There was usually a happily ever after in books, too, and in movies. Oh, movies. “You ever find your VCR an' all?” 

“I did,” he replied with a satisfied hum. “Need to hook it all up still. Make sure it works. But I found it. They stopped making them, you know. VCRs.”

“'Nother antique for you, then. Don't let Newt touch it.”

Aziraphale let out a mortifying giggle as he slumped further in his chair. “Good Heavens, I wouldn’t dare!”

“Not if you want it to keep working.” He was adorable when he giggled, cheeks pink from alcohol and eyes so bright. He hoped he remembered the sight come morning. “D'you- We should ssset it up.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, why not?” 

“My dear boy, I don’t know that I could put it together sober, much less in this state,” he protested. “There’s so many… cords and wires.”

“There's probably maybe five, depending. Two plugs and the attachment one. Sss'not complicated.”

Aziraphale hemmed and hawed, but his resolve wavered as Crowley’s words washed over him. “I’d have to clear a space for it,” he pointed out, but he did have several options already as long as the stacks of books and bric-a-brac were relocated.

“Then we can do that. Come on, angel, haven't watched a movie in ages.” It wasn't strictly true, but it had been ages since he'd had a choice. 

Aziraphale made a show of thinking it over, but just the idea of a film put him in a better mood, so how could he deny him? Especially when that stare fixated on him, slender neck exposed as he tipped his head back in a way that made Aziraphale feel as though he was one of a select few that Crowley would allow to see him like this. It warmed his belly and into his limbs in a different way than the alcohol.

“Oh, alright. S’pose it’s worth a try.”

And it was. Though it might’ve taken twenty minutes longer than it should have because he couldn’t just put his books of prophecy anywhere, and he had two of the same cord and had to rifle through the closet to find the video cable so they could see the picture on the screen. But eventually they wrangled the thing together and had the old 1969 Sony KV-1320UB, in all it’s wood veneer glory, set atop the coffee table which had been pushed against the wall to properly view it. The RF modulator made it compatible with the VCR Aziraphale had purchased in the mid-90s. Though the picture was a bit grainy by today’s standards, they were able to pop in Aziraphale’s copy of The Third Man.

“Have you seen it, my dear? It’s a caper!” he declared happily, settling back in his chair with a giddy wiggle. “S’been ages since I’ve watched it properly.”

“It's Orssson Welles. Courssse I've sss- bluh. Sss-” He paused, annoyed with his own mouth for a minute. “Yeah.”

“Is that alright? I also have… Sense and Sensibility. It’s a Wonderful Life. Oh, and Winnie the Pooh.”

Crowley blinked at him a few times before deciding it could make sense that Aziraphale would have a cartoon from their childhood. It was based on a book, after all. “Third Man'sss fine.”

“Wonderful. I thought after our talk of spies and film noirs that it’d be fun.” He smiled at him, then hunkered down to watch as the film opened with its classic theme on the zither.

“Fun,” he echoed, throwing some teasing weariness into the word just to make Aziraphale smile at him again. Then shush him as the film opened. The black and white was grainy on the old television, but it felt right in the moment. In this space. 

He tucked into the couch corner, only shifting occasionally as the film's protagonist grew suspicious of his friend's untimely death in post-war Vienna. They paused twice to refill their waters, taking some medicine Aziraphale remembered to fish out of a drawer to help stave off the inevitable hangover, and it didn't bother Crowley at all. His attention found itself drifting away from the film before the end of the first act.

Why watch the show when the audience was easier on the eyes? And just as entertaining. Aziraphale put his all into his enjoyment, leaned forward a little, eyes bright, little gasps and giggles escaping where appropriate. He commented when people were “exceptionally rude” or when something was “quite clever, don't you think?” He was still slurring a little, but Crowley didn't doubt he'd be like this sober. 

It'd be... nice, maybe, to take him to the cinema. Buy him a popcorn, tuck him in close, and feel as much as hear every reaction. He was probably one of the embarrassing types who clapped at the end of features as if they were plays, but only if he enjoyed it. Stopping that embarrassment would be a good excuse to hold his hand. Couldn't clap with hands otherwise occupied.

It was a pitiful little wish, a silly little dream. He didn't go on dates and Aziraphale probably wouldn't go on one with him. 

Except... 

Maybe... 

Crowley didn't know when his eyes closed, feeling safe and warm and wishful, but that silly little dream drifted into a sweet one long before the protagonist could discover who the third man really was. 

When it came time for the big reveal at the ferris wheel, Aziraphale looked over at him, grinning shamelessly, “Oh, I love this bit-” he cut himself off as soon as he realized Crowley’s eyes were closed and body limp in sleep.

Quieting himself with a soft gasp, Aziraphale didn’t say another word, too enthralled by the way the light of the TV flickered across his face, free of the worry lines and careful control that kept his jaw tight. His lips parted as he sighed in his sleep, cheek pressed into the tartan throw pillow. Aziraphale rested his own against the palm of his hand, propped up on the arm of his chair as he marvelled at the openness and the quiet peace of Crowley as he slept. He wondered if he was dreaming.

The movie ended and Aziraphale didn’t even notice, blinking as the screen went dark and the VCR ground to a clicking halt. He squinted at the clock on his mantel, unable to make out the time in the dark and in his drunk state, then decided it didn’t matter. All he knew was that it was late, far too late to make Crowley leave now. Not when he looked so comfortable and not when he was still drunk himself. 

He wobbled his way up out of his chair and rewound the videotape. Perhaps they’d try watching again a little less inebriated. Once he put the tape back in its sleeve and set the water and wine glasses to dry, Aziraphale shuffled up the stairs. This house had belonged to his grandmother for nearly her entire life, certainly while she’d raised her children. As such, it had three bedrooms on the second floor, one for her two boys, one for her two girls, and one for herself. 

Aziraphale always thought it a bit too much room for himself, though at first he’d done his best to maintain their state in case he ever had guests the way his grandmother had. It was where everyone gathered for the holidays, and he’d been more than willing to take up the torch and follow in her footsteps. But his uncle, her eldest son and father to Gabriel and his other cousin Michael, had decided it made more sense for him to play host. After all, his house was much larger and nicer and not nearly as out of date.

The rooms still had the same wallpaper from when they’d all been children. Pale yellow for the girls’ room, light lavender for the boys’. Though a full size bed had replaced the two twins that had been in his uncles’ room, the yellow room still had two twins with trundles, to make as much use of the space as possible. Aziraphale flicked on the hall light and went into that room, taking a pillow from one of the beds and a thick quilt folded up at the foot of it.

Crowley just looked so comfortable on the sofa, he didn’t have it in him to wake him and move him upstairs. Besides, it had been some time since he washed the sheets last. No one had touched them, but he imagined there was likely a bit of dust clinging to them from disuse.

Very carefully, Aziraphale moved Crowley’s head just enough to give him the additional pillow, then unzipped his boots and placed them on the floor. Tucking him back on the sofa, curling into himself as he grunted in his sleep, Aziraphale laid the quilt over him, making sure it covered his shoulders and his long, impossible legs.

“There we are,” he whispered, stroking his temple before he remembered himself and pulled his hand back. “Sleep well, dearest, and dream of whatever it is you like best.”

Tucked in his own bed, a floor apart, Aziraphale watched the stars from his window as he waited to fall asleep, apparently not nearly drunk enough to keep hazy thoughts from lingering on the way Crowley looked while he slept.

----

The sun woke him up. Streaming in through the windows, Crowley grunted and squinted and nearly whimpered when the light only made his eyes spot. It was always the worst in the mornings. As if eyes had a reset button they'd push just to make his life harder. The headache and dry mouth of a minor hangover didn't help, so Crowley pressed one hand over his eyes and blindly reached for the inn nightstand and the sunglasses he tossed onto it every night. 

His hand swatted the air and he blinked, chancing another look into the bright morning. Fuck, he never forgot to draw the shades. What-

This quilt was not an inn quilt. Crowley sat upright so fast his brain rattled and the humiliating whimper did indeed escape. He was lucky the hangover wasn't worse, grateful for the water and pills he'd taken. He needed his sunglasses soon, though, or this headache was going to claw right into a migraine and his boots were next to the couch. 

He squinted at them, startled. The couch. Oh. Oh. He blinked. Oh! “Shit,” he mumbled, mortified. He was a bloody grown man. He shouldn't be falling asleep on people's couches during films he had insisted they watch. He knew better than to fall asleep somewhere he wasn't alone. There were pranks to pull and sometimes felonies committed on idiots who did that.

Except nothing seemed to have been done here but his boots set aside, an extra pillow added, and a quilt laid. Sweet things. Aziraphale things. Crowley pretended that discovery didn't make his heart do funny things and pushed himself up to stagger into the kitchen where his sunglasses had been left on a shelf. 

Right next to the kettle. 

Crowley blinked at it. He hadn't left it on a shelf, had he? “Shit,” he muttered, pushing the lenses over his eyes and thanking Someone for the defense against the morning sun. He searched for the pill bottle in Aziraphale’s catch all drawer, filling a glass straight from the sink because, well, there was a fifty-fifty shot it was his and he'd done worse if it wasn't. If he could take a pull of whiskey after Hastur's gross fucking mouth had touched the bottle, he could follow Aziraphale. 

And now to get his formerly drunken mess of a self the Hell out of there because he had most definitely overstayed his welcome. Not to mention he'd wasted money paying for the inn and he hadn't even used it. “Shit,” he said for a miserable third time, ignoring the odd deja vu that accompanied it. 

He focused instead on the matter at hand. He'd gone on a saunter of shame a time or two, but there was normally something to actually be ashamed of. Or, well, proud of, just fine with, or just... with no real feelings on the matter. Creeping out of flats, hotel rooms with someone else's cash in his wallet, or a college dorm room when he'd been much younger and more willing to sneak out a window wasn't new for him. Not current, but not new. 

He wasn't so sure that it would be familiar to Aziraphale. He definitely knew that he didn't want to give church-greeter Aziraphale a Reputation. Small towns like Tadfield, with one judgmental self-appointed neighborhood watch, only needed one sordid event to solidify a Reputation. Him sneaking back to the inn in the clothes he'd been wearing all about town the day before gave off one message and it wasn't one that said “platonically slept on a couch.”

So Crowley folded the quilt because he wasn't going to leave a mess, no matter how cluttered the house, and turned to grab his boots when tartan scared him. 

“Ssshit,” he managed when his heart decided not to leap out of his chest. Tartan pyjamas. Oh, of course he had tartan pyjamas and neat little beige slippers, and the ruffliest hair in the morning. Like someone's fingers had carded through it, fluffing those sweet curls. Crowley pretended his fingers didn't itch and cleared his throat. “Ah. Hi.”

“Hello.” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled with his smile, which shone with miraculous sincerity despite the early hour and the sympathetic pounding in his own head. “I thought I heard you up and about. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. Usually do.” He gestured towards the couch. “Didn't exactly mean to drop off here, though.”

“No, I can’t imagine you did.” Aziraphale followed his gaze and a sound not unlike the pleased coo of a dove escaped him as he took note of the carefully folded quilt. “If I’d known how tired you were, my dear, I’d have suggested the bed. Guest bed. In the guest room. Up- upstairs.” His cheeks flushed with colour as he pointed at the ceiling, then shook his head as he pressed his palm to his cheek. 

“Think I might need to take something for my head, it’s still a bit- yes. And make some tea. Would you like some? I found the kettle. It was in the freezer.” He cast Crowley a knowing glance, disapproval softened by the unspoken amusement. “Had to set it out to thaw.”

He knew he hadn't put it on a ruddy shelf, but didn't say a word about it. His cheeky grin was more than enough. “How long've you been up then?” 

“Not that long. Thought I could use a cuppa, but that was obviously delayed a bit, so I settled down to read Northanger Abbey in the library.” It wasn’t much of a library, the tiny room off the foyer and tucked next to the stairs would probably be better serving as an oversized coat closet or a place to tuck the laundry out of sight with the proper plumbing, but it had a window facing the barn and built-in bookshelves lining the wall with just enough space to squeeze in a plush wingback chair, a lamp, and some extra storage for his wine and scotch. It was cosy, just how he liked it. “I didn’t want to risk disturbing you,” he added on his way into the kitchen, still carrying on the conversation as he took care of the tea. “Got a bit carried away though. Young Catherine has just resolved to become a closer acquaintance of Henry’s sister in an attempt to foster more of a connection to him, so the plot is starting to come together and I was rather looking forward to their first dance together.”

If he hadn’t started that with a book title, Crowley might’ve thought he was talking about people he actually knew. For anyone else, the personification may have come off as odd. For Aziraphale, knowing how attached he was to his books and how he apparently had no qualms re-reading them, it suited. “You could’ve disturbed me. Shooed me out.” He filled a small glass - this one actually fetched from the cupboard - with water and fished out two pills for Aziraphale, setting them next to his angel wing mug. “While it’s still early enough that no one sees me and... y’know, gets ideas in their heads?”

Aziraphale looked at him as if he’d just suggested they raise the Antichrist together. “‘Shoo you out?’ After inviting you into my home, when you likely have a devil of a headache and not even a cup of tea or spot of breakfast to send you on your way with? Out of the question, Crowley. What sort of man do you take me for?” He popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them down with the water on a ‘thank you,’ and then proceeded to continue to look properly offended as he waited for the kettle’s whistle. “And who are these people getting ideas? Has someone said something to you? Was it Mr. Tyler? I’ll take things up with his wife if he has, she’ll set him straight.”

“Nobody’s said anything, angel, but I haven’t snuck into the inn at dawn wearing yesterday’s clothes yet either.”

At the mention of his clothes, Aziraphale’s gaze roved over him from head to toe, taking in the slightly disheveled look that was inevitable when one fell asleep in denims and long-sleeved thermal. “Oh. I see. Those sorts of ideas.” He cleared his throat, tugging on his own pyjamas a bit self-consciously. “Well, it’s really none of their business, but I do see your point. Perhaps we can find you something of mine to borrow. So it doesn’t look… well, as you said. Though I don’t see any reason for you to come under fire for doing the responsible thing. You were obviously not in any state to drive back to the inn last night, and it was late and cold out. To be quite honest, I’d be more concerned about people thinking I’m the kind of person that would toss you to the wolves, so to speak.”

“Falling asleep drunk, unexpectedly, in somebody else's place isn't really what I'd call the responsible thing.” Arms folded, Crowley leaned his hip against the counter. “But if you're not worried about it, I'm not. I don't give a damn what anyone thinks of me.”

He hadn’t been worried about it. Not initially. Now that he’d said something, he did have to wonder if people would talk. It wasn’t as though Aziraphale made a habit of inviting men over for drinks and letting them stay the night. It wasn’t as though he really invited many people over at all. If people found out Crowley had stayed the night, well, that would be his first time offense, wouldn’t it? Or not offense, exactly, but that was the general idea. Would people jump to that conclusion so quickly?

Aziraphale studied Crowley for a moment, his posture and careless shrug. Did he really not care what people thought of him? Somehow he didn’t quite believe him. He cared, even if he didn’t want people to think that he did.

“I don’t think I am,” he replied carefully. “If anyone asks, we would just tell them the truth. Then it’s up to them whether they decide to believe us or not. We can only do so much.”

“Alright, angel.” He'd still take care to avoid people as much as possible. The good thing about only having a few very similar outfits was plausible deniability. Besides, rushing out wasn't nearly as appealing as having a morning cuppa with him. Not now that he'd seen him, had him right there, particularly not when he was still in pyjamas. 

Though he had to cut off that train of thought very quickly because it wasn't safe to think things like “fewer layers.” Especially considering the next thought was him wondering if Aziraphale would be of the same mind if things hadn't been so innocent. If “those sorts of ideas” were true, would he already be on his way? A thermos of tea and a “mind how you go” as the door was closed behind him. 

Crowley watched him add a splash of milk to the tartan mug, reached for it automatically when it was offered, and decided it was unlikely. “You've probably never had to sneak out of a place morning after.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then he pursed his lips as his gaze darted away and a blush rose to his cheeks before he could stop himself. “Er…” He grabbed his angel wing mug and took a drink while it was still much too hot. “Of course not,” he lied, like a liar.

Crowley nearly dropped his mug, catching himself before it could completely slip from his fingers. “Wot. You. Really?”

“Oh, don’t-” Aziraphale looked at him almost desperately, rocking back on his slippered feet as he mentally grappled with his decision. “It wasn’t like that, necessarily, but… well, it was different times. Sometimes it wasn’t… approved of. If…” He glanced down at the tile floor as he realized that he’d never really come out and said it, even if it was rather obvious. “You know, if a man was seen leaving another man’s flat… in the morning. Even if he did have a change of clothes. But that was years ago, dear boy.”

“I figured that, angel.” But the explanation made much more sense. Sometimes it was hard to remember there'd been a world before pride events and such. Things had changed so drastically just in their lifetimes, though that was one of the only things he'd felt safe about in the old gang. Sort of. Luci had certainly never seen his preferences as being natural so much as they were deliberate choices to piss off a higher power. “Cut my hands on a few sets of teeth way back when, but I've never exactly sought approval over who I ended up in bed with.”

Blue eyes flicked up, glancing at him beneath light lashes, and some of the mortification and defensiveness cleared away as he relaxed. “I imagine life in London would be rather different when it comes to that sort of thing. I did like Soho, when I visited. The energy, you know.”

“It was in some places, but there was plenty of harassment too. But I could see you there, in Soho.” He wondered if he would've noticed him. Possibly. He'd spent plenty of nights sauntering and flirting his way through Soho once upon a time. “Did you go to the theatre on Old Compton Street?” 

“Oh, yes. I was there in 2006. Saw Mary Poppins,” he recounted with a smile. “Went to the Admiral Duncan as well, how could I not?”

In 2006, Crowley had still been reeling from the shock of a guilty verdict and still so sure that he'd be free any day if he made enough calls and kept himself as isolated as possible from other inmates. “Meant to go back before I left London, see if they still had their flag and all, but I didn't manage it.” 

“I’ve always meant to go back, too. Spend a little more time there,” Aziraphale sighed, wistful as he looked out the window. “But I suppose there’s still time to go back. It’s not terribly far, after all.” He perked up a bit, the little thought he’d just had shining in his eyes as he wondered if Crowley would find some amusement in it. “You know, I’ve always wanted to do one of those- what do you call them? Where you go to all the pubs in a row? Pub crawls, except for all the famous haunts of literary greats. It would be like a- a- a published pub crawl. Though ideally I’d be walking.”

“The only ones who end up crawling are the ones who can't hold their liquor.” Crowley's smile was tucked into his next sip of tea. “I wouldn't mind taking you one night. If you wanted.”

“Would you?” 

It had been what he’d wanted, if he had to admit it to himself. The thought of wandering about London with Crowley at his side made his heart stutter with embarrassingly giddy palpitations, but he’d wondered about the memories the city might have held for him. He could vaguely recall an air of lamentation around him at some point last night, and wouldn’t blame him if some of that past would still haunt him on the streets of London.

“Not until I can afford a hotel room and my own drinks, but yeah.” He had plenty of mixed feelings about the city, but he wouldn't mind adding in a few more positive ones. 

“Oh, no of course. Settling in and saving up is certainly the priority, I would completely insist on that regardless,” he hastened to assure him. “But it would certainly be nice to plan something in the future.”

It was hard to remember when he'd ever tried to make actual plans, but it wasn't much of a surprise that Aziraphale was the type who would. “Should I be flattered you're willing to be in my car all the way into London?” he teased, recalling his dramatics in the passenger seat. 

Aziraphale tsked, rolling his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I won’t still have thoughts on your driving. And will not hesitate to vocalize them. It’s up to you whether you wish to endure that for the entirety of a drive into London.”

He laughed, though not so hard to aggravate his headache. It was dimming anyway, between the pills, the caffeine, and - if he was fanciful - just being around Aziraphale. “We'll find out. And not to sound completely pathetic, but it's... interesting to make a plan that doesn't start with 'when I get out.'”

Aziraphale blinked at him, surprised by the candidness of his tone, then softened and hummed his agreement. He held his mug out and saw the movement reflected in Crowley’s sunglasses as he looked into them, beyond them. Please give him something to look forward to, something to keep him happy and hopeful and here, he prayed silently.

Outloud, he simply said, “You’re out, Crowley. Regardless of whatever happens next, you’re out.”

“I know.” One of these days, maybe he'd be used to it again. Their mugs clinked when he gently tapped them together. “And I'm going to stay that way.”

Chapter Text

On Tuesday, Aziraphale made every attempt to stay busy. Not that he was in any way rattled by Gabriel’s impending visit. It was only when he showed up unexpectedly, and this time he was very much expected, so everything was tickety-boo. 

There was still the shop to run and books that needed his undivided attention. So he rolled up his sleeves with delicate creases and started the gentle process of carefully peeling dried glue from torn pages that had been miraculously salvaged. He had an old cathedral radio tuned to his favorite classical station, letting the music meld with the background hum of his staff as they worked on their projects, but even Handel’s Water Music couldn’t quell the tempest rippling within him as the morning ticked on into afternoon and cleaned pages were set aside to dry. 

A part of him had to admit that it wasn’t so much Gabriel’s arrival that had him on edge. While he was more or less completely convinced that the man wouldn’t look twice at Crowley’s CV, the fact that Crowley’s reputation and future rested in his hands was quite the responsibility to bear. He simply wanted to keep his position safe, provide him some form of stability in a world that wasn’t always so keen on handing out favors, no matter what Aziraphale liked to believe. Seeing Crowley so at peace on his sofa Sunday night only solidified that desire to put forth his best efforts to keep Gabriel from ever feeling tempted to poke holes in the application they’d created together. Not that what they’d done was illegal or anything of the sort… Aziraphale never said he wouldn’t offer work to those recently released from prison. After all, he’d hired Sergeant Shadwell, and no one was quite sure what rock he’d rolled out from under, not even Madame Tracy. It wouldn’t surprise Aziraphale if he’d done some time as well.

He just wouldn’t be able to bear it if Crowley got into any kind of trouble because of him, because of his idea. If he couldn’t get it together, then he was only going to put them both at further risk. It was his shop, his people. He would do what he could to look after them, no matter how new.

Aziraphale took a late lunch after tidying his workspace and washing up. Bustling over to the break area, he glanced out at the rest of the shop while he prepared his tea and put together a Ploughman’s sandwich between two thick pieces of crusty bread. It was business as usual for most of them, aside from Crowley walking up to Newt while he worked on cleaning the wooden case of the Tyler grandfather clock, but even that seemed to have a bit of normalcy to it already. His gaze remained on the two of them as Crowley consulted Newt on something, distractedly spreading a serious helping of onion jam as he watched. When Crowley tilted his head just so, Aziraphale ducked his head and switched to adding whole grain mustard to his bread instead. Those sunglasses made it impossible to tell if he’d caught him looking or not, so he had to wait until the frantic thumping of his heart settled enough for him to chance another peek.

This time Crowley was most assuredly watching him right back, a slender eyebrow raised as he waited to recapture his attention. Once he had it, he made good on the promise he’d made Saturday and broke into quite the expression where Shadwell and Newt couldn’t see. Aziraphale dropped his knife and coughed into his fist to hide his startled laugh, then glared at the demon of a man as he bent down to fetch the fallen utensil and clean the mustard from his shoes.

Crowley's lips quirked in response. He was on edge himself, but did a much better job of hiding it. He knew how to keep busy and had been enjoying carefully taking apart the different gear trains of the centuries old clock. Why exactly it wasn’t working was a steadily unraveling mystery, though he'd found a wad of newspaper crammed beneath the old bell. The puzzle was enough distraction and much more fun than worrying, nearly as much as catching Aziraphale off guard. But he'd warned him, hadn't he? And, really, it was payback for those rolled up sleeves. He was used to seeing him buttoned and covered, skin hidden away from view like... like something well-hidden. The point was, forearms shouldn't have melted his mind and Aziraphale deserved some equally distracting punishment. 

If Crowley's actual goal was to help alleviate some of those obvious jitters, that was for a very small part of himself to know yet never acknowledge and no one else.

He excused himself from Newt, satisfied with the assurances that he could indeed sand the saddleboards so they didn't stick, and wandered over. “Alright, angel?” 

“Fine. Yes. Absolutely spiffing.” He straightened, cleaning the knife off at the little sink and dried it with a few shakes and a careful swipe with a tea towel. “And you?”

“I was better before you said 'spiffing.'”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and gave him a look before resuming his sandwich-making. “Feeling peckish? Or simply in need of a break from Mrs. Tyler's clock? It seems as if it's turned into quite the undertaking.”

He'd just wanted to talk to him and maybe get a closer look at his arms. “M'alright, though it has. It's got four gear trains and I'm not completely sure why. Should only have the three.”

“Well, that does sound like a mystery.” Aziraphale glanced his way, finally granting him a proper smile, no reservations or accompanying huffiness. “What on earth were they using the fourth one for?” 

“Well, it’s attached to the motion work like some idiot thought minutes and hours needed their own train each instead of just a wheel each. So now I’ve got to fix someone else’s mistake and recreate a whole train.” Though there was a wicked sort of glee in his voice. “What book are you rescuing today?”

“Oh, you’d appreciate it. A collection of Shakespeare’s comedies. A few pages from Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice had come loose, so someone attempted to glue them back in themselves which damaged the pages, caused some discolouration, and they fell out again anyway,” he explained, finished assembling his sandwich and prepared two cups of tea out of habit. “I was cleaning them, before attempting to reattach them with the rest of the signatures.”

“The lucky thing about clocks and cars is no one's usually stupid enough to try fixing the problem themselves.” Crowley took note of the mug with quiet fondness, not having expected the gesture but not entirely surprised by it either. Sometimes, Aziraphale's generosity was effortless. “I'm sure it happens plenty with you.”

“Yes, well, tell that to whoever put a fourth gear train in your clock.” Aziraphale looked at him and pointedly tapped his spoon against the edge of the mug once he was done stirring. “Though you wouldn’t believe how many people consider themselves amateur book restorers.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

 He passed Crowley his tea, his attention waylaid for a moment when their fingers brushed. A quieter kind of static electricity lit up the nerves just under his skin. He cleared his throat, his hands restless as he fumbled for his train of thought. 

“Yes, you see, while I appreciate their enthusiasm, it can lead to more harm than good depending on the text. I’ve had numerous clients tell me they saw a- what do you call it? A do-it-yourself guide on the internet. I suppose it’s the balance of good and evil when it comes to sharing knowledge. I fully support more people wanting to learn the craft, but it can’t be rushed.”

“Not if they want it done the right way,” Crowley agreed, fingers curling around his mug as his gaze followed Aziraphale's hands. They betrayed as much about him as his facial expressions. His openness should've been suspicious, really. No one was really this good and readily emotional, yet... “Actually, if tutorial videos have taken off like that now, I may actually end up with a few more clocks someone tried to fix themselves. At least your pages are easy to put in order.”

“As long as they’re all accounted for, which was fortunately the case here. It can be harder to piece together if entire sections are missing.” Aziraphale took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich, a small satisfied sound escaping him. He dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief, plucked from his vest pocket. “I do hope there isn’t much digital competition in your line of work though. There is an element of risk if people aren’t careful. Cutting themselves on old parts. I know there’s some new application on young people’s telephones these days that caters to clocks. Not sure if repairs are involved. I asked young Adam about it, but he simply laughed and told me not to worry about it.”

Crowley was willing to wager it had nothing to do with clocks, then. “What's it called? Might look into it.” 

“Tick tock. Clearly catering towards analog clocks,” he replied quite confidently.

They'd see. Crowley may have been out of touch, but he highly doubted a clock app would be popular. “Right. I'll have a look later.” He watched him dab at absolutely nothing on his lips again, wondering if it was a self-conscious or polite habit.

It wasn't the first time he'd had the question floating around his mind, having seen him do the same thing throughout their shared meals. There was definitely an element of self-consciousness in him, evident in all the times Aziraphale had paused in his perusal of brioche and urged Crowley to take one before their crêpes had arrived. He'd taken rolls more to appease than out of any real desire for them, so had just switched his plate for Aziraphale's when the basket had emptied. There'd been a moment of hesitation, but Crowley well and truly did not care how many rolls he ate or that he'd polished off his entire crêpe and half their shared dessert after. If Aziraphale had less enjoyment of food, maybe he would have looked twice but Crowley was the last to get in the way of simple pleasures. 

Certainly not Aziraphale's. 

It took him a moment to realize that his mouth was moving, another to realize words were being said. His head lifted, eyes blinking behind dark lenses. “Wot?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled fondly. “Really, Crowley… I was saying you could always ask Adam and his friends. They seem to be quite taken with you, I’m sure they’d be happy to show you.”

“If I happen to see them, I'll ask.” Crowley sipped from his tea, not bothering to be embarrassed by his lapse. “They're a busy little group, from what I've heard and seen of them.”

“They do get up to quite a bit of mischief, yes. They often come in while Deirdre’s working with some sort of excuse or another.” Aziraphale waved it off, not minding it so long as Brian did his very best not to touch anything.

“Does school slow them down?” 

“A creep of tortoises wouldn’t slow them down, my dear.”

Crowley chuckled. “I don't doubt it. I’m sure you’ve probably called them, mm, rascals seems like it’d be in your vocabulary.”

“Indeed. Or rapscallions, perhaps.” Aziraphale smiled over his cup of tea, chuckling alongside him. “No, as long as they steer clear of the books and other breakables, then I don’t mind the occasional ballyhoo.”

“Now that one sounds made-up, and you know it.” He looked entirely too proud of himself not to. 

Aziraphale’s grin grew. “It is not. Why on Earth would I make up a word when there are plenty of acceptable options already in the English lexicon?”

“Because you could get away with it. That's why.” And Crowley might've said he wouldn't at first meeting him, but he knew better now. He was clever and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of a bastard. “If I have to start carrying a dictionary around you...”

“I have several first editions at my desk for reference.” Aziraphale gestured broadly towards his workspace. “Oxford, Webster’s, Cambridge… you can take your pick. Just make sure to put on a pair of my gloves first. They’re quite delicate.”

Oh, yes. Definitely a little bit of a bastard. Hidden under genuine layers of fluffy goodness, but very much there. “I think I'm alright.”

“Well, the offer still stands should you ever find yourself in need.” He hid his amused smirk with his tea.

Crowley rinsed his mug. “‘I do now remember a saying: The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’” he quoted, his own smirk tossed over his shoulder. “Now I'm gonna go play around with that clock some more.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled as he recognized the quote, but he still huffed and used his handkerchief to daintily swat at him as he sauntered by. “Foul fiend,” he teased. “Indeed it would behoove you to get back to work.”

“If I'm not getting paid to lay about and chat, why'd I even accept the job?” he teased back, hands dipping into his pockets. Satisfaction rolled through him, much more comfortable than the stress that had been building. He liked to think he'd soothed some of Aziraphale's ruffled feathers too, at least for a moment. In his experience, it was harder to think with stress taking over. Since he couldn't binge reruns or fuss with plants, he'd use Aziraphale and an old clock. They were amusing in very different ways. 

Though he was waylaid before he could reach his workstation, Deirdre stopping him with a rare pinch in her brow and a tightness around her lips. “Crowley, I know you're working on something for the Tylers, but I have a question I really hope you can answer. Or, well, several questions and most of them are from my husband.”

Which is how he found himself under the hood of Arthur Young's Morris thirty minutes later. The clock gears and pendulum were soaking in his clock cleaning fluid anyway, so it was as good a time as any to do some tinkering on a car. He made a mental note to ask Aziraphale about the possibility of getting a creeper. He'd realized quickly that the town was full of old cars, classics he was familiar with, and it could be a viable avenue for the shop if Aziraphale was agreeable.

It would likely depend on Gabriel's visit, though, so he tucked it away and continued to work. 

Until the dull roar of a new engine mingled with the crunch of gravel under tires. The sleek Rolls-Royce didn't impress him. For one, his Bentley was Rolls-Royce thanks to a buyout in 1931. For two, modern cars didn't have the same feel or performance in his very lofty opinion. Third, the price factor. His old girl had two owners and brand new engine parts. It was worth more than the Ghost the American prat climbed out of, and it gave Crowley a perverse sort of pleasure. The same sort of pleasure that tried very hard to curl his lips into a sneer when he noted the scarf. Very modern, very chic. No wonder Aziraphale didn't like it. 

He noticed Crowley straight off as he purposefully pressed the locking button on his car fob twice so it would chirp its high end, little beep unnecessarily. Gabriel then gave him a onceover, and apparently that was all he needed to form an opinion of the supposed grease monkey standing on his grandmother’s property. 

“Good afternoon,” he called out, congeniality coating his tone as he smiled at him, in a rehearsed sort of way that didn’t quite make it ingenuine, but something that walked along that line in square toed, patent leather loafers. “Car troubles?”

Thanking anyone who might be listening that he wasn't under the hood of his own car, Crowley shrugged. “Someone's, anyway.”

“Hopefully not a customer of ours,” he chuckled, like it was some sort of practical joke. “Wouldn’t want that on a review. I’m sure you understand.”

Behind dark sunglasses was a glint of mischief. “I'm sure I don't. People do pay to get their cars fixed, and this isn't any different.” 

Confusion creased Gabriel’s brow as he contemplated that. “Well, obviously, a man in your line of work would want to advertise that you can fix up cars, but that’s just not what we do here. I meant I was sure you’d understand the importance of positive reviews that are relevant to your business pursuits.”

Crowley gestured to the sign as casually as he could with glee dancing under his skin. Obviously, Gabriel hadn't bothered to read the CV or he would've known his background included garages. “I believe that says ‘Restorations & Repairs,’ and a 1967 Morris Minor 1000 like this very much counts as an antique. Today, it just happens to be in need of some repairs between clock work.”

Gabriel continued to eye him uncomprehendingly, both brows furrowed as his gaze flitted between Crowley and the sign. It wasn’t clicking. That puzzled expression continued to purse his lips. It was almost like watching gummed up gears of a clock struggling to turn inside the man’s head as Crowley waited for him to put the pieces together.

Finally he lifted a finger and his lips parted. “Anthony Crowley,” he said his name as if it were an answer on Jeopardy! “Well, this is certainly a…” His eyes couldn’t help another scan, lingering on the tattoo at his temple, the one on his forearm, and the tight fit of his pants with a bit of holier-than-thou judgment. “Surprise. Didn’t expect to find you out here.”

It was a struggle not to make his smile too wickedly gleeful. Man was shockingly dense, particularly in comparison with Aziraphale. “I have several talents. Like most of the people Aziraphale's hired in there.”

“Of course. It makes sense to branch out while maintaining a consolidated team of quality people. But Aziraphale didn’t mention anything about auto service being one of those branches,” he mused, going through the motions of trying to recall whether they’d had that particular conversation. “At least that gives me something else to discuss with him. And where are my manners? Gabriel Godric, management analyst and head of the advisory board for Divine Restorations.” He would’ve offered his hand to shake, it seemed, but the wary glances at Crowley’s hands and his tools and the potential for grease transference had him keeping his distance. “I was hoping to get a chance to chat with you and welcome you to the team.”

The longer he stood there, the more Crowley disliked him. His polish was flawless and attractive, but it was crafted and a little too practiced. Like... plastic, he decided. Shiny, impossible to recycle plastic. “So I heard. S'pose I missed you Saturday.”

“Yes. Apartment hunting, was it? Relocating from London?” Gabriel grinned, the use of the American term purposeful, like he knew better and clearly must have with all the work and family he had in the UK. “Tell me, Mr. Crowley, what brings you out to Tadfield? Small town like this, well, it’s not exactly everyone’s style.”

Crowley's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. The urge to snap at him had to be swallowed, but he had told Aziraphale he'd behave. A little bit, anyway, and he’d already had some fun. “I've lived in London all my life. Thought it was time to see something new, and this is where my car brought me.”

Both of Gabriel’s brows rose as he chuckled. “And you didn’t keep driving?”

“Gabriel.”

Both men turned to see Aziraphale standing in the doorway of the barn, shoulders stiff as he clutched a creeper in both hands. He glanced between them, gaze rippling between impassive and concerned. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he straightened his chin and lifted his eyebrows.

“I didn’t hear you arrive. I see you’ve met- er… Mr. Crowley, here.”

“Yes. He was just telling me what brought him to our humble business.” Now Gabriel’s smile was frayed at the edges, as if Aziraphale’s very presence was already picking at his patience. Said presence hummed in acknowledgment, glancing back at Crowley before Gabriel continued. “He’s a man of many talents, it seems.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agreed, fast and honest. “You can see why I wanted to get him on board immediately.” 

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Gabriel asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“What? This? Oh.” Aziraphale’s grip tightened on the grey creeper, fingers digging into the thin layer of padding across the top. “Well, it’s a creeper. For Crowley. This is the third automobile he’s taken a look at, so it seemed like a good investment. Ah, here you go, my dear fellow.” He held it out to Crowley as he approached him. “Deirdre mentioned she had you looking at Arthur’s car and, well, I trust that this will suit your needs.”

It certainly did, unexpected and welcome. It had to have been ordered with that first use of the new supplier website, before Aziraphale had even offered him the job. He almost sighed, happier to be charmed by him than annoyed by Gabriel. “More than. I was just thinking about asking after one.”

His smile had only just started to blossom when Gabriel pointedly cleared his throat, so Aziraphale straightened and recollected himself. “Yes, well. How are the two of you getting on? Everything tip-top?” 

“S'fine.” He almost called him angel. It had become such an immediate habit that he nearly didn't catch himself, but he held his tongue. He didn't want Gabriel to look at either of them as if something was happening between them, not when Crowley himself couldn't fully put it into words. Whatever this ineffable thing was, he didn't want to scare Aziraphale away by inciting extra judgement from Gabriel. “Was telling him Mr. Young's car here's just a side job while I'm waiting on the Tyler clock to come clean.” Sort of. 

“Of course. Mr. Crowley’s arrival in town couldn’t have come at a better time, Gabriel. There have been quite a few motor vehicle-related jobs lined up for him, you see. Clearly his skill and knowledge regarding classic cars will be quite the asset to the services we offer.” Aziraphale contained the urge to fidget by clasping his hands behind him, but still ended up rocking on the balls of his feet under Gabriel’s bland stare.

“Right. But…” He shook his finger as if he was trying to catch his train of thought, though they both knew he had it firmly locked in. “What about the clocks? I was under the impression that you were getting bombarded with requests?”

“We are. Or we were,” Aziraphale amended. “Obviously word got out that we didn’t have anyone to service clocks for the past few months, and now we’re trying to get word back out that we have someone now. As more work comes in, I’m certain we’ll strike a balance. As Mr. Crowley just stated, he is working on a clock. Once that job is complete, word will likely spread. Especially since it’s the Tyler’s grandfather clock.” His eyes lit up, inspired by the challenge it presented. “An intricate and formidable old mechanism. Even Mr. Milkbottle was wary of working on it.”

Gabriel seemingly plucked a pin from thin air and used it to pop his happy bubble. “Really? Are you sure you trust him to take on a project on that kind of a scale so soon?”

“Well, we did schedule a consult,” Aziraphale countered. “He took a look at it, along with Newton, and they both thought it was well within their wheelhouse, of which I’ve little doubt. I’ve seen his work.”

“Of course, I’m only suggesting that he start a little smaller. Get his feet wet. Don’t want to overwhelm the man in his first week,” Gabriel huffed a laugh, but he was the only one who found amusement in his words.

“Like what, a wristwatch?”

“Depends on the watch.”

Aziraphale had to look away from him, focusing all his self-restraint into not rolling his eyes. “If I was under the impression that anyone felt overwhelmed, I would take steps to rectify the situation. I take care of my people, Gabriel.”

“I know you do. I’m not trying to infer that you don’t. You run a tight ship.” And Gabriel wore a tight smile to match. “Perhaps we should table this discussion for when we’re not in front of a new employee.”

Heat rose in Aziraphale’s cheeks, the embarrassment pooling in his chest as he kept his gaze on the Morris Minor for some sort of focal point. “Right. My apologies, Crow- Mr. Crowley.” He cleared his throat.

Crowley leaned the creeper against the car and took a rag from his back pocket, idly wiping his hands as he shifted his weight to lean just a little closer to Aziraphale's side. They didn't touch, but it felt more right to be nearer his solid presence than Gabriel's flimsy one. “Well, it's partially about me, so I'd rather hear it than not. And, for the record, I've already figured out the main problem. Once it's clean, it'll be a simple enough thing to put back in working order. Aziraphale and I already talked about it.”

Gabriel appeared to let that go, letting his hands fall dramatically. “Well, I suppose you’re the experts.”

They were, that was entirely the point, though Aziraphale didn’t say so. “Was there anything else you wished to discuss? I’d hate to take up more of Mr. Crowley’s time.”

“No, no. Like I said, just wanted to check in. Put a face to the name.” Even with his hands cleaned with the rag, Gabriel still didn’t appear to trust a handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crowley. Looking forward to working with you.”

Oh, he most certainly wasn’t but no need to be obvious that the feeling was mutual. At least not to Gabriel. “It’s Anthony. Please.”

Aziraphale only just managed to keep his jaw from dropping in an astonished “o.” Instead his lips stayed firmly pressed together as his gaze darted to Crowley. Oh dear Lord, that wasn’t really behaving, was it? Though to be fair, it wasn’t instigating anything either. Not if one didn’t know. 

And Gabriel certainly didn’t know, not if the smugly pleased look on his face was anything to go by. Shock twined together with delight, along with a smidgen of guilt at feeling so very delighted by this ridiculous, demon of a man and his wiles. He couldn’t see it to know for sure, but he was fairly certain he met Crowley’s gaze through his sunglasses. He tried to appear stern, though he knew the sparkle was there and Crowley would hardly buy a reprimand from him now.

“Alright, Anthony. I’ll be seeing you around. Ah, Aziraphale, walk with me a minute.” He gestured for him, flicking that tendril of joy right out of him with a crook of his finger.

Aziraphale followed him, but looked over his shoulder for Crowley and made a soothing, downward motion with his hands. He hoped it somehow conveyed: thank you dearly for your interventions, they helped immensely, now I’ll take it from here, don’t you fret. But he was certain at least some of that was lost in translation.

“Good, because I wanted a word with you as well,” Aziraphale piped up. “About the supplier, you see.”

“Thought you said everything went well?” Gabriel paused once he deemed them a private enough distance away, eyebrow raised.

“Well it did, it’s only that the prices for some of the items… well, they were a bit more costly than Mr. Mackinnon would charge me in the past. You know, a loyalty discount of sorts. Now I understand the intention behind this shift was to save money-”

“And I’m sure it will in the long run,” Gabriel assured him, relief palpable as his smile returned. “You can’t base the success of this transition on one order. If we start to notice a trend in spending, then we’ll look into it. Give it a chance first, Aziraphale. Like you’re giving this guy a chance.” He nodded pointedly in Crowley’s direction. “Doesn’t exactly look like the type you’d hire.”

Aziraphale tasted bitterness towards the back of his mouth, jaw clenching a bit. “Oh? Pray tell, what are you implying, Gabriel?”

“Come on, Aziraphale. You’re not an idiot. He doesn’t exactly strike me as a small town clock repairman.”

“Well, I don’t make it a habit of judging a book by its cover. In my line of work you can have a cover that’s tattered to absolute shreds and yet the pages are miraculously in pristine condition. It might be rare, but it happens.”

“Yes, but people aren’t books, Aziraphale.” Gabriel cast him an incredulous look, like not judging a book by its cover wasn’t a typical turn of phrase. “And I’m not saying that he can’t be good with cars and with clocks, I just don’t want to see you invest in something that’s ultimately doomed to failure.”

“That’s a rather bold assumption,” he murmured after biting down on his tongue. The bitterness spread. “And we won’t fail. I think Crowley is fitting in quite well and this collaboration between him, Newton, and Sergeant Shadwell will-”

“It’s not the collaboration that concerns me. If you think your clockman can handle it, then that’s on you, but at least it’s what you hired him for. But auto repair? Why are you encouraging that?”

“I told you why. It’s clearly a needed service for our community and if it’s something he’s comfortable doing, then I don’t see why we wouldn’t at least try to expand in that direction.”

“Aziraphale. Do you really want to see our grandmother’s name and legacy tainted by the image of coveralls and grease?” Gabriel cringed, shaking his head in repulsion that had Aziraphale’s stomach twisting in knots. “Because that’s where this is headed.”

“Our grandmother was innovative,” Aziraphale replied flatly. “She encouraged things to develop even beyond her scope.”

“She was also judgmental and if something didn’t meet her standards…” Gabriel trailed off with a tsk and Aziraphale shuddered as dread dripped down his spine, then jolted when his cousin clapped. “Well, it’ll be interesting to see how things turn out, just don’t get your hopes up. Though, you know what they say, ‘climb every mountain. Ford every stream.’” Gabriel’s eyes squinted as he clapped a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “There are 90 day trial periods in most businesses for a reason, but he might be a successful acquisition yet. Keep me updated on how things go.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. It always took a minute to recover from a “Sound of Music” quote. “Yes, of course. Have a safe drive back to London.”

Gabriel looked the shop over once more as he made his way over to the driver’s side of his car, when he paused, one last thing to say. “You know, if you set up a business email account or social media profile, clients could send you pictures of their items. It would be a whole lot faster. Save the consults for the trickier work,” Gabriel suggested with the kind of patient voice a parent had when explaining to a child just why they couldn’t have dessert for dinner, as in, a well-worn argument. “It’d give everyone more time to work on their projects, too. Since you’re so worried about wasting their valuable time.”

Aziraphale bit down on the inside of his cheek. “You can’t always assess the full extent of the damage or the repairs needed through a photograph.”

Though they had already moved forward with an attempt at integrating with the digital age. Madame Tracy had set up an “unofficial” business email for them to use for special cases. “I’ve had a lot of practice setting up email accounts, Mr. Aziraphale, I know what I’m doing,” she’d assured him. She’d even worked it out so all the business emails were forwarded to her personal one, so she could let him know when they had a digital inquiry. Aziraphale could handle them in small doses, but he could only imagine the complete nightmare it would be if more people utilized it. If their shop suffered from a drop in clientele, then he’d consider it, as it was, they still weren’t hurting for business, thriving on word of mouth, their static web page, and online reviews.

Gabriel hummed, then shrugged and shot him a smile as he slid into the driver’s seat. The car purred to life, smooth as silk as it turned on the dirt path that led back to the main road. Aziraphale offered a wave, albeit a stiff one, and watched until the Ghost sped away, London bound. Then he closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths, the sticky sick feeling still sitting heavy in the core of his being.

He couldn’t take too long though, Crowley was still there and he could feel his sharp gaze on him, assessing him. Judging him, did he meet their standards...

Aziraphale turned on his heel and strode back to Crowley, hands clasped in front of him now instead of behind. “How did it really go before I came out?” he asked before he could be interrogated. “I’m so sorry, my dear, I was on the phone and didn’t hear the car pull up.” 

“It was alright. Had a bit of fun confusing him since I knew who he was and he’d already decided I wasn’t worth his time.” Crowley shrugged, letting their elbows tap. “Looked straight at me when he locked his fancy little car like I was going to try rummaging through it the moment he walked in. Tch. As if he’s the only one driving ‘round a £300,000 Rolls-Royce.”

Aziraphale looked crestfallen by the revelation just the same. “I can’t believe he’d- well, I suppose I can believe it, but you still shouldn’t have been subjected to that kind of scrutiny, Crowley.”

“It’s not the first time, angel, and he would’ve been right once upon a time.” The deliberate locking would’ve spurred him on and still did in some ways, but he was sure he’d have other ways than theft to get some petty revenge. “I’m only sad I couldn’t make faces behind his back.”

“Truly a tragedy.” Aziraphale shook his head, smile slight at the thought. “Though I can’t believe you told him to call you Anthony.”

He couldn’t quite feign innocence, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Seemed the polite thing to say to Mr. Head-of-the-advisory-board.”

“Did he tell you that? Oh good Lord…” Aziraphale rolled his eyes dramatically and clucked his tongue. “He made it up himself because he wanted our meetings to feel like they had more of a point. It’s only him, our cousin Sandalphon, and myself.”

Crowley had to laugh. “Knew he was a prat. Is the accountant as, ah, manufactured as him?”

“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Aziraphale huffed, though his lips curved up as he savored the warm timbre of his laugh. “Let’s just say they’re very much cut from the same cloth.”

“Right.” He didn’t look forward to meeting him, then. “I’m glad you’re not. Even if your cloth is tartan,” he teased.

“Tartan is stylish.”

It wasn't. “It suits you. But you're alright? He didn't stay long, but he's the sort who knows how to maximize being aggravating.”

Aziraphale chuckled, unrolling the cuffs of his sleeves back down to the wrists. “Yes, my dear. I’m fine. I’ve got a few tricks of my own. And he… he means well. I think. Despite his aggravation.”

Crowley hummed, watching the bit of skin disappear. “He might to you. Doubt he likes me.”

“To be quite honest, I’m not sure there are many people he actually does like.” And Aziraphale knew he wasn’t one of them either. “But we’re family, so… so it’s important that we work together and form a united front in order to see to it that our grandmother’s wishes are fulfilled. He wants what is best for her legacy as well. Our opinions might differ on occasion, but we have the same goal. That must mean something, shouldn’t it?”

Crowley considered him a moment, shifting just enough to let their arms brush and linger. “Are you trying to convince me or you, angel?”

His breath hitched, from both the question and the gentle touch. Aziraphale glanced down at where their arms met, the bunched up sleeves Crowley himself wore to work more comfortably on the car, forearms exposed up to the elbow. He swallowed and fought the way his expression wanted to crumple like crumb cake and leave bits of him scattered in the dirt. He didn’t have an answer for him.

“Right, well, ah… I should probably be getting back to work. I’ve been away from the books for quite a bit now. They won’t mend themselves, after all.”

He’d cleaned up his hands with the plan to head back inside himself, but reached for his cigarettes instead. He knew sometimes family was best let go, but he wasn’t ready to explain that and didn’t think it was the time for Aziraphale to hear it anyway. The tip glowed when he took the first drag, smoke streaming up. 

“D’you want a minute? You know the lot of them are going to have their questions when you go back in. Saw Anathema’s nose pressed against the window when you walked off with him.”

“Oh dear…” Aziraphale’s gaze flicked to the window, but didn’t see anyone there now, nor anyone lurking in the still open doorway. “Well, I suppose I don’t blame her for being curious,” he sighed, following the trail of smoke back to Crowley’s lips. 

Two days now that he’d reached for a cigarette near the shop. Of course, that didn’t mean he hadn’t smoked any of the other days he’d been in Tadfield while they’d been apart, but Aziraphale certainly hadn’t picked up the scent of cigarette smoke on his clothes or in the Bentley. Not that he was judging, but he certainly didn’t want to be the cause of any additional stress. Aziraphale drew his gaze away from his mouth and rubbed the pads of his fingers together to soothe an itch. 

“No, no, that’s quite alright. I think I’ll manage. Thank you for your concern, my dear boy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Crowley couldn’t really say he was surprised, but it very quietly annoyed him. Of course Aziraphale could handle it. Of course he didn’t need a rescue, but the desire to provide one prickled uncomfortably and unfamiliarly under his skin. Was it just out of some pitiful want to repay him or was it more? “I know it isn’t. That’s not why I asked.”

That caught Aziraphale off guard. “Oh…” was less of a word and more of an exhale with the way his entire chest shuddered. Why else would he ask if not because he thought he couldn’t handle it? “Well, I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

Silence lived and breathed between them as Crowley took another drag of his cigarette, trying to find words that would somehow make sense and not make him feel like an idiot. “You’ve been stressed out about him visiting since he popped in Saturday. He wasn’t here fifteen minutes, but you’re still not quite... you. If you’re not going to give yourself time to process it, someone else ought to.”

Aziraphale couldn’t feel the fingers of his right hand, he was squeezing them so tight. Yes, he’d been stressed, of course. It was unpredictable behavior for Gabriel, coupled with the fact that they nearly always had a differing opinion on something. But now he was gone, and he wouldn’t be coming back for quite some time and things were okay again. He didn’t have to be stressed, nothing bad had happened. It was like he’d said, they were family. And he couldn’t possibly hope for his family to like him if they thought he was stressed out by them.

Perhaps the wrong thing had been to tell Crowley all of this from the start, to succumb to the temptation of a willing ear and undivided attention. It was flattering to have his support, but he only knew the one side - Aziraphale’s side - and so far almost all he’d done was complain. That was fine when Crowley was just an acquaintance passing through, but now he was quite quickly becoming something more and Aziraphale might have said too much.

His jaw ached as he cracked a smile, the edges as jagged and brittle as eggshells. “Nonsense, Crowley. I can assure you I’m very much myself. Absolutely tickety-boo. There’s nothing that needs processing at the moment, but I will- er, I’ll let you know if there is. Anything. To process.”

He wouldn’t. He very clearly wouldn’t and wasn’t. He was a wretched liar. The fact that he was trying made something in Crowley’s chest ache. “Right.”

“Right.” Aziraphale nodded, but the relief he expected to come with the easy agreement never eased the tightness in his chest. “Well, I’ll just leave you to finish up your smoke break.” 

With that he turned his back on Crowley and walked towards the barn like the way he imagined a sensible, very-much-himself person would walk - which was to say, not at all like that in the slightest. As he made a beeline for his desk, past Deirdre and Tracy, Newt and Shadwell, he found that he didn’t feel any better. He’d removed himself successfully from the conversation, but if anything he only felt worse. 

In times like these, clearly cocoa was the obvious answer to improving one’s mood and convincing well-meaning, but much too clever ginger-haired men that one was, in fact, perfectly themselves. It was around the time he would typically consider making a cup of cocoa anyway, and had nothing to do with needing or not needing a minute. 

His attempt to focus on this specific task, however, left him unaware of someone’s approach from behind. “Oh!” he gasped, clutching his usual canister to his chest. “Anathema, my dear girl, I believe we should look into getting you a bell. Cocoa?”

“No thanks.” She was as used to the offer as he was the refusal, but there was comfort in knowing it would always be made just the same. She folded her arms, cupping her elbows as she watched the murky colors surrounding Aziraphale. He was normally a kaleidoscope of colors, his positivity such a bright yellow, it was more golden. Gabriel knew how to dim that, though it was never quite like this. “Your- Did Gabriel say something or was it Crowley? Only one of them's within easy cursing distance.”

“You know we have a strict no cursing policy,” he reminded her, but his lips did twitch so he turned back to his cocoa before he gave her any inkling of wiggle room. “You have your great-grandmother to thank for that. One too many curses on her end. But I suppose it is the sentiment that counts. Neither of them said anything, certainly not Crowley. Our conversations were completely civil.”

She barely contained the urge to roll her eyes. “They're always civil with Gabriel.” His aura was usually a bright, bold red. He was a powerful man and knew it, flaunted it, and one didn't even need to read auras to know what his would look like. One barely had to see them to understand Aziraphale's, too, especially when it got muddied up. “I got shooed away from the window, so I couldn't see what was happening. It's one of the only times I've seen color in Crowley all day. You had some too, earlier, but now it's just...” She waved a hand. “More like mud.”

“I beg your pardon.” Aziraphale frowned at her, pulling on his waistcoat as if that would help conceal some of his aura from her. “You could’ve at least compared it to your American chocolate pudding.”

Moldy pudding, she thought with a shrug. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she stepped closer to stand by him at the counter. “I'm just saying you're upset. No one said or did anything? Because they were not getting along before you walked out. Not arguing, exactly, but the tension was pretty clear.”

Even without the ability to read auras, per say, Aziraphale had to agree with her. His heart had just about stopped when he happened to glance out the window while fetching the creeper and see Gabriel’s silver car parked out front, sans driver. Until Crowley had filled him in, he’d no idea what sort of interaction the two might’ve had. Overall, he supposed the whole situation could’ve been worse, but the quick judgment from just looking at Crowley for all of ten minutes still rankled him.

He sighed, reaching for the kettle when it started to whistle. “Nothing exceptionally hostile, at the very least. Gabriel is, perhaps, being a bit prejudiced towards Crowley based off first impressions, but that isn’t anything new. Or shouldn’t come as a surprise, I should say. He has high expectations.” Anathema had been privy to that knowledge firsthand as well, but still. “It’s not my intention to sway your opinion of him one way or another though, my dear. Perhaps he was having an off day. Maybe lunch with his client didn’t go so well.”

He didn't have to influence her opinion. She knew what she saw and how he spoke to her, when he bothered to at all. Every day couldn't be an off day. “Maybe,” she agreed, instead of saying the rest. It was a fine line they walked, and she wasn't going to add to his murky aura with her murky opinions. “Does Gabriel think he can't handle the work? Because he's been doing great.”

“I believe he’s of the opinion that someone who specializes in automobiles and… dresses the way he does that a person cannot also be adept at clock repair,” he huffed.

“You can't judge a book by its cover,” she replied, unknowingly mimicking his earlier sentiment. “His aura's big and it's really starting to get colorful like yours. You already know that Madame Tracy's been raving about him fixing her scooter and Brian's family clock. Plus, once he's done with Mr. Young's car and the Tyler clock, that'll spread just as fast. It seems like he'll prove Gabriel wrong in no time.”

“Of course he will, I have the utmost confidence in him.” Aziraphale nodded firmly, the tightness in his chest suddenly replaced with a swell of pride for the man who’d already made such an impression. “I’m glad you understand. And Madame Tracy. I have a good feeling about bringing him on. And didn’t our grandmothers do just that? Give people who need it an opportunity and trust their instincts about them?”

 She only knew from what she'd heard, never having met either of them. She nodded just the same. “And they put you in charge.”

 An embarrassed flush crept up his neck as he stirred his cocoa, idly wondering if it was the same shade of his aura. At least cocoa was delicious. “Yes, well… I can assure you no one was more shocked by that decision than I. Not that I wouldn’t have expected that from Agnes, she did have a soft spot for me, but I suppose she did know how much I loved this place. Though in the end it wasn’t her decision to make.”

“No, but I don’t think Aunt Frances made the wrong one. If that matters,” she added quickly. She was still searching for her footing in this unfamiliar part of her family in an unfamiliar part of the world and wasn’t quite sure if her opinion held any weight or if it was even welcome. Especially after one of Gabriel’s visits. He knew she was there, yet an acknowledgement never happened. “We’ve never had an unhappy client, and we have a lot of them. We even got a decent review from the guy Shadwell called a simpering ninny a couple weeks ago. You smoothed it out right away.” 

Though his flush didn't completely fade, Aziraphale softened as he looked at her. “Oh, my dear girl, of course it matters. I do appreciate you saying so, truly. Your support and contributions to the shop are invaluable as well. It certainly helps to have another voice of reason when dealing with… well.” He glanced over in Sergeant Shadwell’s direction, unable to help overhearing as the man told Newt yet another story of his time as a witchfinder, and how he’d once assisted in robbing a church - which wasn’t witch-related, though the sergeant apparently had his suspicions. “That.”

She sighed with the unique, vague affection only Shadwell could inspire. There was a good person under the shabby clothes and bizarre code of conduct, and Newt and Tracy both adored him for whatever reason. Poor Deirdre would simply nod along if he bothered ranting to her and use her eyes to ask for help. Thus far Crowley had just ended up being an instigator when it came to him, so there wouldn’t be a third voice of reason available. Or a fourth, really. “Most of the time, I follow Madame Tracy’s lead: brush him off like he’s just a silly old thing and keep going.”

“That still takes an extraordinary amount of patience, which I recognize you have in spades given the delicate nature of china and porcelain, but it doesn’t always translate to patience with people.” Aziraphale brightened, a bag of marshmallows a lucky find in the cupboard. “I’m only trying to say working with good people like you - and Madame Tracy, Mrs. Young, Newton, the sergeant, and now Crowley - well, it makes me want to put my best foot forward as well.”

“In other jobs I've had, that's not always the case. You just happen to lead by example.” She tipped her head to the side, watching yellow and blue cut into the mottled gray brown. “If other people don’t always know that, we do here.”

“Oh, well, that’s very kind of you to say.” His smile came a bit easier this time, a little bit of fondness flickering. “Now, I believe that’s quite enough dwelling on my part. I think a change in subject is more what my aura needs.” He took a long sip of his cocoa, perfect temperature and perfect amount of sweetness. “How are you doing, my dear girl? Any news on the cottage?”

“I'm really good. Gossip chain,” still Madame Tracy, “says that someone asked my landlords about their plans for it.”

“Oh? Gosh. I wonder who that could be.” Aziraphale pointedly looked away, pretending to think about it as he took another sip.

“Such a mystery.” Smiling, she unfolded her arms to lay a hand on his arm. “Thank you. It's nice knowing I've got your support.”

He placed a hand over hers with a soft pat, wordlessly thanking her for the contact. “Always. I’m absolutely delighted that you wish to stay longer. On a more permanent basis. If there’s anything I can do to assist you, to smooth things over or even to just lend an ear, I’ll be here.” 

It might have been hypocritical of him, he was aware enough of that, but this was what helped him. Dwelling on the frustrations and the sick feeling in his stomach would only drag him further into the heartache. It was better to distract himself, to put his energy into doing some good for someone else, in whatever form that took. He liked helping, doing good. That couldn’t be entirely selfish now, could it?

Chapter Text

He couldn't afford doughnuts, but he brought a box in anyway. Aziraphale had still walked him to the inn the day before, and he'd still kissed the back of his hand. And it had felt, for the most part, as if nothing had happened between them. As if Aziraphale hadn't lied to his face and he hadn't known. 

Yet there hadn't been more and they'd both gotten used to more rather quickly, especially when they'd spent so much time together over Sunday and Monday. Crowley hadn't been shooed out after tea or the pancake Aziraphale had insisted he eat for breakfast. He hadn't left until they finished their afternoon tea and scones, in fact, and the only push to go had been him too aware that he could've stayed even longer.

But there was, it seemed, a line. As much as Aziraphale's cousin annoyed and upset him, he still wanted a relationship with him. The reasons were a mystery, but Crowley wasn't going to push. Maybe one day when they knew one another better, when or if Aziraphale grew to trust him, he'd find out why. 

Until then, he'd be available for venting and not fixing. What did he know about family dynamics anyway? 

He set the doughnuts in the kitchenette, lips quirking when Aziraphale bustled about to make tea for two and chatted about finishing Northanger Abbey. What the characters had done and why and the literary themes because Crowley had only ever vaguely heard of the book. 

By the time everyone else shuffled in, he was well-appraised of Jane Austen's crafted world, three doughnuts had been eaten (by Aziraphale sans one bite Crowley had taken to appease him), and things between them felt normal again. Crowley really couldn't have said why it mattered. He didn’t care what people thought of him - you do - and had certainly never let himself get so wrapped up in one particular person's opinion, but Aziraphale’s mattered. 

The whole little shop mattered, it seemed, though Crowley waved away Deirdre's pleased gratitude for fixing her husband's car. He'd let Aziraphale take care of it since it was technically a job. 

Even with Gabriel's obvious disapproval, he still seemed set to keep it. It was definitely a relief as he set about brushing each and every cog and gear and pivot of the Tyler clock. Every piece of brass shone like new by the time he was done, and he was able to work out the dent in the hollow pendulum by borrowing a tiny magnet from Tracy and a hammer from Newt, and he was more than happy to explain this reverse hammering to Aziraphale. He'd already decided he enjoyed working beside him, though got the impression that the former clockman had this spot specifically so Aziraphale could keep an eye on him. Crowley also got the impression that he'd been competent, but not very thorough or patient. Or confident if he'd really believed this old thing to be beyond salvageable. 

The new spring winder had arrived just that morning, so he was able to replace the old one easily enough. Though it was more dangerous than the small mantel clock had been, it was all the same process. Careful hands, some patience, and-

“Yer father's name was Anthony.”

He didn’t look up, tapping the mainspring into the barrel. It had been a long time since he’d talked about his father, and he hadn't expected to have to here. Considering the fact this was Shadwell, perhaps he should've. The man was very clearly not a Tadfield native, from the unplaceable accent to... Well, everything. “Certainly was.”

“Named fer 'im?” 

Crowley evened out the mainspring and pushed his sunglasses up his nose, glad he didn't have to wear the magnifying ones for a grandfather clock, and finally tipped his head up to look at Shadwell. He could see Aziraphale in his periphery, ready to intervene, but he didn't need intervention. “S'pose I am.”

“Conniving womanizer,” he continued in his gruff way, but there was something in it. Crowley saw it and it only took a moment to understand. “Even robbed a church once.”

“Mm. '67, I believe. He didn't get caught for that one.” 

Shadwell smiled like he didn't quite remember how, but there was a touch of mischief in it. A younger man tucked inside who'd been cocky and headstrong and not above getting his hands dirty in the search of some coin and glory. A younger man who'd known Crowley's father just a few short years before he'd passed. “Aye. Ye look a great deal like 'im, ye ken.”

Crowley tipped his head just a bit, his own mischievous smile quirking his lips. “So they tell me.”

And just like that, Shadwell accepted him. He pointed at the shining brass parts. “Ye're doin' fine work here. Keep it up,” he ordered, possibly trying to be encouraging before he turned and bustled back to his own station. 

Crowley just shrugged lightly in Aziraphale's direction and turned back around to resume his work.

Stunned, Aziraphale’s gaze darted between Shadwell and Crowley, absolutely flummoxed by the exchange, for multiple reasons. He could see the corners of Crowley’s mouth twitching, like he knew exactly what Aziraphale was grappling with. The sergeant had gone out of his way to extend an olive branch in his own odd way? He knew Crowley’s father? They’d apparently robbed a church together?

Oh, now he could see Crowley fighting back straight out laughing at him. Aziraphale huffed and adjusted his spectacles, casting him a look over the top even if he couldn’t see it, then turned his focus to scraping an old mull off the spine of a fifth edition of The Accomplisht Cook, or, the whole art and mystery of cookery, fitted for all Degrees and Qualities. Sometimes he didn’t wonder why he preferred the company of books.

His bafflement could only be reignited when Shadwell actually said goodbye - if “Don't burn the buildin' down, scoundrel” counted - to Crowley at the end of the workday. Tracy was beaming so it most likely wasn't meant as the insult it came across as. 

Crowley just smiled to himself as he finished attaching one of the gear trains to the movement. “I feel like I've been inducted into some exclusive club,” he mused when it was just him and Aziraphale left. 

“If he starts talking about initiating you as an honorary witchfinder, then you know you’ll have earned yourself a gold star in his book,” Aziraphale hummed, glancing up at Crowley with a smile of his own. “As rough as Sergeant Shadwell’s edges might be, he does respect when a person takes pride in their work and dedicates themselves to their cause - as long as it doesn’t involve witchcraft, of course. Or Mr. R.P. Tyler.”

“S'pose it's lucky I'm not interested in either.” He covered the works and rose, dipping his hands into his pockets. “You about done?” 

Aziraphale looked down at the progress he’d made with several books, then sighed, “I suppose I might as well be. If I start on anything now, I’ll end up working long past supper.” He started cleaning up his supplies and tidying up his station, to a point. “I don’t mean to pry, but have you heard anything yet?”

Crowley's fingers flexed in his pockets. “Nothing good,” he admitted after a beat. “Waiting on a couple more places.”

“Ah. I see.” There was a bit of an awkward pause.

Though he’d seen the doughnuts earlier for the peace offering that they were, however unnecessary, there was still a bit of hesitation on both their parts. Aziraphale hoped that his reluctance to discuss Gabriel and their complicated relationship hadn’t done irreparable damage to the one he was trying to cultivate with Crowley. A friendship or, well, whatever they wished to call it. It was still so new, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was he didn’t want to burn this bridge or put up the walls he’d attempted to build after their conversation yesterday.

He couldn’t let Crowley put in all the work. “Do you mind if I walk into town with you? It’s a lovely evening.” He mentally winced, how would he know? They’d been inside all day. “At least it looks like it.”

Crowley flicked his gaze up to the skylights. It had been bright and cheerful most of the day, but the sun was beginning to sink earlier in the day as autumn pressed on. “If you like.” Never mind that he'd been about to ask Aziraphale to walk with him. “I wouldn't mind the company.”

“Wonderful! Ah, let me just… lock up and fetch my coat.” He blushed, his enthusiasm might have been a touch too much, so busied himself with setting the alarm and latching the padlock on the barn doors. 

The air was a bit brisk, the cold certainly growing sharper with each passing day. He’d have to get out his mittens and scarves soon. Possibly a hat. He glanced over Crowley, wearing a jacket as well, but with not nearly as much coverage.

“Does the cold bother you much?” he asked conversationally as they started the now familiar walk into town.

He rolled his shoulders, fingers safe in his pockets. “Some. Never had the best circulation, but that one's a gift of genetics.”

“Ah. Along with your countenance, then? If Sergeant Shadwell is to be believed.” He offered a smile as he clasped his own hands behind him. “A more fortunate gift, I must say, than poor circulation.”

He'd called him lovely, Crowley remembered, drunk on half a bottle of wine. Something in his chest warmed, but he shrugged. “I've got one old photo album and even I look twice at the pictures sometimes. He never would've been able to deny I was his.”

Aziraphale glanced up at the sky as they walked, taking care to find the right words to ask, “Did you know him? You’ve mentioned your grandfather, in the past, but this is the first time I’ve heard you speak of your father.”

“He passed before I was even born. The story varies, but we'll just say it wasn't natural.”

His gaze darted back to him, his eyes and voice soft. “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, my dear.”

“S'fine. You can't really miss what you don't know.” Which was a lie. “Didn't know my mum either, so it was just me and my grandad.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught, feeling a twinge in his chest at the thought of Crowley being almost alone in the world from the start. “Did she also…?”

That was harder, deeper than Crowley wanted to get into, so his response was a noncommittal noise and a shrug. “She's always been gone,” he settled on. “Grandad didn't even know I existed until he got a call. They weren't married or anything, my parents, but she'd left his number and his address when she checked into the hospital. Wrote my dad's name on the certificate. Then a week after I was born, grandad came and just... accepted that I was probably his grandson and he'd take care of me.”

“Oh…” 

He honestly didn’t know which would have been worse, whether her being gone had been her choice or not. That he’d not had either of them from the start, abandoned in his first hours of life as Anthony Crowley on top of the hellish struggles he’d endured since then, seemed like an injustice. Of course, Aziraphale believed that God had a plan for everyone, that with every hardship there was also hope, but that didn’t excuse the fact that this man had already put up with more than most and still wasn’t in the clear. 

“Your grandfather sounds like he was a good man,” he murmured, focusing on that pinprick of light, that someone did come for him, even if it took seven days.

“He was.” Crowley shook his head. None of it could really matter now. They were all gone, and he was still carrying on. “Him, I miss, but I've still got the Bentley.”

“I think it’s a nice way of honouring his memory, you treasuring it so.” Aziraphale glanced down at where his fingers were tucked away in tight pockets, his own wringing together to quell the urge to reach for them to offer comfort, respecting his space. “You’ve mentioned that you fell in with the wrong crowd in your adolescent years… was that around the same time that you lost him?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I was fourteen. Came home from school one day and he was already... So I got chucked into the system, met Beez and I've been sauntering vaguely downwards since.”

“Had been,” Aziraphale couldn’t help correcting, his hands fluttering nervously when Crowley tilted his head towards him in acknowledgment. “I mean, ah… well, it seems to me you’ve been, er… slithering your way back up as of late. Vaguely.”

“Possibly.” He wasn't as bitter as he'd been at least. “How'd you end up with your great-aunt?” 

“Oh. Well, it’s not all that interesting a story, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale looked straight ahead of them. He should have expected as much, that his questions would lead to more questions in return. The curse of the pursuit of knowledge. “I believe I told you I first relocated to the area when I was eight? Well, she simply offered to take me in, just for the summer to start, but then I… well, stayed.” He shrugged, hands twitching in a helpless sort of “what can you do” gesture. “My parents thought it was for the best.”

The tension in his straight shoulders made Crowley itch for a cigarette, but his hands stayed in his pockets. He shouldn't ask more. “What did you want?” 

“It didn’t really matter what I wanted. They might not have been very good at the whole parenting business, but they were still my parents. I had to listen to them.” He offered Crowley a small smile. “It worked out in the end, I think.”

He still seemed to be letting others control him, though. Crowley was at least aware enough not to cross a line pointing that out. “Were you happy with her?” 

“I was very grateful. When my parents were looking for someone to take me, she was the only one who stepped up. It took some time for me to acclimate to a completely different environment and authority figure, but as long as I didn’t cause any trouble, she allowed me the freedom to really be as I liked. Though, knowing her, she might’ve appreciated a bit of trouble,” Aziraphale chuckled to himself, some of the tension thawing as his heart warmed at the memory of her. “Yes, I’d say I was happy with her. Perhaps not at first, but certainly as we grew to understand one another.”

How many other family members had they gone through before his aunt had accepted? How many did Aziraphale know about? Crowley's hands left his pockets, but he didn't have anything to do with them. He couldn't just reach out, unsure how to offer comfort for so much early rejection. Even if no one else had, his parents had. No matter how well-meaning, it was still painful to discover one's own parents would rather you be someone else's problem. He knew how that was, how the pain of it still rippled long after the waters should've steadied. 

His hands returned to his pockets. “You turned out alright being raised by her.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, smile turning fond as the statement settled in him. “And I don’t believe you turned out so bad being raised by your grandfather,” he countered. “I’d like to think he was the kind of person who would be proud of the man you are today. Even with a bit of sauntering.”

“Today, maybe. Twenty years ago?” He wiggled a hand. “Eh. But I'd be worse if I'd never had him, I know that.”

Aziraphale nodded in understanding. “Even if it was for too short a time.” And so unexpected. “I appreciate you opening up to me, Crowley. And I do apologize for my behavior yesterday.” He held out his hand to stop him for a moment, the welcoming light of the inn only a little ways ahead now. “I can’t really explain it, but it was terribly rude and likely confusing and I wanted you to know I am sorry. I find it very easy to talk to you, and I enjoy it immensely, but I suppose I’m still getting used to it.”

“You’re allowed to have lines, angel. It's not going to stop me from budging up against them now and again,” it was just how he was, “but I'd rather know where they are than not.” 

His hands left his pockets again, though he didn't talk with them so much as he did his entire body. “I'm not trying to act like I know what's best for you. I've only been 'round a couple of weeks and you've been' round a couple of decades, so you do know what you're doing. You're not an idiot. I just wanted you to know... You can take a minute now and again to be annoyed or frustrated or just plain sad and I'm not going to judge you or think less of you for it. And not just about your family. About- about anything.

“If you have to get used to that, it's fine. It's just how I am.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged a little, the tension and anxiety knotted in his spine unfurling, like a bird spreading its wings to feel the wind rustle through its feathers. “I like how you are,” he assured him. “But you’re right, I’m afraid I’m not used to it. I don’t know where my lines are either, so if it seems as though I’m coming to a sudden halt, it’s quite possibly because I don’t know what comes next.” Nor could he completely believe that anyone, even Crowley, wouldn’t eventually reach their limit for what they would or would not judge. “I’m a bit out of practice with this sort of thing.”

“I really hope you realize that I haven't exactly been practicing recently myself.” Crowley shrugged, accepting easily that they both had their share of things to get used to. “S'pose we'll muddle through.”

“Yes, I suppose we will.” Aziraphale considered him for a moment, marveling at the way he just accepted that they were on equal footing here. After all, Crowley had quite a compelling reason for being out of practice. Aziraphale hadn’t been wrongfully imprisoned for the past fifteen years. Yet Crowley didn’t say a thing about it. “Well, I’m glad we understand each other then.”

“Yeah.” Crowley would most likely get snippy with him and Aziraphale would most likely storm off in denial, and it would be fine. Eventually. He felt his phone buzz, so slipped it out of his jacket pocket to check this new email. From the notification alone, he could read We regret to inform you...

He quietly put his phone away as if it had been nothing, but his pulse was scrambling. One more chance, then. He needed to really dig into his finances and really look at what he had left. Landing an actual job seemed to be where his luck had ended. “And since I haven’t said it yet, it’s alright. You rushing off yesterday.”

“Good. Oh, that's a relief. It was bothering me. Now we can put it behind us and move forward.” 

Aziraphale nodded to himself, resuming his stroll and waiting to see if Crowley would mention whatever had happened on his telephone, to see if it was anything important. He knew cellular devices would ping for the oddest of reasons, sometimes not involving a call or email at all, so when Crowley remained rather blasé about it, he assumed it had been a random little blip. Perhaps the phone's way of saying, “don't forget about me, I'm still here!” 

Still, he felt it only polite to at least ask, “Is everything alright?” Because of course he wanted everything to be alright for him. Especially after a conversation like that. 

“S’fine. Bit o’junk.” Which was at least half-true. “Just getting used to having a phone going off in my pocket again.”

“I don't know how people do it,” Aziraphale hummed, shaking his head. “Being accessible to all sorts of socialization and entertainment at all hours of the day. Well, it sounds exhausting.”

That answered any question Crowley may have had about Aziraphale and cell phones. “It can always be turned off, and I like having immediate access to information if I want it.”

 “Oh, well, it makes sense for some people. Especially in situations where you don't have access to your own landline. But everyone has them, Crowley. Even children. If it was only for communication, I could understand parents wanting to have easy access to knowing their child's whereabouts, but I know that's not the main use of them. I see Adam and his friends all gathered around one of those little screens, watching things.” His brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, I do hope they don't look at them in the dark. They'll most certainly ruin their eyesight. Speaking of, doesn't it irritate your eyes if you look at it too much?” 

It certainly did, even with the blue light filter on, which only satisfied Aziraphale until Crowley also reminded him that books irritated his eyes if he looked at them too much too. He didn’t let Crowley’s eyes being a bit different deter him from his opinions, though, and Crowley was happy to debate the merits of technology with him. He was just as happy to entertain him with wild schemes, making him smile (though he pretended not to) over a ploy involving rats and a thermos of coffee to knock out cell phone reception for a few hours.

He would’ve been more than happy to continue bantering with him, to pretend that he had nothing more pressing in his life or on his mind, but he couldn’t and he did. He ended up staring at the small print on his cell phone’s screen for far too long that night, wishing the numbers were different than they were, wishing the last email he got had said something different, wishing the closest flat he could afford wasn’t a full two hours away.

Wishing at fourteen, he’d bit his thumb at Beatrice and the way they and their friend Luke were going to start something new. The world needed a new Lucifer to shake things up, a new Beelzebub to boot, and wouldn’t it feel good to get back at them? Whoever they were, whatever they’d done, wouldn’t it feel good?

He didn’t often let his wishes go back that far. It had felt good, some of it. When the victims had been nameless and faceless, bigger corporations instead of the common man. Which was tripe and he knew it now, but then? It had been nice to sort of belong, just for the first few years, until he’d found stable footing again and a new perspective that had reminded him of the time before he’d known them. He wouldn’t change all of it, but some of it...

Some of it kept him awake, the headache staring at his phone had created steadily filling every crevice of his mind until it was a pulsing migraine. The pain crept into his bones, it seemed, and was so much worse than the mild headache he’d woken up with on Aziraphale’s couch. He wanted to turn off the lights, put a cold cloth over his eyes, and sprawl across the cool bathroom tile to wile away the day.

He popped a pill or three, packed what few belongings he had, and tucked them into the Bentley’s backseat before paying his inn tab. He returned his key, plastered on a smile that didn’t survive to the door, and drove to the little farm with gritted teeth and the radio on a rare state of Off. Birdsong assaulted his ears when he stepped out and the close of his car door was like a gunshot. He’d take one, he decided, right between the eyes. Take him out of every misery he was currently wallowing in.

Aziraphale’s cheerful greeting made him wince, and he shuffled towards the kitchenette with barely a grunt in response to brew some tea.

Removing his little spectacles, Aziraphale watched him go with a slight furrow to his brow. Well, that was a thing. A thing he hadn’t really expected after the mutual understanding they’d reached on the walk to the inn. Aziraphale had even hummed to himself on the way back, feeling light and airy after their invigorating conversation and putting up with Crowley’s teasing. While it may have been at his expense or to rile him up - “Someone would most certainly have to thwart your demonic wiles, you can’t just send rats in to take down an entire mobile telephone network, Crowley!” - the amusement Crowley found in weaving these impossible scenarios and watching him huff and pout over them was more than worth it. It meant he was in a good mood, and he so deserved to spend some time feeling good.

He’d fixed up Arthur Young’s car, was making excellent progress on the Tyler’s clock, and already had two more consults lined up for antique mantel clocks, both out-of-towners, but friends with Mrs. Tyler and very interested in having whoever was working on her grandfather clock take a look at their old pieces. The work was coming in, and he was responding to it admirably, even while living out of a single room at an inn and amidst the stress of finding a flat. So, actually, it made sense that he wouldn’t be in the best of moods if that worry was still hanging over his head. Not to mention talk of his parents and grandfather might have dredged up memories and emotions he’d rather have kept locked up tight.

Time could temper some old hurts, but the grief was never truly gone for good.

Deciding to give him a bit of space for the time being, or at least until the tea did its job, Aziraphale put his spectacles back on and resumed his work compiling everyone’s paychecks. Payday was twice a month, on the first and third Fridays, and accounted for everyone’s regular salary along with any tips they made off of completed works and quarterly bonuses. He’d tried to make them monthly, believing they all deserved it for their exemplary work, but of course Gabriel and Sandalphon had something to say about that. To be fair, with five full-time employees and one part-time, it did make things a bit tight, so he’d been willing to negotiate, getting four times a year as opposed to the singular Christmas bonus they’d proposed.

They also got a Christmas bonus, as it wasn’t that quarter’s fault it had to share with the holiday. A holiday bonus and a quarterly bonus were two very different things and, like people who were born on Christmas, deserved to be acknowledged as such. Regardless of what Sandalphon’s numbers said.

Speaking of Sandalphon, it might have been silly for Aziraphale to calculate everything by hand himself when he did have an accountant who processed payroll, but he wanted to be sure everyone was getting paid exactly as they were owed. Not that he didn’t trust his cousin or thought he’d withhold pay to put into the shop’s profits or anything like that, of course not. Aziraphale simply felt better knowing that he could process payroll just as well with his ledger and calculator. If there ever came a time where Sandalphon decided he wanted to cut ties with them, Aziraphale wanted to be certain he wouldn’t be without a paddle in the middle of a big lake, or however the saying went. He wasn’t very good at maths, so it took all of his concentration to work with numbers and pushed his knowledge of idioms and wordplay right out into the ether.

Still, he wasn’t so engrossed that he didn’t remind himself to glance over at Crowley every now and again, just to see how the poor dear was faring. 

The answer seemed to consistently be “not well.” Tea had been a mistake. The caffeine had only served to wake him up enough to feel the consistent pounding more clearly, and he was straining both mind and eyes to piece each going train together. The sounds of everyone else arriving certainly didn’t help. He could normally tune out Shadwell’s insistence on stomping his arrival and Tracy’s cheerful “cooee,” but his hands pressed against his ears and his elbows pressed against the table so he could hunch as small as he could make himself to try to retroactively block out noise. It didn’t work, but he told himself he could handle it.

Anathema and Newt were generally quieter, her greeting calmer and his even softer to avoid disturbing anyone or reminding anyone he existed. Except, of course, the door always seemed to slam behind him and he inevitably dropped one or two tools when uncovering whatever he was working on. The clang of metal and wood made Crowley pause for a solid minute. Fingertips dug into the pressure points on the right side of his head, nails biting at his scalp as if he could claw the bright, ringing pain right out of his own skull, and he forced himself to breathe until, eventually, the stabbing sensation faded back to the throbbing and he could at least pick his own tools back up. He just couldn’t focus on them like normal, couldn’t slip away from his worries and delve into the work. The only thing that kept him from escaping outside with a cigarette was the threat of the sun. It was bad enough with the skylights, but at least he wasn’t directly under one at his station. It was a small miracle, but he wasn’t going to be praising anyone for it anytime soon.

It was at this point his obvious discomfort could no longer go unnoticed. Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat, physically and mentally preparing himself for the best course of action. He would send people home if they weren’t feeling well, and this had moved beyond just being in a sour mood. But if it was a headache, which he suspected it was from the way he flinched at even the most mundane of sounds, he wasn’t sure that driving or walking back to the inn was the best idea. 

He was considering the idea of sending him into his own house to rest somewhere dark and cosy when he noticed exaggerated movement from across the barn. Anathema held up a piece of paper once she had his attention. In large, blocky letters, she’d written the word “black.” He frowned at her a beat, struggling to process what she was inferring,^[1] then raised his eyebrows in understanding when she pointed at Crowley. Aziraphale gave her a tight smile. While he appreciated her assistance, he was well-aware that Crowley was wearing black. He always wore black.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then pointed again. Aziraphale flicked his gaze between her and Crowley, uncomprehending what point she was trying to make. Rolling her eyes, she lowered the paper to her desk and quickly wrote something down. When she lifted it again, all became clear.

His aura.

Right, that made much more sense.

He pantomimed for her to lower the sign before anyone else could see it, then placed his finger to his lips. She shook her head at his dramatics, but he didn’t want anyone speculating anything prematurely. Not before he’d even had a chance to talk to Crowley and see if he couldn’t get him to lie down for a bit.

Aziraphale approached Crowley’s workstation, taking care to keep his voice soft as he looked at him across the tabletop. “Crowley, it looks to me that you’re not feeling very well. Perhaps you should rest for a bit.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Just a migraine. Had a bad night and it's... Meds just haven't kicked in yet.”

“Well, all the noise and light can't possibly be helping with that,” Aziraphale tutted. “Why don't you go sit for a while in the house? With the curtains drawn it can get rather dark. Just until the medication sets in.”

He wanted to say no. That it was unnecessary and he'd be fine eventually and that he'd worked through migraines before, but... “Can I?” he murmured. 

“Of course, my dear boy,” Aziraphale assured him. “No need to push yourself if you’re not in tip-top condition.”

Sometimes, he had to. More often than not, he had to. He set his tools down very carefully and rubbed his temples as if that would help somehow. “Alright. I'll be fine in a bit. M'just...” 

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Crowley. The fact that you aren’t arguing with me on this is testament to how you must be feeling at present. Go on now. Before I decide to ask Newton to drive you back to the inn for a proper rest,” he teased.

He bit back the “I checked out,” but noise still escaped: a “ngk” and something a snake might sizzle out after being stepped on. He couldn't even find it in him to pretend the tease had landed, instantly annoyed with himself as he pushed up from his seat and fled. He did try to walk as though nothing was the matter and he was infinitely better at that than Aziraphale, but sometimes auras left traces behind. He left inky black smudges that made Anathema frown and shake her head at Aziraphale. 

“He has a headache,” Aziraphale replied defensively, keeping his voice down so Shadwell and Newt couldn’t overhear in case the former wanted to start an uproar about witchery. “I can’t very well demand he tell me why his aura is black when he is clearly unwell.”

“Yeah, well, he left pieces behind. He's a wallower.” She hummed as she scanned his station. “Maybe I'll burn some palo santo over lunch to clear it out of here. Your house'll need something later. He'll wallow over there too. Do you think he'd let me smudge his car? It's so dark in there and the box on his backseat has handprints on it.”

“I wouldn’t think about touching the Bentley, my dear. Perhaps if you gave him the palo santo, then he could-” Aziraphale stopped, brow furrowing. “What box in his backseat?”

“There's a box. Like a packing box? I didn't look into it, but it's hard not to notice. It's kind of like... He's leaving demonic slime in his wake or some over-dramatic thing he'd like.”

Aziraphale had been in his car on Monday and there hadn’t been anything in the backseat. Pocketing his reading glasses, he strode right past Tracy and Anathema and out the barn doors. The Bentley was parked a bit askew just inside the gate. Newt’s car sat a respectable distance from it, like it had been too afraid to get much closer. 

Hands clasped behind his back, Aziraphale lifted his chin and chanced a glance at his home. Crowley had already disappeared inside, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t accidentally peer out a window in an attempt to close the curtains. The sitting room was in the back of the house and didn’t face the barn, but one could never be too careful.

But also one really wanted to see what was in the back of Crowley’s car. 

It was also interesting that he chose to drive over today. Lately he’d been walking, possibly because he liked when Aziraphale would walk back with him or possibly because he wanted the exercise, but he only drove over when he needed the Bentley for something else. Perhaps with the migraine he hadn’t wanted to walk and the drive was hardly five minutes.

Aziraphale remained rooted in the doorway. Perhaps that was all it was. Perhaps the box was nothing. Or perhaps the box was something, but even if it was something it didn’t mean Aziraphale had any right to pry or for Crowley to tell him what it was. 

Oh, but the temptation was too great. Just a peek, he told himself as his light footsteps barely disturbed the dirt. Wringing his hands together, he craned his neck forward and peered into the backseat. There was a box, a simple cardboard box with no handprints that he could see, but there were a few black shirts poking out the top, a sleeve draped over the edge. A plastic bag filled with shampoo and soap had been thrown on top next to one that had a comb and a toothbrush.

Aziraphale swallowed and backed away from the car, gaze wandering towards the house once more. Had he checked out of the inn? Had one of the landlords called and told him he could move in straight away? Even with a migraine, Aziraphale was fairly certain Crowley would’ve wanted to tell him that, if only to keep him from pestering him about it.

“Oh,” a voice tsked beside him and Aziraphale nearly fell over. He held out his hands to steady himself as he whirled to face Madame Tracy. “You know, I’d heard from Julia Petley that he’d checked out this morning, and I told her, that can’t be right, dear, he’s coming in to work today. Going to put some finishing touches on that clock he and Mr. S are working on. Well, you know what she said to that? ‘That might be what he’s doing until five, but after that?’” She pursed her lips and shrugged, batting her long, false lashes. “‘It’s anybody’s guess.’ The cheek.”

Aziraphale startled again when she gave his arm a firm pat. “Now, I’m sure Mr. Crowley has something arranged. It’d be a shame if he didn’t, the poor dear, but he seems like such a resourceful man. Certainly not one to consider sleeping in his car to save money.” She shook her head, waving off that thought while Aziraphale considered the Bentley once again.

Crowley would absolutely consider sleeping in his car to save money. 

Wringing his hands again, he wondered just what had to be going through Crowley’s mind, firm in his resolve to speak with him about it once he was rested. If he didn’t reappear by lunch, then he’d use that as an excuse to check on him. Then maybe he’d get a bit more clarity on the situation.

----

Crowley was feeling some of his own clarity as lunch rolled around. Not quite back to normal, but definitely at a more manageable state. His brain wasn’t trying to dance out of his skull, at least, and he’d gotten some sleep. Perhaps not everyone would see his napping spot of choice as particularly restful (Aziraphale, he imagined, would’ve tutted at him), but he’d been just fine hiding beneath the coffee table. The old rug was soft and clean, it had been a shadowed spot, and he preferred being flat on his back when he was sleeping off a migraine. The rest of the time, he preferred somewhere soft to sprawl or curl up, but that was different. That was sleeping because he truly did enjoy getting some rest.

This had been sleep because he’d been in desperate need of escape and, just like Sunday night, he’d felt safe. Wasn’t smart to get used to that, he thought, sighing as he drew the damp cloth off his eyes and blinked up at the wooden underside of the coffee table. His eyes didn’t burn as they adjusted, which was a relief. He’d just get a few more pills out of his jacket pocket, see what he could scrounge up in the ways of food, and he’d be fine.

Well... “fine.” His aura wasn’t quite as slimy anymore, but there certainly wasn’t any colour. With wakefulness had come all the issues sleep let him escape from, an unfortunate side-effect. He’d pull through somehow or other. He always did, even if it sometimes took longer than other times. This wouldn’t take fifteen years, of that he was certain.

A glance at his watch - a handmade mess of modern steampunk he’d very much enjoyed creating - had him sighing. As usual, his sleep had lasted longer than intended. The morning had gotten away from him entirely, but that at least would make it easier to find food somewhere. No excuse needed to eat lunch at lunch.

Tucking his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, he tossed the cloth on top of the counter above the washer in the kitchen because he had no idea where Aziraphale kept his laundry and then doubled back to the foyer to get his jacket and the prescription bottle out of the pocket. He wasn’t ready for the door to open, covering his eyes and wincing. “Ngk.”

“Oh! I wasn't sure if you'd be up yet,” Aziraphale said in a hushed voice, closing the door quickly behind him to keep out the light. “Er… I'd ask if you were feeling better, but…”

“I was,” he grunted, though it wasn’t very fair. On a sigh, he lowered his hand again and retrieved the pill bottle. “M’fine. Just need another round of meds. My own fault for not taking them with food like I’m supposed to, but I didn’t have a chance this morning.”

“How serendipitous. I was just about to make myself something. Would you like to join me?” Aziraphale thought that was quite smooth of him, very casual and fortuitous for him as well. 

“Yeah,” he replied, immediate and automatic because not joining Aziraphale for anything just seemed like the wrong choice. “Didn’t mean to miss the whole morning like that. I nodded off at some point.”

Aziraphale had to remind himself to stop preening and actually go into the kitchen to make said lunch. He brushed past him, talking all the while as he busied himself in fetching all the makings for some light sandwiches. “Well, that’s good you were able to relax enough to get some rest. I’m not surprised you nodded off. You have been going through quite a lot.”

“I’ve been through worse,” he reminded him, both of them. “I’ll muddle through all this too.”

“Yes, well, that very well may be, but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel the strain this time around,” Aziraphale reminded right back. “Suffering isn’t a competition, let alone when you’re the only one playing the game. How does egg and cress sound?”

“S’fine.” Crowley leaned his hip against the counter, watching him flit about the kitchen. He’d watched him cook before and it hadn’t been quite like this. His hands hadn’t fluttered with so much nervous energy. Crowley sighed. “Looked in the Bentley, did you?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to deny it, but sagged before he could even try. “Well, it is right outside,” he pointed out, and physically pointed in the general direction of where it was, though he was off by a good ten metres. “And it’s such a lovely car, so I happened to peek in through the windows as I passed by and- oh, Anathema told me you had a box in the backseat and you didn’t have a box two days ago.” If he was trying not to look put out, he was failing miserably. “Crowley, why is there a box with all of your belongings in the backseat of your car?”

Crowley had already told him he’d had a bad night, he knew his housing situation better than anyone, and he’d gotten more glimpses into his financial stresses than he would normally have ever talked about. So he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and said quietly, “You know why.”

Aziraphale released his breath on a long exhale, deflating with it. “I suppose I do. And I also suppose that you don’t have other accommodations lined up at present, do you?”

Wishing he had his sunglasses on, he averted his gaze and let his shoulders jerk in some form of a shrug. “Sss’fine.”

“It is most certainly not fine, Crowley.” Aziraphale studied the way he wouldn’t look at him, the tension still coiled in his shoulders and neck that would likely only invite the migraine back. 

All he was looking for was some kind of break, and he was so close. That made it all the more painful, he imagined. To have your fingertips brush against a life you’d been deprived of for so long, not close enough to get a good grip, but close enough to feel its warmth. Yet when Crowley stretched his hand out, he couldn’t keep himself from sinking, his past muddied and cold, determined to drag him down again and again.

If he had someone to help lift him up, just a little bit, while he crawled his way out… 

For the past few hours, Aziraphale had seriously considered the ramifications of what he was about to offer, should it be as bad as he feared. Crowley wasn’t weak or in need of rescue, and his pride could quite possibly take a hit. But it wasn’t a weakness to accept help in hard times. Aziraphale just hoped he saw it the same way.

“Bring your box inside. You’ll stay here for the night while you figure out your next move. I have a spare room you can use.” His chest felt tight, heart pounding at the thought of him in the room across the hall, but the urge to do right by him was stronger. “I can’t in good conscience let you sleep in your car.”

He didn’t want to, and he’d told Aziraphale as much already. Another thing he’d told him, another thing he probably should’ve kept to himself, and would have had he not been... him. Easy to talk to, to be around, safe and soft and surprisingly sturdy. Crowley glanced at him, knowing it wasn’t an offer made out of pity and knowing that, even though it hadn’t been posed as a question, he still had a choice. He could say no and was pretty sure Aziraphale would respect his choice and help him in a dozen other little ways. This was just the simplest, smartest option and...

It was a gift, like an umbrella held over him in the rain. There wasn’t a name for what circled Crowley’s heart like a halo, not one he was comfortable finding anyway, but it made him give a small nod. “I’ll... bring it in later, after everyone’s gone home.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale accepted with his own firm nod. “Well, that settles it then. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

He urged Crowley to sit and take another dose of his medication while he finished preparing the sandwiches, then they ate in the sitting room because it was darker than it would be at the dining room table. The air was full of a slight reprieve, but only slight. They both knew that one night couldn’t possibly be enough time for Crowley to tie up all his loose ends, but it was a start.

They’d just have to see where things would go from there.

Before heading back to the shop, Aziraphale popped into the dusky coloured room, the mix of pale lavender and deep navy better suited to Crowley - and migraines - than the yellow. It also had the bigger bed, which he stripped of its sheets to freshen up. He opened the windows to let in some air and dusted the dresser and wobbly old secretary desk. It was only one night, for now, but he wanted it to at least be as comfortable as staying at an inn.

While Crowley fetched his things from the Bentley that night, Aziraphale made the bed with the sheets still warm and scented with the Fairy fabric softener he favoured. He thought about how he used it in most of his washing, and how people’s homes and detergents and natural scents would mingle in their clothes and linens in such peculiar, distinct combinations. So many people could use the same brand of detergent, yet the washing always smelled unique when it fluttered on the line outside someone’s home. His was no different, he was certain.

Much later, after they’d dined and conversed and weighed all the options until the dregs of his headache begged Crowley to turn in, when Aziraphale finally readied for sleep himself, he thought about him lying in the bed he’d just made. He wondered if it had been easy for him to fall asleep, lulled into a peaceful, heavy-lidded calm whilst listening to the quiet night air of the country. He wondered if he curled up like he had on the couch the other night, safe and welcome under Aziraphale’s roof and blankets, and wondered if he thought the sheets smelled like him.

Footnotes

^1. ↩

Chapter Text

Working with clock gears didn’t give Crowley a headache, but the painting did. He focused on the lines carefully, following the indents of the clock face exactly with the fine point of a paintbrush borrowed from Deirdre and some acrylic enamel paint Aziraphale had plucked out of a box. He finished the V of the five and had to push back from his workstation, shoulders rolling to be rid of some of the tension. His eyes also closed against the light because he hadn’t been able to wear his sunglasses and still see the detail clear enough.

When he’d awoken that morning, he’d been migraine-free and thankful for it. Still stressed because nothing had really been resolved the night before, try as they might. On one hand, giving Aziraphale access to the actual numbers had been nothing less than humiliating. On the other...

Well, it had been nice to have a different perspective. One that was optimistic even when the evidence weighed a little more heavily towards the pessimism Crowley generally tried to wrap himself in. Couldn’t be disappointed if you didn’t hope. Or if the hope was buried and smothered and smothered more when it stubbornly surfaced again.

And, though they were both rubbish at and detested maths, Aziraphale’s calculator had matched the one on Crowley’s phone and there really was no sensible way to return to the inn. Even with his paycheck coming in - the amount of which Crowley was forbidden to argue over but had argued over anyway - it didn’t make financial sense. Maybe he could eek out one or two more nights, but he had to eat eventually. He had to have enough to make a down payment and a month or two of rent. He had to have enough to buy at least a mattress and a pot to start.

So, no, nothing had really been decided about his future in Tadfield beyond tentative maybes that would take him closer to London than he ever wanted to be again, but he’d slept easy. He’d burrowed beneath blankets that had smelled both distractingly and comfortingly like Aziraphale and out he’d been. There hadn’t even been any of the expected awkwardness that morning, though after he’d awoken on his sofa Monday there hadn’t been either. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, that Aziraphale was just Aziraphale. He’d greeted him in his cheerful way, already elbow-deep in breakfast preparation before Crowley had stumbled down the stairs in all of his bleary-eyed, why-is-it-morning glory.

He’d even been able to drink his first cuppa for once because Aziraphale had rescued it from over-steeping, a bad habit he’d admitted to with a smile because he liked the way Aziraphale tutted at him. He’d also liked the soft-boiled egg he’d been served, blue eyes pleading with him to at least eat a little something for the day ahead so Aziraphale wouldn’t have to eat alone. Please.

There’d been no refusing him, and no mention of the box still up in the spare room. 

There’d been no mention of it when they’d gone to the pub for lunch either, though Crowley had gotten the impression that he’d had eyes on him. He’d blown into the town, checked out as suddenly as he’d checked in, yet was still there - small town tongues wagged, he knew. And, sure enough, Madame Tracy had flounced over to him while he’d been testing the works against his own watch to be sure the seconds were ticking along as they ought. “I told that Julia Petley you weren’t going anywhere, dear. She saw you and Mr. Aziraphale strolling into the pub and she about had a fit, she was so sure you were leaving us.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“So I told her.” She’d patted his cheek, beaming, and he'd let her. Then she'd noticed the works and had gasped. “Now look at that! Ticking away like it should. Mrs. Tyler’s going to be thrilled.”

He hoped so. The pickup was scheduled for the next afternoon, but he didn’t think he’d be able to finish painting the face until morning. There were only six roman numerals left and another thirty minutes left in the day, but he had to sit back and rub at the corners of his eyes in an attempt to relieve the pressure building up behind them. A little clink and rattle of cup on saucer made him blink his eyes open, glancing at the tea that had been set at his station and then blinking up at Aziraphale. The thanks went unsaid. “S’pose I missed my last break again.”

“You did,” Aziraphale confirmed matter-of-factly, but there wasn’t much of a reprimand in his tone. “Can I trust you to sit here and take your tea and not look at the clock for fifteen minutes, or should I shoo you outside?”

“Depends.” He shifted, gesturing at the magnifying glass hovering above the shining face. “How d’you think it looks?”

Hands folded behind his back, Aziraphale leaned over the table to peer down at the face. “That looks lovely,” he practically cooed. “Oh, such an improvement already.” The fact that there were six left unpainted did not escape his notice. “Might I make a suggestion?”

Crowley took a sip with his eyes closed to give them a respite. “Is it ‘finish?’”

Aziraphale gave him a look that he could most certainly feel even if he couldn’t see it. “No. It’s why don’t you finish this tomorrow morning? It would be a shame if the same level of detail couldn’t be given to the rest of the face, and with only fifteen minutes left and your eyes clearly strained, it might be best to wait. If you’re concerned about it drying in time for the pick up, I can always call the Tylers and push back their appointment. It’s been done before.”

“S’fine. Tracy’s bringing in her hair dryer for me tomorrow.” That and the look he most definitely did feel made his lips curve. “Guaranteed it’s bright pink and has at least one sticker on it.”

“Six, but it’s mint green,” he confirmed, his own lips twitching. “Well, good, then I see no reason for you to rush to get it finished today.” Aziraphale glanced down at the table, then after a moment he picked up the pair of sunglasses and tapped them against Crowley’s hand. “Take care of your eyes.”

“Bossy.” Though he had no arguments over actually pushing the shades on. 

“Well, I am your boss.”

Crowley smiled. That he was. “I'll finish up in the morning, use the hair dryer if it's not done by lunch. Either way, it'll be put together by the time they come get it.” 

“I trust you. You take good care of your work.” Aziraphale’s smile was tinged with exasperated fondness. “Just don’t forget yourself, too, my dear. That’s all I’m saying.” Before he left him to finish the rest of his break in peace, he stopped himself with an ‘ah’ as his eyes lit up. “Also wanted to let you know I’m thinking shepherd's pie for dinner. Or cottage pie. Either way, I figure that should provide us with ample leftovers. Do you have a preference between lamb or beef?”

Crowley stared at him over the rim of his cup for a few seconds too long before his brain seemed to turn itself back on and he made an aborted gesture with his free hand. “D'you put cheese in it?” 

He almost looked offended. “I should think so. Well, on top of it.” He mimed a sprinkling motion with his fingers. “Aged cheddar, usually.”

Crowley rubbed his thumb against the side of his cup. It didn't really matter, he told himself. It really, really, really didn't, but the date... “Be annoyed if I ask you to leave a spot without?” 

Aziraphale blinked, his puffed up posture going lax in surprise. It had become habit, really, asking Crowley about his preferences with food even though the man usually waved his hand or shrugged. Let him make the call or recommendation. To hear he had an actual preference for something…

“No, not at all!” he hurried to assure him. “That’s hardly cause for annoyance, my dear. It’s simple enough to leave off. How do you feel about horseradish and chives? I usually put just a hint of it in the mash.” 

“Sounds alright.” And it very much seemed like Aziraphale was offering something beyond dinner, his heart kicking out of rhythm as he realized just how much he wanted to accept. It was never safe to want something so strongly. “And lamb, to actually answer you.”

“Excellent. You know, I believe I was leaning towards the lamb as well.” His smile was bright as he gave a giddy wiggle, but then he seemed to falter as there was little else to say on the matter. Dinner was decided, Crowley was on break, the check-in was ultimately a success, so his continued lingering was swiftly deemed unnecessary. Awkwardly clasping and unclasping his hands, he eventually just pointed somewhere in the vicinity of his desk. “Right. Well, I’ll just- leave you to it then. Your break. Not the clock.” He cleared his throat, then turned and walked away before he started to look more than just a little foolish.

Crowley watched him, knowing Aziraphale was aware of his gaze, but he didn't have nearly enough shame to turn away. He at least behaved enough to get up at the end of fifteen minutes and start puttering about through the end of his shift. Cleaning and putting away the cup and its mismatched saucer, rinsing the brush, ignoring Aziraphale's order to take care of his eyes because he just had to make sure every line was even and straight for his own pride.

But it killed five minutes as easily as chatting with Newt did when he brought the finished case over. That, too, gave him a little bubble of pride even though all he'd done with it was solder the wing back on the bird decoration, but it gleamed and the line where he'd reattached it was invisible. Fresh, unscratched glass had been inserted into both doors and the entire mahogany case had a polish to it, stress fractures healed and all four legs replaced after two more had been found to barely be attached and the fourth rotted. There was a subtle scar in the back where it had been split, but Shadwell had somehow managed to make it look intentional. 

Mr. Tyler might try to huff and puff and complain about something simply because he was just that sort, but Mrs. Tyler would be pleased. Looming headache or not, Crowley was proud of that. It was a funny, tight feeling in his chest, not quite unwelcome but nearly forgotten. He'd have to hide before the Tylers arrived to avoid embarrassing himself, he decided, covering the works with a cloth as Newt collected Anathema from her quiet chat with Aziraphale. 

And somehow, at six on the dot, it was just the two of them. 

“If I ever hear Shadwell say he's got magic fingers again, I might be sick,” Crowley tossed out, casual and light and like nothing more stressful than that was churning in him. 

Aziraphale chuckled and tightened his book press around an old physics book to realign the spine overnight. “I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to build up a tolerance to. One of his many, er... quirks. Now, shall we?”

He set the alarm once Crowley was outside, then secured the padlock. On the walk up to the house, Aziraphale did his best to convince himself of the proposition he was about to make. Well, perhaps not right then and there, more likely over dinner, or after dinner or after dessert even. The point was, he’d been giving Crowley’s situation a great deal of thought and couldn’t help running the numbers again. The tentative plan was to drive out to those cheaper flats closer to London on Sunday, put in a few inquiries over the next few days, and hope that something would come of that. Cheaper room rates in other inns were being considered, closer to London as well. 

But the petrol it would take to drive that way would eat into his funds. Another inn would deplete his paycheck within the week. The cycle of earning one’s keep and then being forced to spend it all just to start all over again with no room to save or build some sort of foundation to balance on was challenging enough for the average person, let alone someone who’d only recently left prison and had a criminal record. Really what Crowley needed was a way to save up his pay, take his time looking around the area, and not have to worry about where he’d sleep or get his next meal.

Well, as far as meals were concerned, it was very likely it would be something Aziraphale would bring to his workstation, like a sandwich or a bag of crisps to nibble on or some fruit, but that was neither here nor there.

One night, even several nights, wouldn’t be enough to set things to rights. A few weeks would be better, a month even. Perhaps longer.

Aziraphale had the space. It was only him living in the farmhouse. There’d be no issue regarding commute. They got on rather well, it seemed. They’d become rather more than dear acquaintances by this point, and certainly from the get-go this wasn’t a typical employer-employee arrangement, though the same could be said for the rest of the team. They were a little bit more than just a group of people who had to work together, but Aziraphale liked that. Liked fostering those sorts of connections. And he liked Crowley and wanted to help him.

He was still aware that it might come off as an odd offer though.

All that fretting and thought transferred itself into cooking and babbling. Crowley watched him flutter about the kitchen, barely needing to add in a word here and there while Aziraphale talked. About cooking, about the wine that might pair best with it or perhaps they should save wine for their dessert since they didn't want their bottle from the weekend to go off, about the music Crowley put on when he realized Aziraphale's babbling should have a soundtrack, about the book he was restoring, about the weather and how glad he was to have the skylights but, oh, he hoped they didn't irritate Crowley's eyes too much, and have you taken any medication, my dear? 

So Crowley grabbed a pill to stave off the worst of the headache, cut potatoes when asked, made a mental note of the way Aziraphale opened the exact same drawer three times in his quest for knives only to find dish towels every time, and cataloged the way he very deliberately continued to avoid talking about the box in his spare room and the Bentley near the gate. The obvious crossroads they were at seemed to have several detours. 

And Crowley gave him until the shepherd's pie was in the oven before he reached out and touched his arm to capture his attention and quiet him. 

“Angel, just tell me if I'm leaving or staying tonight. It's your home, so it's entirely up to you, but I'd like to know what I'm doing.” 

Aziraphale's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a shocked gasp. “Oh! Oh, my dear, I- oh no, I suppose I didn't say, did I? All this wondering about the future, and I didn't even consider the immediate present. I'm sorry, Crowley, of course you can stay tonight. You can stay tomorrow night even, and the next and…”

Well, he supposed this was as good a moment as any. “And I was thinking… You know, this is quite a lot of space for one person. And from time to time I've even considered putting up one of the rooms for let.” Aziraphale realized he was rambling again as he pointed at the ceiling. For Heaven's sake, that wasn't even a bedroom directly above them, it was the bathroom. “But that's not the point. Ah, the point is, I have the room and the furniture and wouldn't be opposed to- to sharing it. With you. For as long as you need.”

That had seemed like too much to hope for, the opportunity to just stay. Something like “mmngh” came out in response, forced out by a big bubble of something in his chest. It was a terrifying offer because it was made so sincerely and simply out of a place of goodness that Crowley was painfully unfamiliar with. Where Aziraphale's nervous energy took him on an efficient, talkative journey, Crowley's just made him spasm oddly in place and make incoherent sounds in the hopes that something, anything, might make a little bit of sense somewhere, but Aziraphale just watched him process patiently. 

Eventually “Why?” came out and that seemed good enough. 

Why indeed. “Well, I suppose it's because… I mean, as I said, I do have the room, and you're in need of a place to stay, and I'd like to help-”

He could feel Crowley's stare on him, unblinking and wide behind the tinted lenses, and Aziraphale mustered up the rest of his courage. “And I'd like to think we've become friends. So I'd like to be there for you and I believe this is a way that I can. But again, only if you're comfortable with it. Of course you can say no, I wouldn't- I'd understand if you didn't want to.”

“Ngk. I'd... like to,” he replied carefully, as if saying it aloud would make Aziraphale take back the offer. Like it'd been a joke the whole time. It wouldn't be the first time and he was warier now, but... Friends. Aziraphale thought they were friends and, well, Crowley wasn't exactly against the idea. Not at all. “If you're serious, I'd pay half the utilities and you can come up with a number besides that you think's fair.”

“Of course I’m serious.” Aziraphale blinked at him, like the idea of anything else would be absurd. “I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise. A third of the utilities though. The bill includes the plumbing and electrical for the shop, which you obviously don’t need to cover. I’d think that would suffice.” His pulse quickened a bit as he realized that Crowley was agreeing to it. “You really would like to?”

It meant more time with him. More time to see him, talk to him, continue getting to know him, and it meant no torturous drive up near London every day. No inns. No layer of shame added to the Bentley from being forced to sleep in it. More time with Aziraphale. 

He offered his hand for a shake. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale lit up like he’d been the one offered the opportunity and firmly clasped his hand. “Well, I suppose now that makes us roommates,” he chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Crowley looked at him, bright and shining and somehow haloed in the kitchen lights. He squeezed his hand, doubting very much that Aziraphale ever would be. “Not that bad once you get used to it.”

Aziraphale tutted, but he couldn’t quell the amusement he felt even as he shook his head. “Just set the table, please.”

----

 Crowley may not have been working at Divine Restorations & Repairs long, but he'd settled into habits very quickly. The biggest one being that he never seemed to remember breaks existed. Or food, for that matter, as if both were a great big inconvenience and he could live solely on alcohol and tea and the cigarettes he hadn't actually reached for since Gabriel's visit. 

But that Saturday was different. Maybe it was the relief of having a place to stay that had him paying attention. Or maybe it was something different, the same something that had made him squirm in place that morning before he'd checked that Aziraphale hadn't cooked the eggs in the bacon fat. He'd avoided both eggs and bacon, but he'd eaten the pancake. 

Now, before Aziraphale could look up with a gentle reminder that he should stretch his legs, he was already gone. There were still two numbers to be painted and he'd taken his medication with breakfast to stave off the migraine, so he hadn't shown any signs of pain before sauntering out.

He rummaged in the kitchenette, left, and came back with an apple and a jar. When he returned to his station a few minutes later, he had apple slices and some honey on a small plate and left some tea at Aziraphale's elbow because it was still early enough for that instead of cocoa. Then he sat down with his plate of actual food and tea, studying the clock just to make sure things were still on the up and up but otherwise took an unprompted break. 

It took quite a bit of self-restraint on Aziraphale’s part to keep from dropping his bone folder as he watched Crowley nibble on the sliver of apple, fingers cautious of the sticky strands that threatened them. He realized, aside from the doughnuts that he’d brought, he’d never seen Crowley partake in something without a bit of goading or wheedling on his part. Warmth blossomed in his chest. First the cheese on the shepherd’s pie, then his hovering in the kitchen that morning, and now apples on his break. Perhaps he was trusting Aziraphale not to judge his preferences now. Now that they were proper friends. 

He made a note to buy more apples and honey when he picked up the groceries. It did sound like a rather scrummy snack. He was certain that if he came right out and asked Crowley about his preferences, he’d be waved off and encouraged to just get whatever he liked and he’d make do, but Aziraphale was no fool. He’d seen the way Crowley had been eyeing the eggs and bacon and had seen him happily - well, perhaps happily was a strong word - but he’d seen him eat eggs before. Multiple times now. So either he wasn’t in the mood, or it was the bacon that was a problem.

He’d buy sausage this time and see if that made a difference. It was good to mix things up anyway.

For Crowley's part, he wasn't exactly attempting to mix things up. Aziraphale was right in thinking he'd wave any questions away. Because while he was testing the waters a little, seeing if he would be accommodated on small things, the reasons behind them were private and he didn't think he was anywhere near a point where explaining himself would be possible. The date was an important one to him because it had been important to his grandad, and he told himself he was only observing it at all because of him. 

Certainly not because of Her, but those feelings were messy and sticky and he wasn't sure how to even begin talking about them. He never had. And Aziraphale might invite him to church and that just... that was never going to happen. He was dramatic enough to half-expect the very floors to burn his feet and wasn't going to test the theory. 

Better to keep it all tightly wrapped up and hidden away from questions altogether so long as he could continue to do as he liked. If there was irony in him, endlessly curious and constantly questioning everything, hiding away from anyone else's questions, he ignored it. 

He would've happily hid from the Tylers when they arrived well after two, but that would've left Aziraphale alone with them as Tracy had wisely taken Shadwell home and Aziraphale had very cheerfully told Newt and Anathema that they were welcome to head home in kind. No need for her to be around for Mr. Tyler to mutter about her “alternative lifestyle” and no need for him to stay when he and Crowley could get the clock safely into their lorry. 

The opportunity to escape had itself escaped, much to Crowley’s complete and total discomfort the moment waterworks started. The bells chimed, the case looked loved, yes, but gleamed, and the face was two-toned, clean and shining and keeping time accurately. Mrs. Tyler's weepy gratitude made Crowley’s chest tight and skin itch and eyes dart about in search of an escape even though all he could do was ensure the clock or Aziraphale was between him and her at all times. 

“Oh, you've done a beautiful job. I couldn't have hoped for better.”

Crowley knew he needed to have an actual response, but “ngk” came out and he stuck with it. 

Aziraphale ignored him. “We’re delighted that you’re pleased with it. It was quite the team effort. They all truly put their best into it, Mrs. Tyler, I can assure you. I’ll certainly pass along the feedback to our woodworkers as well, but I think Crowley worked a real miracle with this wonderful old clock.”

Crowley hooked his thumbs into his pockets, aiming for casual but definitely glaring at Aziraphale behind the sunglasses R.P. Tyler was still very suspicious of. He'd worked several miracles on the damn thing, but he didn't want to hear about it. Especially when Mrs. Tyler said, “Oh, I can see that. Thank you so very much, Mr. Crowley.”

He immediately wished he could turn into an actual snake and slither away, shifting a little so her attention would be drawn back to the clock. He could and had talked and worked his way out of several dangerous or illegal situations, but he had absolutely nothing for this. 

Mr. Tyler decided he was an incredibly rude Londoner. Mrs. Tyler thought he was a shy darling. She gave him a pat while her husband glared, and he'd never been happier to see a pair of taillights than when they finally drove off again. “That was awful.”

“Come now, Crowley, all your good work is deserving of praise,” Aziraphale chuckled, locking up the shop for the rest of the afternoon. “I won't let you slither your way out of a deserving compliment.”

“Bluh,” he complained. He'd let Newt get out of it, though that had been the smarter choice. R.P. Tyler hadn't had as much to complain about or an audience to impart his, ah, wisdom to. “I knew it was well done without all... that.”

“But isn't it nice to have your hard work and talent appreciated?” he asked. “Every now and then?” 

He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, shrugged as they made their way to the house. It was. It really was. “It's odd is what it is.”

“Well, if it really makes you uncomfortable, my dear, perhaps I'll try to spare you from such torments in the future.” Only if he couldn't warm up to commendations for a job well done. 

Once inside, Aziraphale exchanged his coat for the soft, woolen one on the coat rack, happy to settle in for the rest of the afternoon with a nice cup of cocoa. While he waited, he decided to go through the kitchen and finalize his shopping list, especially while he had Crowley still easily accessible before he got on with whatever he wanted to fill the rest of his day with. Even his shopping lists were written with a nice fountain pen and in a pocket-sized, leather-bound notebook.

“I'm going to do the shopping after brunch tomorrow. Is there anything in particular you'd like me to pick up? Here's what I have started.” He showed him the list when he slunk his way over to look. “Or you could come with, if you'd like. Oh, but I do also have an appointment at the barber's, so I understand if you wouldn't want to be bothered waiting for that.”

Apples were near the top of the list. Apples and honey, Crowley noted, heart doing an odd dance in his chest. Sausage could be iffy, but if he could look at the package beforehand... “I don’t mind. Been thinkin’ about poking around the florist anyway, so I could do that.”

“Oh? They do have quite a lovely selection.” Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of himself as he suppressed the urge to wiggle. They'd had such a nice time the previous Sunday, the thought of another had been on his mind, though he hadn't dared hope for too much. Now that they would be living and working together, he wanted to be conscious of both of their personal time. “Brunch at eleven then?” 

“Yeah. Pub again?”

“If that’s alright with you. Keeps us local for the rest of the day.”

It was just fine with him, though he took a drive that morning while the rest of Tadfield seemed to be at church. Being in Aziraphale’s house without him just seemed odd, and he really just wanted to go anywhere as fast as he could get there.

Most days the missing didn’t hurt. Most days, he could make himself forget there’d ever even been someone to miss. But holidays were too fraught with memory for his tastes, the traditions more an ache than a comfort. They’d always taken a drive to the country for the new year. “Pick a direction, and we’ll go.”

He’d never picked this direction, the Tadfield one, though they could very well have gone before Crowley had been old enough to point at a map. Or at least old enough to remember. They could’ve come and he imagined it would’ve looked much the same. Maybe the roads a newer pave, the brick buildings a little less faded, but the same. Stable. Steady and charming.

Much like his brunch companion, really. Stable, steady, charming, a little wicked if one took the time to peel away the layers. A little sad, maybe, a little lonely if one really searched, and the little bit of lonely in Crowley really searched. The missing didn’t hurt quite as much, even on a holiday, with bright blue eyes smiling at him as if Aziraphale truly was happy to see and spend some time with him. He quietly hoped he soothed some of the sad in kind, but would never say so aloud. He’d keep it tucked away with the rest of his messy truths, his things that mattered.

Even though something in Aziraphale was wheedling away at that barrier to find some of them. If he was smarter, maybe he wouldn’t have agreed to stay, in house or job. But it was the right time for new. However jumbled his belief system, he had faith in that. He was free this year, free to find and enjoy something new, free to take drives, free to casually flirt with an angel, free to hope...

And free to look at plants.

He took a deep breath the moment he stepped into the florist’s shop, damp soil and soft flowers and faint leaves wafting in the air. They’d arranged coneflowers, asters, and mums in the front. Late-bloomers, desperate bursts of clinging summer in the middle of September. He sneered at them as he went by. The mums were wilting.

He had to wade through more flowers, bright blooms designed to catch eyes and open wallets taking up much of the little shop, but they weren’t what he was aiming for. Not that he didn’t like flowers. He even had a favorite, though they weren't a fall bloom. But flowers in general smelled nice, could be pretty, and he was fond of how stubborn so many of them could be and the rush he felt when they bloomed successfully. He’d mentioned gardening to Aziraphale, had told him he knew what he was doing in the little plot he'd been awarded in jail, but he hadn’t told him about the satisfaction. He hadn’t told him what it was like to feel cool, damp earth under his fingernails. He hadn’t told him that every place he’d ever lived - car included - had always had at least one plant for him to care for. He hadn’t told him about the sheer release in being able to shout and bellow and rage at foliage when life pressed down too firmly and it was either terrorize a plant into growing better or pick a fight and hurt an actual person.

Plants were cathartic for him in a dozen little ways, so one couldn’t hurt. Something small and simple, that wouldn’t need constant sunlight with autumn already upon them and winter around the corner. Nothing too tropical when Aziraphale seemed to like his house a stable twenty-four degrees. 

He debated, went back and forth, waved away the young worker when she came around asking if she could help him. She probably didn’t know the difference between Maranta leuconeura var. Erythroneura and Maranta leuconeura var. Leuconeura even though he was looking back and forth at one of each. Aziraphale would probably know all about the girl, probably would’ve asked about her day and her family, but Crowley had thoughts to think and no room for chitchat, particularly when he caught sight of a Monstera minima tucked in a corner, growing sideways across a pot that was too small for it already because no one had trimmed it or set up a moss pole or trellis to guide it upwards. The burned edges of its leaves made him pick up the pot and cart it over to the Maranta leuconeuras where he was still arguing with himself over which colour to choose. Silvery-blue leaves dotted with purple and edged in olive green versus dark green leaves, purple markings, and rich red veins - it was a hard choice.

One he was very thoroughly distracted from when the door jingled and Aziraphale’s cheerful, “Hello!” reached his ears. He looked up and knew immediately that something was different, something besides his hair. Even though his hair made him smile. There really hadn’t been much change to be made. Maybe it was a little neater now, not as close to his ears and off the nape of his neck, but it was still like a lamb’s fleece. It still made his fingers itch to reach out and dive in and ruffle every curl, find out if it was as soft as it looked.

But the difference drowned out the scent of flowers and soil, drawing Crowley like a snake to a charmer’s tune even though he stayed rooted in place. It was a woodsy sort of scent, notes of vanilla, leather, and tobacco, aged bourbon and something just a little spicy he couldn’t identify but desperately wanted to. Cinnamon? Saffron? Maybe even cardamom, but he didn’t know enough about spices. He needed to learn about spices.

Something new, he thought, telling himself to breathe normally and not wheeze and to definitely not sniff at him like some hungry hellhound. Something very, deliciously new.

“Oh, who’s this lovely little fellow?” Aziraphale addressed the Monstera minima he was still holding, like it was someone’s newborn child in a pram, all sunshine and sweetness and that scent beckoning Crowley closer.

Crowley followed the lure a step to show him the plant. “Monstera minima. Technically, Rhapidophora tetrasperma and not really a monstera but eh. Still a part of the Aracaea family, but they've burned it. And the pot's too small. And they're letting it free-grow so it's all limp and sideways.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched in amusement. “Is that so? Well, sounds like it could use a new home.”

Crowley made a few noises that could've been agreement, shifting his grip a little more protectively. Then he nodded at the other two he was debating between, maybe hoping to get Aziraphale and that scent closer. “Look - Maranta leuconeura var. Erythroneura and Maranta leuconeura var. Leuconeura. They call 'em prayer plants because the leaves fold in on themselves.”

Intrigued, he did in fact step closer, leaning in to get a better look at the two plants. “Do they?” He picked up the one with the red veins to admire it in the light, turning the pot to inspect all sides. “It’s very nice. Rich colour. And that’s such a nice image, that they’re praying. Are you thinking about them as well?”

A few more noises, a hand wobbling in an iffy gesture. “They're overwatering that one,” he realized. “It's too young and it's not their growing season anymore. It won't really lift up at night like it's s'posed to if the soil's too damp.”

Aziraphale hummed, gently touching one of the leaves, the corners of his mouth twitching. “There’s that landscaping and creative design expertise I hired you for. Well, pick up that one.” He nodded towards the green-veined variant. “Can’t very well leave them behind. I’ve always thought the house could do with a few plants.”

Crowley immediately scooped it up, finding the soil just as over-watered, and began muttering to himself. Really, it was to the plants themselves, warning that they'd better not die or else. “They don't get much bigger than this. Another fifteen or so centimetres taller. The monstera minima'll need regular trimming once it's growing right.”

Aziraphale let him babble about plant care while they went around, searching for proper sized pots and a plant mister and a trellis so the little monster could spread its leaves. They'd be a lush green once the burned bits were soothed. At checkout, Crowley let Aziraphale ask about the cashier's family and her schooling. The solving of his housing issue gave him a little bit more spendable income, so he was able to pay for the plants and supplies while he listened and tried not to lean too close. 

Being trapped in the Bentley with him for the short drive to the grocer was nothing short of torture, though. Even with three plants on a blanket spread over the backseat, he could only smell that new something or other. He didn't think it was the barbershop itself that would make him smell like that, nor did he think it was shampoo. Barbershops didn't tend to wash hair.

He just hoped that it wasn't a temporary change. It suited him too well. As they walked down the aisles of the grocery store, Crowley orbited behind him whilst he pushed the buggy. Back and forth, wanting every angle. He told himself he was subtle about it, but even he knew it was very much not. 

Aziraphale gave it until they were halfway through the produce, examining their selection of pomegranates. He did have a recipe for chicken cooked in a pomegranate sauce that was excellent when the seeds were in season. His mouth nearly started watering at the memory of the tart fruit and sweet honey marinating in the skillet, with just a dash of vinegar, a sprinkle of parsley, so he added two pomegranates to his reusable produce bags.

It was almost enough to distract him from the hovering, a pleasant shiver threatening to ripple down his spine every time he felt the air shift behind him with each of Crowley’s sauntering steps. It was almost like he was prowling, searching for something. Something to do with him, it seemed.

“Crowley,” he started, clearing his throat conversationally as they moved on to the bakery section, scones and crumpets finding a home in the buggy where they wouldn’t be squished, then checked them off the list. “Is something the matter? You’re awfully restless, it seems.”

“Ngk.” Restless was a word for it, he supposed, circling him again. Even caught, he couldn't quite make himself stop. “M'fine. Just, y'know, something's... Something's changed.”

“Oh.” 

Aziraphale touched the back of his neck, feeling where the curls had tightened a bit in their sheering, not quite as fluffed out as they had been, but even so, he never drastically changed his hair. It was only ever a few centimetres. He and his barber had come up with a rather nice hair care regimen over the past twenty years and he was loath to alter it, never letting it grow out too much. 

“Well, I did just get my hair trimmed. Does it look that bad?” he asked, frowning as he considered perhaps that Crowley didn’t like it. He had likened him to a sheep when they first met, hadn’t he? Perhaps he preferred it in that feathery, fluffy state he didn’t know quite what to do with.

“No,” he said quickly, far too quickly. He wriggled in place as if his joints didn't know how to be joints, all waving hands and swishing hips. “S'fine. Your hair. It's-” Cute, sweet, grippable. Grippable. “Ngk. Fine. Something else.”

Oh. So he had noticed. Aziraphale purposefully avoided his gaze, pretending to be very interested in the four different kinds of sourdough loaf on the display as pink crept into his cheeks. In addition to being an expert on his hair, his barber also happened to have quite the extensive knowledge when it came to olfactory compositions. He was always the first person Aziraphale consulted when he wanted to try a new cologne.

This time, he’d wanted to spice things up a bit. Something a bit more… captivating. He’d barely been able to get through the request without fidgeting and flushing, his barber laughing as he offered his recommendation with a wink. It wasn’t about that. It was a gift to himself. He liked new scents and finding what fit him and right now he felt like something a bit bolder. The fact that it coincided with Crowley moving in was entirely coincidental.

He could almost believe it himself. “Well, ah. I am trying a new cologne. My barber suggested it.” He glanced Crowley’s way, trying to see beyond the dark lenses. “Is that it?”

Cologne. Oh, Someone help him, that meant it was permanent. He'd barely noticed the old scent - something muted and inoffensive - but this was different. This made him want to bury his nose in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and anywhere else until he found exactly where he'd dabbed cologne on and breathe him in. It was an urge he hadn't felt in... Well, never, really. Desire and acting on it wasn't new, per se, but this craving to pin Aziraphale to the nearest flat surface and ravage him definitely was. “Mrngk. Yesss.”

“Ah, I see. Well, what do you think? I wanted to try something a little bit bolder, but perhaps it’s a bit much. I like the scent, but I don’t want to aggravate anyone else’s sense of smell. Or incite an allergic reaction in someone. Do you have allergies, Crowley?”

“No.” It was bolder, but the only thing aggravated was Crowley's dormant sex drive. Twenty years since he'd last found himself in someone else's bed and apparently all he'd needed was bloody cologne to wake that up. If it was more the effect of one angelic man wearing the cologne, well, he'd just ignore that. “Allergy free, me.”

Relaxing a bit, Aziraphale faced him more fully and offered a smile. “Glad to hear it.” Though he wasn’t really offering him up an answer on the cologne, he supposed that in and of itself was an answer. Just like Crowley didn’t say he wanted both of the plants, the fact that he stood there complaining about them instead of simply ignoring them was more than enough of a clue. Crowley fixated on things, devoted his entire attention to them whether it be clocks, plants, or people, Aziraphale was discovering.

It didn’t mean he’d come out and say so, he supposed. That would be a bit too demonstrative. From the way it sounded, his upbringing likely conditioned him to keep his cards close to his chest. Well, Aziraphale wouldn’t push his comfort zone, not regarding that at least. If he wasn’t outright saying he didn’t think the cologne suited him, then he must not have minded it. Possibly even liked it, if the orbiting was his way of coming back for seconds and thirds, trying to figure out all the nuances and layers to the scents.

He had to close his eyes against the thought of Crowley coming up behind him on another pass, arms banding around him to pull him flush against his chest so he could nose along the nape of his neck, just a hint of tongue flicking out against his skin.

“Bread! I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for some French toast at some point this week, I should think. And something thick and soft, that sounds delightful. Not the sourdough, bit too tough and the flavors certainly wouldn’t align. Ah, challah is quite versatile though. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had some. How does this sound? We could also make sandwiches with it or toast it.” He already had a loaf in hand, testing its freshness through the plastic wrapping before exchanging it for another and placed it in the buggy.

Challah. First pomegranates, which could mean anything really. Aziraphale likely had no idea what the date was. But pomegranates and challah? 

Crowley continued to orbit him, in as much a suspicious need to study him as one to continue breathing in that new cologne. He'd had his secrets used against him before, his wants and choices twisted and belittled and sometimes taken outright throughout his teens and most of his twenties. Well, for his entire life since he'd found himself alone in the world. Though part of him hoped and trusted this angelic man who'd let him get all three plants, gave him space in his home, a job, and was the only person Crowley could recall ever having called him a friend, there was another part that was still awash in uncertainty. 

It was the same part that kept him from actually complimenting the cologne with real words, the same that tucked secrets away, the same that didn't know if he was relieved when Aziraphale asked him why he was muttering over sausage packages and seemed both confused and pleased when Crowley admitted he was checking for pork. There wasn't a single link or patty without, so he told Aziraphale to get what he liked and had wandered off to get something else on the list. 

Yet when he'd come back, gingerly setting the eggs down, there was turkey bacon in the basket. The baffled “Ngk?” came out before he could stop it, but Aziraphale smiled and it didn't relieve Crowley's suspicions at all. Nor did the chicken and pomegranate dish he made that night. 

Regardless, even if he did know - though Crowley still struggled to figure out how he would - Aziraphale didn't ask him questions about it, didn't press, didn't push. He settled in with a book and music that carried to Crowley while he repotted the three new plants in the dining room. And was still reading when Crowley made himself comfortable on the couch. 

It was another new, discovering he could just be quiet and comfortable around someone. He could relax in this house and it almost wasn't terrifying. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale let him yell at the plants. It had startled him the first time, to be sure, but Crowley had opened the door to his cautious little knock and been honest enough. It was therapeutic, and he'd really meant to say something first (he had not). And suddenly it was alright that he shouted at them sometimes. 

And, apparently, it was alright if he carted one over to the shop. The little monster needed some extra care, some extra misting during the cooler months to keep the humidity up as it got colder outside. He had to make sure the little diva of a plant was taking to its new pot and the fertilizer, too, not wanting to head upstairs to a browning plant. The burnt yellow on its leaves had been bad enough, though he'd trimmed the worst of it Monday. 

A good start to the new year, all in all. Plenty of newness in it and, if all was still well in a week, he'd be happy. Wary, always, as a good start didn't mean the entire thing would be good. But this start, for the first time in years, hadn't included bars. He would never say it, could barely think it without embarrassing himself, but this felt a little special. 

He carried his plant along the path towards the barn, not entirely surprised when Aziraphale had told him it was already unlocked for the day. It really didn't seem as though he slept sometimes, though it wasn't safe to think about Aziraphale in his bed. It already hadn't been, but that bloody cologne had apparently turned him into a randy teenager. 

He wouldn't have looked twice at him as a teenager, which was a lie. He would've looked, would've wandered over, would've flirted with all the cockiness only a teen with nothing to lose could exhibit. The difference between eighteen and forty-eight, unfortunately, meant a lot to lose. But at least at forty-eight, he didn't have Luci poking fun at his preferences or, just as likely, the actual people themselves. He'd probably deck him now, which was a nice thought. That sense of loyalty had long since been broken, and there were new connections to foster. 

Crowley liked the new ones far more than he'd begun in actual foster care. 

The bright blue scooter caught his eye before he reached the barn, taking him out of the thoughts and making him look around. The Reliant Robin was there too. Eyes narrowing a fraction, he shifted his hold on the plant and pushed the door open. 

Shadwell saw him first. “Jezebel, the lad's here.”

Being called a lad at this point in his life would've made his lips twitch, but he was far too focused on the garish display Newt was being directed to hang above Aziraphale's workstation. Streamers, balloons - what the hell was going on? 

“Oh, wonderful timing, Mr. Crowley! We need a little more height to get everything in order. I’ll get you another step stool.” Madame Tracy appeared to be in rare form, sporting a bright pink dress and blonde wig with large curls and pulled into long, swinging pigtails as she spun about to fetch the supposed second step stool from the supply corner. “Mind the left leg, it’s a bit wobbly. There’s a dear.”

Crowley barely had time to put his plant on his station before he was balancing on the precarious stool. “We have two woodworkers,” he pointed out just to complain, mind flipping through possible reasons behind the streamers. “Why is there even a stool with a wobbling leg available?” 

Anathema smiled, answering the question he didn't ask. “It's Aziraphale's birthday, but he doesn't usually tell anyone. This is how I found out last year.”

“Wot.”

“Aye, an' it's the right way to go about it,” Shadwell added with a firm nod. “No need in tellin' everybody in th'world yer business. Otherwise ye get... this.”

“I don’t know… I think it’s rather nice. I mean, he always does a little something for all of us on our birthdays,” Newt offered, each finger on his right hand spread wide to keep the little bits of tape that he’d stuck there from sticking to one another as he twisted the crepe streamers into artful coils. “Just feel like he deserves the same.”

“That’s the spirit, love.” Madame Tracy handed Crowley a pre-blown balloon in a champagne gold colour. “Just attach these to each end of the streamers. And don’t you mind Mr. S. He’s just pretending he didn’t blow these up at home himself.” She winked, offering him a piece of tape off one long, lacquered nail.

“Ne'er said a word about that,” Shadwell blustered. 

Crowley arched a brow, but did as asked. Aziraphale's birthday. Why hadn't he said something? Carrying on as if it was any other morning. Though he did the same for his own, didn't he? Except it was different. No one gave a damn if he survived another year, but Aziraphale... 

Well, he had this lot. Tracy directed them, rearranged things twice once Deirdre scurried in with a few handmade decorations from the Them and some breakfast pastries. Crowley made Newt deal with it after the first go-around, not willing to be bossed around by two people since both women had Opinions and a good eye for detail. 

He tucked the monstera minima on a high stool near his workstation and checked his watch when Shadwell, surprisingly, restored order by ranting about the devil being in the details, so leave things be. It didn't make a bit of sense, but it got Tracy to start cooing over how lovely it looked rather than nitpicking what could be changed or shifted. 

It was after nine. Hm. Crowley glanced at the door, vaguely hoping that glaring at it would make it open, but Anathema was staring at him. Again. She seemed to do so quite a lot and he was not above sticking his tongue out at her. 

Chuckling, she gestured at the door and he got the message. Subtlety was not as easily lost on him as it was Aziraphale, and vague glares were not going to work. He slipped outside, hands dipping into his pockets as he made his way along the path. 

Aziraphale was outside his door, hands wringing as he whispered to himself. He'd know, Crowley thought, exactly what was happening in that barn if this was as regular as it seemed. All the attention that was waiting for him when he frankly didn't seem to be used to much. 

Sighing, Crowley decided not to be annoyed over not being told. “Y'know, Deirdre made cherry danishes and the longer we have to wait on you, the colder they'll get.”

Aziraphale winced, food for once not igniting a gleam of anticipation and delight in his eyes as he forced himself to look at him. “Crowley, I-” he started, twisting his signet ring around and around. He didn’t know what to say. “It sneaks up on me sometimes. It’s not something I’ve ever paid much attention to, I don’t even know how Madame Tracy found out initially, but it makes them so happy to do all this. I’d hate to spoil their fun and hard work, and I truly do appreciate it.” He cut himself off with a sigh. “I suppose I should have warned you that it was coming up.”

Crowley shrugged. “It was a surprise to walk into all that, and she'd better not do it when mine comes 'round. So I understand.”

He still looked worried, but he’d ceased the twisting motion of his ring. “I hope it won’t be too distracting for you. With our workstations being so close. I don’t know what it looks like, obviously, but I know they like to make use of Newton’s talent when it comes to curling streamers and ribbon.”

“They definitely did that, and Shadwell apparently spent his evening blowing balloons. I think my fingertips might permanently be sticky from all the tape. But the word is that you deserve a turn as you do things for their birthdays.” Crowley's lips quirked. “Must be awful, your own goodness catching up to you.”

“Well, a good employer should always care about their team’s well-being and make sure they are shown the appreciation they deserve.” But he still turned a little pink from Crowley’s knowing smile. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Aziraphale huffed, walking past him to make his way to the barn. 

It was silly that it embarrassed him so - not the decorations themselves or the thoughtful treats, Aziraphale never shied away from an excuse to go all out for a holiday or seasonal festivities - but it overwhelmed him in a way he still hadn’t quite learned how to deal with. He’d remembered on Sunday that it was almost his birthday, had bought the cologne as a sort of gift to himself, but somehow he’d completely disregarded it as Monday rolled into Tuesday. He’d thought about mentioning it to Crowley once or twice, but how did one even start that conversation without making it seem like he was expecting something?

He wasn’t. It was a day like any other.

His heart did leap when he stepped into the barn and was met with the sight of gold and white balloons and streamers framing his workstation and a fold-out table lined with a matching tablecloth where the cherry danishes were set out. They smelled heavenly, but the hug Deirdre offered him as he thanked her was far sweeter. Tracy’s might’ve realigned his spine in her enthusiasm, but it was the thought that counted and honestly he had been a little stiff from spending most of Monday reading.

She presented him with a card that they’d all signed, full of well-wishes for the year. Even Crowley’s name made it in beneath Anathema’s note, likely the one he found least offensive in its lack of exclamation marks and smiley faces and far from Shadwell’s. It made him smile nonetheless and he set the card up on his desk. He’d leave it up for the rest of the month, then put it with the others he’d saved over the years. While everything else might’ve felt like a bit much, like they shouldn’t have to go to such trouble, the handwritten notes were what he looked forward to the most.

Well, alright, he did look forward to Deirdre’s baked goods as well.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” he praised her as he stole a second to tide him over until lunch. “They’re delightfully scrummy!”

“I had to hide them from Adam before he left for school this morning. Tried to nick half a dozen of them when I had my back turned,” she chuckled. “I made sure to set some aside for him and his friends though for helping with the decorations.”

“Yes, I’m quite impressed with their craftsmanship. Very avant-garde.”

“Pepper’s very into cubism at the moment,” Deirdre explained. 

“Ah.”

There was a bit more chit chat preceding the work of the day, but eventually everyone settled in, eager to get back to projects that had been waiting over the weekend for fresh eyes. Aziraphale sat down in his chair, but leaned back to admire the decorations for a little bit longer. It really wasn’t too much, or at least it shouldn’t have felt too much. It was no different than what they did to acknowledge any other birthdays at Divine Restorations & Repairs. He swallowed a lump in his throat, eyes going a bit dim as he stared at the happy birthday bunting taped to the wall and the big, glittery gold 50 just beneath it. He just didn’t want to come to expect it.

Before Madame Tracy found out his birthday, which was somewhere around his 38th if he remembered correctly, the last time he’d had a party had been the year he’d turned eight - not that it had really been for him, more an excuse for his parents to invite all their friends to their flat and hire a caterer, but he’d had a cake and got a few gifts out of it like he did the years prior. On the morning of his ninth, his first birthday away from home, he hadn’t even gotten himself breakfast before Aunt Agnes said, “Don’t expect anything. You’ll only be disappointed.”

She didn’t often tell him his future straight off like that, no it was usually convoluted or in some kind of code that he’d have to crack. Not that he didn’t love trying to puzzle everything out. He’d sit at his little writing desk in his room and scribble out pages of theories and pin them to his walls, only to tear them down and start over whenever they were proven wrong or right. But on his ninth birthday, she told him his parents wouldn’t call and she was right.

Perhaps some would think it cruel of her, but not making a big deal about his birthday might have been the kinder thing to do. Not expecting anything had certainly made it easier to bear when nothing did happen. He supposed he just didn’t want to get used to it with his team either, in case one year it was all over. Until the year they forgot or didn’t care to and really he shouldn’t be expecting anything. It was so terribly kind that they’d acknowledged it the past few years and that was what was overwhelming. It was a kindness that affected no one else other than himself, even if they did enjoy it.

Aziraphale didn’t realize how long he’d been lost in thought until he felt Crowley’s eyes on him. He cleared his throat as heat rushed to his cheeks, pretending to look busy and ultimately failing when his desk was simply filled with more birthday related decor. With a huff, he hastily put on his reading glasses and got up to run a quick inventory check.

Crowley smiled to himself, but his latest project was in a box which had arrived via post the day before. He had yet to open it, but knew it was gilt bronze and French. It was going to be very annoying and he wouldn't stop once he started, so of course he followed Aziraphale. 

“Wasn't too painful, was it?” 

“Shh,” Aziraphale hushed, gaze darting nervously over at Anathema, then to Shadwell and Newt, even though they were out of earshot. “Not where they might hear you,” he said anyway. “But no, I suppose it wasn’t. And thank you, my dear, for your part in it all. I know it wasn’t how you expected your morning to go, but I do appreciate it.”

He waved it away. “S'fine. I'll be ready for it next year. Though if anything like this happens come July, I'll have a fit.”

Aziraphale cast him a sly glance over the tops of his spectacles. He knew his date of birth from the new hire paperwork. “It’s already on my calendar.” Nevermind that he didn’t yet have a calendar for the next year.

Crowley tipped his head in his amused, fond way. “Your halo's a smidge bent, isn't it?” 

“Just a smidge.” Aziraphale pinched his index finger and thumb together as he smiled. “July 22nd. I shan’t forget.”

“I'll be sick that day,” he threatened, quietly pleased to see him smiling so easily when he'd seemed too wrapped up and lost in his own head. 

“You’ll have to come into the shop eventually. There’s no use resisting it, my dear. I’ll see if I can get Madame Tracy to agree to a black colour scheme.”

“Bluh,” summed up his opinion on the matter. “Want some help with whatever it is you're doing? I know you can do it just fine on your own, but do you want help?” 

“Oh… well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your next project. I’m sure it’s a lovely thing,” he started, but hesitated as he considered the offer. Crowley wasn’t really offering to help with the inventory, his focus on something else entirely. He could read him all too well, even through dark shades. It was just like with Gabriel, where he’d brushed him off. He was offering again. Whatever he wanted, whatever he needed. “I… I think I’m alright,” he said quietly, swallowing past the all too tempting urge to say yes. “Thank you.”

He hadn't really expected an agreement, so he could handle the refusal. It stung regardless, but he could handle it. “If you change your mind, angel, you know where I'll be.”

“Alright,” he murmured, pursing his lips to hold himself back. What did he even want? Certainly not for Crowley to simply help him with the inventory. He didn’t even know how he organized everything.

I could show him, he thought, and nearly retracted his refusal as if he could reach out into the space between them and snatch it right out of the air. It would be a good excuse, have him help sort through things and rearrange the system so it was less of a cluttered corner. And likely a fire hazard, at that.

But he liked his cluttered corner. And it didn’t make sense for Crowley to spend his time doing that when he had a clock to fix; not to mention he’d gone rifling through the supplies to figure out what he needed Aziraphale to buy last week, and on top of that-

“Could we do lunch together?” he asked instead, thinking it some kind of happy medium. “At the house. I mean obviously we would be there at the same time, but I meant with the intent of purposefully dining in one another’s company. I think that’s what I want.”

It was a good enough compromise for Crowley. “It's your birthday, angel. We'll do whatever you like.”

That released some of the tension building up in his chest. “Oh, good. I look forward to it.” And it didn’t feel so bad to watch Crowley walk away when there was the promise of something. Maybe one day he’d tire of the way he constantly fell back on meals as an excuse to spend time together, but for now he let him, and Aziraphale could only be grateful. Maybe one day he’d be able to ask for more without feeling like he was overstepping.

It was a new year for him, after all. Maybe fifty would be different.

---- 

Aziraphale left the decorations up when he locked up for the night. It would be a shame to take them down so quickly, he’d give it at least until the end of the week. The leftover danishes had been wrapped up earlier, so he snagged one on his way out in case he got peckish later. Normally he picked himself up a small cake from the bakery in town and enjoyed a slice after dinner with a cup of cocoa and a new book, but with all that had been happening since Crowley came into town, he’d forgotten to place the order entirely. Though he couldn’t be upset about it. Quite honestly, he wouldn’t have things any other way.

He might have loved cake, but the company was far dearer. Besides, a warmed up danish with some ice cream would be an excellent substitute for a post-dinner treat. 

“Are you in the mood for anything in particular?” he asked Crowley as they entered the house, Aziraphale exchanging his outdoor coat for his indoor one. “For dinner? I know it’s my birthday, but I can’t say that I had a certain dish in mind. Perhaps the salmon…”

“That'd be alright. Though we could always go somewhere, if you wanted. My treat.”

He paused in the middle of adjusting the wool housecoat, unable to keep a poker face as the idea interested him. “Oh. Oh, well, only if you want to, my dear boy. It is your car, after all. Don’t feel as though you have to go to any trouble on my account.”

“The more the Bentley gets driven about, the better.” Crowley smiled. “Letting me take you somewhere could be considered a favour.”

He still hesitated, not entirely certain he wanted any further attention paid to the day, but he supposed it could be just as well that they were going to dinner for the fun of it. “Well, I suppose if it’s good for the Bentley…” he hummed. “How about that Thai place I was telling you about?”

Crowley had no objections. Aziraphale took just a minute to freshen up, applying a hint of that new cologne and adding a bit more spring to curls that had gone a bit limp throughout the day, then was set for an evening on the town. It was strange to be going to Henley-on-Thames on a work night, but Crowley made the trip nearly as fast as he had the first time they ventured over together. Nearly only because the speedometer didn’t go over eighty and it might have been wishful thinking on Aziraphale’s part, but he thought Crowley was breathing a bit deeper than usual, hands tight on the steering wheel. Not that Aziraphale paid particular close attention to the way he breathed, no, that was a bit too much. It simply hadn’t stood out to him before, so he couldn’t help wondering if there was a correlation. 

After all, they were in rather close proximity in the Bentley. Close enough for colognes to mingle. Perhaps he wasn’t in such a rush to leave it. “I’m surprised you didn’t hit anyone in the dark,” he still said as they got out at the restaurant.

“That would just be a bother. You'd probably have made me stop and it would've turned into a whole thing. Better to just avoid pedestrians altogether.”

Aziraphale tutted, but still held the door open for him. Being a Tuesday night, they were miraculously seated right away and didn’t have to wait long to be served. Seeing as they did have to work the next day, they passed on an entire bottle of wine and indulged in a single glass of Picpoul de Pinet and a Pinot Grigio respectively. Though he wanted to be mindful of Crowley’s budget, he’d been tempted into a sampling platter for two as a starter, slightly mollified when Crowley nibbled at a spring roll and a crisp, tangy chicken wing, leaving the rest for Aziraphale. He did rather enjoy the salt and pepper squid, and their wines paired so nicely with it.

Crowley ordered the drunken noodles with a smirk that only grew when Aziraphale rolled his eyes at him. “You do know there isn’t actually any alcohol in pad kee mao, don’t you?”

“Don’t spoil my fun, angel.”^[2]

It took a bit longer for Aziraphale to decide - did he want curry? Pork, since he wouldn’t have to worry about Crowley eating something he didn’t like when they had two separate meals? Noodles? Since he’d already picked a wine that paired well with fish, he opted for the grilled sea bass with a side of sticky rice.

A quick peek at the dessert menu also meant he might get a piece of cake on his birthday after all, already torn between a caramelized mango cake and a cheesecake. Dinner out had been a wonderful idea. Feeling much lighter than he had that morning, he chatted happily with Crowley throughout the meal, stealing a few bites when offered and attempting to do the same. Though they’d been eating together for quite a few of their meals now, there was something special about going beyond the borders of Tadfield, trying something new together. Aziraphale savoured the entire experience much like he savoured each bite, and oh, were the flavours extraordinary. Far above his own capacity to cook. He made a mental note to suggest to Crowley they try to get out a bit more often.

That being said, only if Crowley wanted to, of course. Initially Aziraphale thought he would be amenable to such a suggestion, given that he himself made it that night. However, as Crowley prepared to have the rest of his noodles boxed up for leftovers and Aziraphale continued to flake off bites of his sea bass while suggesting they go for sushi next time, he noticed the man look very pointedly at his watch. Well, that was fair, it was good to keep the time in mind when they had to work, and Crowley seemed to enjoy his sleep more than Aziraphale did.

But then he checked again not five minutes later, so Aziraphale dabbed at his lips with his napkin and decided to take the rest home as well. It wouldn’t be nearly as good reheated, but he’d hate for it to go to waste. Even more than that, he’d hate to be perceived as inconsiderate of Crowley’s time, nor did he mean to be. He’d just gotten carried away, he supposed.

“Well, thank you, Crowley, this was lovely,” he gushed, wanting to make his appreciation known. “I shall have to return the favour.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not much of a favour, really. I don't mind taking you about.” Though another peek at his watch seemed to contradict that. 

Aziraphale twisted his napkin, half a mind to check his own pocket watch just to see how late it really was. It couldn’t have been that long. A little longer than the pub, yes, because of starters and Aziraphale having trouble deciding, but certainly not as long as it had taken to get crêpes. They’d had rather good conversation then, too, but perhaps it was a bit too long for someone who didn’t seem to enjoy food in the same way Aziraphale did.

“Yes, well, I do apologize for taking so long. I got caught up in the ambience, I suppose, and I don’t come out this way all that often so it was more difficult to decide what to order. More so than when we dine at the Duck, that is.” He was starting to ramble, palms pressing to the tops of his thighs. “Perhaps we should have stayed at home. Saved this for another night.”

Crowley blinked at him behind his shades, but was distracted by the bill. He quickly slipped his card into it before the waiter could walk away, hoping he'd be quick to run it and bring Aziraphale his box. “We can't change your birthday.”

“We didn’t have to do anything.” A sharp ache lanced through his chest that made him glad he didn’t finish his meal after all. “I don’t mind spending it at home, but I do mind when people feel obligated to do something out of pity.” 

Just like the decorations and the treats and the card. They all knew he didn’t do anything else, didn’t have anyone else to spend it with. It was pity. People apparently didn’t just ignore their birthdays, not without attracting unwanted attention that reminded him no one would call. Which he was fine with. He didn’t make it to fifty without getting over that at least.

“I don't feel obligated, and I sure as hell don't feel pity.” Crowley tapped the table, wondering what had triggered this. 

He'd take Aziraphale anywhere any night, but this was just a good excuse. It was a chance to surprise someone on their birthday, someone who deserved a day just for them. And maybe give him an escape because no one had called the whole day and, from how readily he'd agreed to come out and what little he did know about Aziraphale's family, he didn't think anyone would. 

His angel - and wasn't that a dangerous thought? - deserved better than that. “I just want to... do something for you. Even if it's small and we might be late.”

“Late?” Aziraphale blinked, confusion blanketing the hurt and effectively distracting him. “What are you talking about? Do you have an appointment at home? At this hour? Well, you might have told me, I would’ve suggested something a bit closer to home. Or quicker.”

“No. For-” Crowley somehow slouched more dramatically in his chair, head tipping to the side in as unimpressed a look as he could muster. “Listen to me, I don't know much of anything about surprising someone for their birthday, but I do know you're not supposed to tell them about it beforehand.”

There was a pause, a beat where he definitely didn’t get it, before it clicked and then he reared back on a gasp. “You- Crowley, you can’t-” He didn’t know what to do with his hands, bracing them uselessly against the air. “You can’t mean to tell me you planned a surprise. You only just found out this morning!” He leaned forward suddenly, hands finally finding the table. “Wait, is that why you keep checking your watch?”

“First, yes, I did. And finding out this morning severely limited my options, so it's a gamble.” And maybe a little selfish, a little hopeful. A lot hopeful. “Second, yeah. Watches are generally a good way to know if you're going to be late for something.”

“Oh.” He sat back, heart racing as it frantically tried to get itself in order and soothe the crack his own hasty assumptions made. “Oh, my dear, I…” Now it was his eyes that stung. “I don’t know what to say. I feel rather foolish, but I didn’t expect…” Don’t expect anything. You’ll only be disappointed.

Well, apparently Agnes hadn’t seen quite this far into his future. Though perhaps it was simply proving to be impossible to feel anything close to disappointment in Crowley’s presence. Gosh. A surprise. “What is it?”

“Now I see why you don't say there's a surprise.” Crowley tapped the table again, fingers itching to reach out and cover Aziraphale's, to do anything to stop that threat of tears. Had he thought he was tired of him? Nothing could be further from the truth. “You'll find out in fifteen minutes, angel.”

“That is cutting it rather close. No wonder you were so worried about the time.”

Aziraphale turned in his seat to find their waiter, still a bit unsteady from the whiplash of peaceful companionship to hurt that Crowley merely felt badly for him to excited at the prospect of a surprise. Oh, but really, it was enough to know Crowley wanted to surprise him. That was a gift in and of itself.

He caught the waiter’s eyes and with one look he rushed back to give Crowley his card and receipt while Aziraphale packed up his leftovers. “What?” he asked when Crowley gave him a look of his own once everything was settled. “It would be a shame for your efforts to go to waste.”

“Right.” Crowley rose, fondness and nerves playing tug of war with his heart. “Come on, you ridiculous thing. I'll do my best not to hit any pedestrians on the way.”

“Ridiculous? Me?” He fell into step beside Crowley, their arms brushing as Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, what do you expect when you’re so determined to keep me in suspense?”

Ten minutes later, the Bentley purred to a stop and idled across the street from the marquis lights of the old St. James Cinema. It had been built in the ‘30s, preserved perfectly to capture the essence of a time long gone by. There were a couple of modern movie posters on the wall, but it was the sign propped up out front that caught Aziraphale’s eye, as well as the marquis itself. Tonight they were showing a classic film at eight o’clock sharp.

“The Maltese Falcon?” he exhaled, eyes wide as he drank in the unexpected sight of the cinema bathed in the glow of golden lights. “Oh, Crowley. You’re taking me to a film?”

Crowley shrugged, tucking his nerves away for the moment and letting relief take hold. That wasn't a bad reaction at all. He looked sweet, eyes brighter in the lights, skin and hair tinted gold under them. The scent of his cologne was probably going to drive him absolutely mad with them sitting side by side for a few hours, but he was very willing to risk it. “You said you liked the book, and it's a one night only sort of thing. Seemed a bit too perfect to not bring you.”

Aziraphale tore his gaze away from the cinema to grace Crowley with the fondest of looks. He wanted to take his hand, remove the dark lenses so he could see what those amber eyes were telling him without words. Somewhere between nine in the morning and six in the evening, in the midst of restoring a clock and decorating and keeping an eye on him all day, he'd managed to find this and come up with some sort of plan. A surprise. 

“It does seem rather lucky, doesn't it? Oh, I'm astounded you were able to find out about it on such short notice. Really, Crowley, you're far too kind to me.”

Said the angel who'd been helping him in a dozen ways since the very moment they'd met. Taking him to a movie, spending time with him, would hardly make a dent in comparison. “Shut up,” Crowley huffed, pushing open the driver door. “I don't know if they're going to show previews or anything and we're getting popcorn, so come on, angel.”

“Oh, it has been a while since I've had proper popcorn at a film.” He gave a little wiggle as he followed suit. When he came up alongside Crowley, he offered him his arm, delighted by the entire prospect. Dinner and a movie, certainly something done between friends, but it gave his heart a thrill just the same when their elbows fit together while they walked. “Do you suppose we could get a package of wine gums as well?” 

“If you like.” As casual as his tone was, his heart was skipping out of rhythm. At first or second or even third glance, they didn't look as if they could fit together in any way. But he barely had to adjust his saunter to stay beside him and Aziraphale's steps didn't seem any different either as they approached the ticket window to get their physical tickets. 

Aziraphale had been to The St. James for its classic film nights before. As an adolescent with what little spending money he'd made by helping out at the shop, he'd quite enjoyed the Tuesday specials. Each Tuesday of the month had a different gimmick, and the fourth Tuesday had always been the classics. When he'd moved back to the area after uni and inheriting the shop he'd gone a few times. A few dates had even gone with him, though usually to a more modern film or a theatre adaptation he was expected to like given his preference in romantic partners. He recalled coming to see the 1996 Romeo and Juliet with his beau at the time. That had been a mistake. The film wasn't much better, either.

He certainly didn't think he'd be back decades later on the arm of another man, being treated to a surprise night out on his birthday and so happy about it. Even if it wasn't meant to be a night of romance or even a proper date at all, Aziraphale had never felt more charmed. Crowley wasn't just taking him somewhere because it was expected. He'd taken him for dinner at a place he liked and now was taking him to a classic film, knowing that was something he preferred. It was a way to show he was listening to him. 

Aziraphale offered to buy the snacks when Crowley paid for their tickets, but he was given a look over the tops of his sunglasses that made his knees quiver like jelly and then was waved off to find some good seats before they were all taken. He needn't have worried, they had a fair selection even with it being a minute to showtime. Gauging the distance between the seats and screen, Aziraphale selected a pair two rows from the back, thinking it would be less of a strain on Crowley’s eyes. 

“This is very nice,” he complimented when Crowley slid into the seat on his left. “They've updated the seats since I've last been here. They're quite comfortable.”

They were better than the last cinema he'd been to as well, though Crowley attributed it to the leaps and bounds of technology. Sometimes it just felt as though he'd taken a fifteen year nap, the jail time just some odd dream. “Yeah. Here're your wine gums, angel. I didn't think you'd mind sharing the popcorn.”

“Not at all, dear boy.” Aziraphale plucked a kernel off the top and raised it like one would a wine glass. “Cheers.”

Amused, Crowley quietly returned the makeshift toast. As the lights dimmed, he slipped his sunglasses off and tucked them in the vee of his shirt. “If you end up not liking it, just say and we’ll leave.”

“Nonsense, Crowley. You paid for it. At the very least I should sit through it. Especially if you enjoy it,” he whispered back, warmed by the thought. Though he didn't mention that he'd tried to walk out of Romeo and Juliet.

He waved a hand. “Ehh, takes all the fun out of it if you’re trapped and miserable.”

Aziraphale somehow doubted he'd be either of those things sitting beside Crowley like this, but the consideration made him melt just the same. “I'll let you know, my dear.”

Even if he’d found the film uninspired - which he didn’t, mind you, he was quite enthralled even if Sam Spade and Brigid O’Shaughnessy weren’t quite as complex as their novel counterparts depicted them to be, Humphrey Bogart still embodied the hard-boiled detective as if he’d known Sam as an old friend and Mary Astor’s lashes fluttered over dark eyes that belied her true intentions - Aziraphale still would have found plenty to enjoy by watching Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to catch those subtle smirks tugging at the corners of his mouth and get a glimpse of his eyes while they were uncovered. It wasn’t as if he was the only one looking either. Once or twice their eyes met, Aziraphale offering him a smile and a wine gum even when the tensions rose on screen. It made him wonder how many times Crowley glanced his way and went unnoticed, where he was too busy gasping or clasping his hands together, even if he knew how it all played out. It was far different when music and facial expressions conveyed tone in a way even the most prolific of words couldn’t. When Sam Spade called Brigid “angel” in that quick, blunt way of his, it made his heart race in a way the book had never managed with all its endearments. Though he knew it wasn’t entirely because of Bogart’s delivery and flushed with that knowledge. 

As the moment of truth played out when a knife was taken to the statue to test its authenticity, his hand shot out to brace himself on the arm of the chair, the energy in the film manic and frenzied and all too thrilling. Aziraphale jumped when he made contact not with the plastic of the seat’s arm, but with flesh. He stilled, fingers hovering over the back of Crowley’s hand where it had been resting and felt Crowley sit up in his seat. His arm shifted, to give Aziraphale space, to share the arm rest or something else perfectly reasonable. His hand dropped before he could pull away entirely, keeping Crowley’s right where it was. Aziraphale didn’t dare breathe, eyes on the screen as he watched the scene play out, but his attention was firmly on the twitching knuckles beneath his palm. He’d pull away at the first sign of discomfort, he told himself.

Except it didn't come. Discomfort wasn't what tingled beneath that touch. The deliberate touch. Crowley’s pulse scrambled, gaze just as firmly rooted on the screen even though his eyes had widened a bit. He wanted to look down to make sure Aziraphale’s hand was really there, but worried that any sort of acknowledgement would lead to retreat. But he had to do something, couldn't let this chance quite literally slip through his fingers. 

Crowley carefully turned his hand up, a shiver running through him when their palms met. His fingers curled around Aziraphale's hand a little, in permission and invitation, and he tried desperately not to hope this was what it seemed to be. 

Aziraphale’s carefully held back, shifting so they could rest comfortably in each other’s loose grasp. Crowley’s hand was cool, not quite chilled, but certainly cooler than his own and rougher from the kind of work he did, the life he’d lived. One where regular manicures and moisturizing were hardly a priority, understandably. But they were gentle and reminded him of all the times Crowley had taken his hand to kiss it. The back of Aziraphale’s knuckles burned with the memory of lips just as gentle and their soft, dry touch. 

His heart lurched as his thumb grazed the curve of Crowley’s hand. Good Lord, he felt like he was no better than his twenty-year-old self, giddy at holding hands with an attractive boy in the dark and praying that his palms wouldn’t begin to sweat. They stayed that way through the remainder of the film, as if they were handling something as delicate as a book with a broken spine, pages ready to spill across the floor in a disarray. Enough pressure to stabilize, but light enough so the whole thing didn’t snap in two.

Even when the screen faded to black, “the stuff that dreams are made of,” lingering in the air as a poignant, closing line, made all the more powerful by the way Bogart merely looked at Astor in the end, Crowley’s hand was still in his own, now warmed by his touch. “Oh, that was so very well-done,” Aziraphale breathed when the lights came on. “It is a shame they left out some things, but I understand it would be a bit much to contain in a film.”

“It's the closest of the adaptations. I think that's part of why it's as good as it is.” As the house lights went up, he had to put his sunglasses back on. He flicked them one-handed to unfold them, squinting until he could push them over his eyes. 

Then he looked at their hands from behind his tinted safety net. Aziraphale's was soft and smooth against his, taken care of. Their fingers contrasted like so much of the rest of them did, Aziraphale’s shorter and thicker and his own longer and slender, and yet they fit. He'd never done anything so simple as hold someone's hand in a cinema before. Dates and relationships had always been beyond his reach, one night stands more his style, and he'd never tried for more.

It wasn't as though jail had been a roadblock to that either, in all fairness. Prohibited but unstoppable, it was a culture steeped in fantasy and Crowley had stayed far, far away. He'd wanted reality. He'd wanted a warm body, a warm bed, and the option to slither out at dawn and rejoin the world. Even though he hadn't bothered upon release. He hadn't bothered in the five years before being locked up either. The urge had just dried up. He hadn't needed to fuck someone just to even have a warm bed to fall into, and Lucifer hadn't bothered taking him to clubs to pawn men off on him when he'd prove too straight to follow through on his own flirting. 

The urge was back now, but with it had come a dozen new things. Soft kisses to the back of a hand, thoughts of actual dates, thoughts of not sneaking out at dawn. Thoughts, even, of more than one night. Aziraphale had somehow unlocked that in him, reaching into his heart and turning a key he hadn't even known needed turning. He didn't want to ruin things, unsure of his footing but so willing to try with and for this man. This reality. 

“I'm glad you liked it, angel.”

Though the nickname had stuck from the moment Aziraphale had forgotten to introduce himself, now he could hear the crackling, glowing embers of affection encased within it that most people might associate with such an endearment. Crowley held it the way he held Aziraphale’s hand, careful not to burn either of them. But Aziraphale didn’t think he’d mind walking into these flames.

“Perhaps we could do this again sometime. We can see what film they’ll show next month,” he suggested.

“They've got a list online.” Crowley's attention shifted, settling on Aziraphale's face but he didn't have the right experiences to read what was there. “They're showing Sound of Music in December instead of something good, so we'll have to find something else to do with ourselves.”

“Oh, how dreadful. That’s the Tuesday before Christmas. They should be showing the 1951 film adaptation of Scrooge or It’s a Wonderful Life at the very least,” he huffed. “What about The Sound of Music says ‘Christmastime?’ They can show it any time of the year.”

It wasn't the only holiday in December, but the point stood regardless. It wasn't any sort of holiday film. “No idea. Next month is Hitchcock's Psycho, which is fitting enough for Halloween. Month after is It Happened One Night. With Clark Gable?” 

“I know him from Gone with the Wind, yes, but I can’t say that I’ve seen either of those films. Have you?”

“Grandad liked Hitchcock, so I've seen them all. But I haven't seen the other. S'posed to be a romantic comedy.”

“Well, then we should give them both a go if we’re feeling up to it,” Aziraphale suggested with a wiggle, only then glancing down to reaffirm that their hands were indeed still connected. And that the cinema was rapidly emptying. “Ah, perhaps we can discuss more filmography on the drive home.”

Reluctantly, he lifted his hand to give them both the freedom to stand and collect their rubbish. Well, Aziraphale collected the rubbish, as well as a few empty drink containers they passed on their way out of the aisle. It boggled his mind that people would simply leave their wrappings and garbage behind when the bin wasn’t a few metres from the exit.

“I have seen Mr. Hitchcock’s North by Northwest, so if this other film is anything like it, I’m quite certain I’ll enjoy it,” he continued on their way out. 

Crowley's lips curved, thumbs hooking in his pockets. It wasn't, but he didn't want to spoil it. He'd thought everyone knew about Psycho and its twists, so the idea of watching Aziraphale discover it was an intriguing one. “More murder mystery, less romantic spies. D'you think you can tolerate watching the original trailer on my phone?” he teased. 

Oh, that was a shame. He liked the romantic spies. Aziraphale clasped his hands together in front of him, wringing them thoughtfully as he glanced down at Crowley’s, resting just outside the too-small pockets of his too-tight jeans and far too nervous to try and reach for them without reason. 

“Well, I’ll need my reading glasses, obviously,” he answered, lifting his chin and attention away from Crowley’s fingers and trousers and all that business. “But I suppose I could endure it. A trailer isn’t that long.”

The best of them and the one he'd show Aziraphale was six minutes long. “We'll watch it closer to the showing. It's got an impact.” Crowley considered his wringing hands for a moment before offering his arm as Aziraphale had when they'd arrived. 

He accepted the invitation, tucking his arm against Crowley’s as they stepped out into the chilled night air. “Alright. I look forward to finding out what it’s all about.”

Clouds covered the glow of the quarter moon and the pin pricks of stars overhead, a breeze carrying them across the sky. It kept the streets relatively dark save for the light of the cinema, a beacon in the night. The Bentley waited for them in the halo of a streetlamp and Aziraphale kept his arm in Crowley’s until the very last second before they had to unlink. They’d hardly have to say ‘goodnight and farewell’ though, the thought both odd and a relief. This sort of companionship: he didn’t think he’d ever experienced anything like it. Yes, he’d been on dates to the cinema and, yes, he’d dined out with various partners. But there was something about the way Crowley gave his time, without any strings or ulterior motives. Perhaps it was a way of thanking him for his hospitality and friendship, a job and a fresh start, but maybe Crowley would have wanted this even without all that. It was certainly nice to think so.

“Thank you for tonight, Crowley. You’ve made it something to remember,” he told him before he opened the passenger door, when it was still them in the night and the light of the St. James. “I truly am grateful, it was a wonderful evening.”

Crowley leaned against the Bentley, arms folded against the roof. “I didn't bring you out for gratitude, angel.” Or out of any sense of obligation or pity, though he wasn't sure if his mind had gone back to that. Just in case, he made himself push through a few wordless noises to be honest. “Birthdays are- They should be the day someone shows you that you matter. That it's good you're around another year. Doesn't always happen that way and expecting it usually leads to disappointment, but... I hope it was alright. This year. For you.”

“Oh…” 

That Crowley could find the right thing to say when time and time again proved he had a tendency to get a bit tongue-tied rendered Aziraphale speechless. He could only stare at him, words for once tangled up in his throat along with his heart, still pulsing with each shaky breath. Disappointment was the farthest thing from his mind.

“I believe this year has been the best by far,” he managed, voice hoarse and eyes shining. “Which is why I’m so grateful. I didn’t think it possible to be so happy today.”

“If you want to thank me, for the love of anything, please don't cry. I haven't got the first idea how to handle that, happy tears or not.”

That got Aziraphale to huff out a weak laugh and roll his eyes in an attempt to get himself under control. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself. Saying such nice things.”

“I'm not nice,” he muttered, opening his door. “Get in, angel. I'll take you home.”

To drown out the tell-tale sounds of Aziraphale sniffling, as much as he tried to keep it muted with his handkerchief, Crowley turned on the radio. The guitar certainly distracted them both, the powerful vibrato of the vocals ringing out from the speakers right alongside it.

When people talk of love, I'll leave the conversation.

I say I feel just fine, happy with my situation.

But when I look away, people know my mind is straining

To where I once belong, dreaming about your heart again.

Your heart again

Your heart again

Let me in your heart again…

It wasn’t quite the music Aziraphale gravitated towards, and he hardly recognized Freddie Mercury’s vocals let alone that it was one of Crowley’s favourite bands on the radio, but he listened as they drove into the dark. He didn’t know how Crowley had done it, tilting his worldview on its side and opening his heart to new possibilities, but that was exactly what had happened. Maybe they were both opening their hearts a bit.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s profile in the shadow of the Bentley, the beam of the headlights glinting off his sunglasses. Open the doors for me, babe, Freddie sang, and though he’d never say it as such, it certainly seemed like a sentiment that both Crowley and Aziraphale shared. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Perhaps it was worth trying.

^2.A couple of items on the menu had shellfish warnings, which aided in the ease of his decision. A joke and no shellfish? Perfect. ↩

Chapter Text

It started Sunday night, an hour before sundown. Crowley set a half-filled wine glass on the coffee table and didn't pick it back up, unfolding himself from the couch to go check on his plants. “Forgot about it,” he said when asked later, but that seemed like an odd thing. Odder still if it was a lie. There was no reason for it. 

Just as there was no reason for him to refuse supper, which was why Aziraphale had sought him out to begin with. After exhausting the list of leftovers, he went through the options of things he could cook as they'd gone shopping together after brunch. Though neither said it aloud, it was becoming quite the routine for them. 

There was a lot that wasn't being said aloud. There'd been a shift in the days since Aziraphale's birthday, as if they were standing at the edge of something. Yet they were coming at it from opposite sides and couldn't find a bridge to traverse the gap. Crowley's refusal to dine that evening - even under Aziraphale's pleading gaze and gentle reminders that he needed to eat something, dear boy - may have been a product of him losing patience with the gap.

May have been, but wasn't. A week after the new year was another holiday, another day to remember too much and feel too much. Another day for Crowley to observe in his way. If there had been lingering suspicions on Aziraphale having figured it out the week before, they were dashed at the attempts to make him eat. 

It was a shame he even made them. Crowley would've happily gone down the stairs and sat at the dining room table with him to watch. He did like watching Aziraphale eat, from the first delicate parting of his lips to accept a morsel to the way he'd just as delicately dab a napkin to them after his last, watching him indulge was an experience. Every time, without fail, and he didn't like missing it. 

He didn't like disappointing him either or missing out on their nightly chats over food. But he didn't want the pressure, the questions. He didn't want to talk about things that might widen that confusing gap. He didn’t know where it had come from, as they'd been on the same page, hadn't they? He was pretty sure they were dating now. 

Looking at his hand, Crowley could've sworn he still felt the ghost of Aziraphale's over it. He'd thought he'd made his feelings crystal clear and Aziraphale had seemed to reciprocate. He'd gone to bed after kissing the back of his hand again - silly, considering that their rooms were right across from each other, but so obviously welcome - and had thought they'd taken a step forward. 

But what did he know about this sort of thing? Not a single bloody thing. Maybe he'd pushed too fast somewhere, too hard. Maybe not knowing what to do with those soft tears had been a deal-breaker. Maybe... 

Maybe Aziraphale just didn't want to be with a demony snake of a man who'd spent a good chunk of his life on the wrong side of the law.

It was an ache he tucked away with everything else that embarrassed or worried him too deeply. To not be good enough for the only person who'd ever tempted him into wanting the trappings of an actual romance was... Well, it aligned pretty well with the rest of his life, didn't it? It hurt, but it wasn't a surprise. And if a miracle happened and Aziraphale changed his mind... 

He swallowed that hope down, smothering it every single time he spent more than five minutes in Aziraphale's presence. If he had to choose between being his friend or nothing, he'd choose the former every time. He could let the want go. Probably. Eventually. The part of him that said he'd wait thousands of years for a single chance of more had to be smothered with the hope or he'd stop functioning. As Anathema had said, he was a wallower. 

But Aziraphale didn't need that from him and a heartache he'd never felt before wasn't something he particularly wanted to wallow in. It was a day for atonement and doing better, so that's what he'd do. 

Especially when he went downstairs Monday morning and saw tight, tense shoulders. Aziraphale’s spine was ramrod straight and his tone was defensive. Maybe not if you didn't know him well enough to get a glimpse into all the layers of his personality, but Crowley had taken several looks by this point. He knew who was on the other end of that conversation before he heard, “Of course, Gabriel.”

Oh, yes, as much as he wanted more between them, he would take the casual dating (unless he was wrong, and they were still just friends somehow?) and give it right back. It was just as new, just as important as anything in their relationship. As selfish as he'd claim to be if asked, it was easy to set himself aside as he sauntered over and draped himself across the couch. He caught Aziraphale’s attention and made a face before he could be shooed away. 

Aziraphale made a face back at him, though it was more exasperated than anything. A man at the end of his rope and too tired to look for some slack. He turned away from Crowley to avoid any distractions as the call wrapped up.

“Yes, yes. I’ll have everything ready. See you tomorrow. Have a good-” He stopped and set the phone in its cradle, no point in finishing the sentence if the other line had already disconnected. 

How difficult was it, Crowley wondered, to wait five more seconds? Hm. “Coming back already?”

“It’s the end of the quarter,” Aziraphale sighed, fingers pressing into the space between his eyes. “Time for Gabriel and Sandalphon to reconcile expenses with me. I’m to pull all the documentation on our profits, purchases, and payroll to review with them tomorrow.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be a bit of a battle, then.” Crowley rose and wandered over to him, settling beside him in simple support. “I’ll help you get everything together, if you like. Get it all set up in the dining room so you’re ready for them.”

“It’s your day off, Crowley. I’d hardly have you squander it on assisting me.” He waved it off with a sigh. “It will be fine; we go through this every three months. Gathering the documentation will be simple enough. I have a system. But I’m afraid I won’t be present in the shop much tomorrow. We’ll likely be at it for a good portion of the day.”

“Alright. I think we'll manage.” Crowley tipped his head to the side, already wondering what he could order ahead for dinner so Aziraphale wouldn't have to think about it. “How annoyed will you be if I follow you to the shop anyway?” 

Aziraphale looked at him, keeping his eyes on Crowley’s rather than the curve of his neck. “I suppose I can’t stop you from being in the shop if that’s really where you want to spend your time, but I will lock you out if I see you trying to do any work. Personal projects for your own enjoyment notwithstanding. Is that fair?”

It was very likely the best deal he was going to get. Helping Aziraphale if he needed it, in his opinion, very much counted as a personal project. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “Have you even had a chance to make your tea this morning?”

“No. I’d barely gotten dressed before I heard the telephone. That’s my next order of business. The shop can wait.” Aziraphale clapped his hands together, then headed straight for the kettle. “Breakfast first. Can’t start the day on an empty stomach.”

On reflex he grabbed two mugs and set them on the counter while the water boiled. It was surprising how easily he fell into this routine - two mugs, two wine glasses, two place settings. He hadn’t expected how natural it would all feel. Though much of that might have just been Crowley himself.

“I think I’m going to try my hand at one of those omelet souffles. You know, like the recipe Anathema showed me on her cellular phone the other day. Would you like one? Or would you prefer the traditional style?” he asked, taking out the eggs and butter from the fridge.

Crowley leaned against the doorway. “Neither. I’m alright, angel. You don’t need to make me tea either.”

Aziraphale looked up, two eggs already in hand. “Oh… well, something else then? Some toast and jam? Or a crumpet?”

Discomfort wriggled through him. “Nothing.”

That same discomfort twisted in Aziraphale’s stomach. “Crowley,” he started carefully, because it wasn’t necessarily his place, Crowley was fully capable of making his own decisions around when and what to eat, but, “you didn’t have any dinner last night. Surely you must be a bit peckish.”

Only because Aziraphale was getting him used to regular meals. “I’m fine.”

The eggs were carefully set down on the counter so they wouldn’t roll off, Aziraphale’s hands steadying them as his brow furrowed in concern. It wouldn’t be the first time Crowley tried to downplay a more serious issue, or at the very least hide his own worries behind Aziraphale’s problems. While Crowley didn’t seem to have a large appetite, he always ate at least something if Aziraphale offered. A few grapes for a snack, half a sandwich at lunch, an apple with honey…

“Are you feeling unwell?” Aziraphale pressed. “Some sort of stomach bug? Or is it your head? Nausea isn’t uncommon for migraines. Perhaps some ginger tea would be better than something caffeinated.” 

“No, it’s none of that. Don’t make it a thing.” He didn’t know what to do with such genuine concern, arms folding defensively. “I’ll have dinner tonight.”

“I don’t want you to eat just to appease me, Crowley. That’s not the point,” Aziraphale huffed, interrupted by the kettle whistling. “Fine. I won’t pester you about it anymore. Heaven knows I wouldn’t want to make it a thing.”

He put the same emphasis on the word that Crowley did, and maybe it was petty, but if he was going to ask questions and get up in Aziraphale’s business and then not offer up any answers for himself, well. It didn’t help that he was already worried about what he’d done to put the brakes on whatever was happening between them. Crowley wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what to do next, and since so far he’d been the more forward of the two, Aziraphale was waiting to follow his lead. After all, that was how he assessed things with his past relationships, not that they were the best examples. Clearly.

Now the two worries were coalescing, much like the milk and tea he prepared, stirred up by the slight aggravation into a bit of a muddled mess. Aziraphale left the second mug on the counter, untouched, and packed away the rest of the eggs. He changed his mind about the omelet and filled a pot to soft boil the eggs instead.

“And you know, on second thought, I believe it will take my full concentration to work on reconciling the books today and I want to take advantage of the barn being empty without distraction. I’m certain you understand, dear boy,” he added, focusing hard on stirring his tea, despite the fact that it didn’t need it.

That hurt, a fresh ache to be buried with all the rest, and it wasn’t particularly fair. Getting anything out of Aziraphale was like pulling teeth, and he’d been open from the start. “Don’t get tetchy with me. I think you’ve gotten a pretty good look at my fucked life without needing every piece.”

“I’m not going to apologize for being concerned about your well-being.” Tea sloshed over the edge of his mug, droplets dotting the counter and stinging his hand. “Bugger.” 

Aziraphale glared at the spoon as if it was to blame for the too vigorous stirring. He mopped up the mess with a tea towel, the distraction enough to remind him that he was being far too presumptuous. He should be grateful for what Crowley was willing to share with him at all. If Crowley wanted to deprive himself of food for whatever mad reason for twenty-four hours, then who was he to stop him?

“Perhaps I am a bit tetchy,” he allowed, finally looking at Crowley again. “Which is why I think it best if I work alone for a bit. Crowley, if you’re out there with me, then it’s very likely I’ll be unable to help myself from prying further, which you and I both know will only heighten our present state of aggravation. It is for both our sakes that we step away from the source of the conflict.” He lifted his chin, mustering up as much of an even tone as he could to maintain some semblance of a moral high ground.

Crowley wanted to argue further, felt the well of words burning in his throat. If Aziraphale was allowed to have lines - and Crowley was actually doing his best not to cross them - then he should be allowed the same. He was a grown man; it shouldn’t matter that he wasn’t eating or why. But keeping an eye on Aziraphale did matter. Just to be sure he was okay after having to talk to Gabriel, just to be sure that he didn’t let the stress of their impending arrival darken the shine of him too much.

“Fine. Fine. Ngk.” It mattered, but he wasn’t welcome. Crowley straightened from the wall, hands burying in his pockets as he turned away. He had to find something to do with all the tension tightening his muscles or he’d be a bit more than tetchy. “See you later, then.”

“Right.” 

Aziraphale stared at the empty mug on the counter until Crowley’s footsteps faded, the kitchen quiet save for the gentle bubbling of the eggs in hot water. Quiet and peaceful, like there was no one else but him in the whole house. He put the mug back in the cupboard, then snapped off the stove and dumped the water, the two barely cooked eggs rolling against each other and knocked themselves right into the drain. Tea would suffice.

He took the mug with him, not bothering with his coat. Storm clouds gathered in the east, so he might come to regret his hastiness, but he had a spare umbrella in the shop should the need arise. He always had a spare umbrella.

The alarm bleated at him, shrill and piercing; a warning. He punched in the code to quiet it. 21-10-95. The date the shop came into his name. Nearly twenty-five years now, half of his life. It had been a constant, a comfort, when his grandmother and great-aunt were long gone from the world. The air was laden with the same musky aroma of leather and wood the barn had carried inside of it since he’d been a boy, when he’d watch the dust mites dance in the sunbeams spilling through the skylight and imagined them fairies, working their magic on all the old, precious things people brought to his grandmother to fix. She’d wanted to see the heavens from wherever she stood in the shop.

There were no sunbeams today and the dust didn’t dance. Still, it wasn’t quite so staggering, the silence of the shop. There were a few times he made it out here before anyone else, even with Crowley staying with him. Aziraphale left the lights off even as he closed the barn door behind him. The light from his banker’s lamp would be quite enough to get by on.

He turned it on, set his mug on its coaster, then sat. And sat.

“Fuck.” Leaning heavily on his elbows, he scrubbed at his face with his hands. What was he doing? Great big bloody fool. 

He might as well have taken a hot poker from the fire and prodded Crowley with it for all the reaction he wanted. Not itching for a fight per say, but…

“How are things with the new hire going?” Gabriel had asked, and Aziraphale had told him, all puffed up pride and pleasure. And then, “Good. Sounds like things are all going according to plan. Make the most use of him while you’ve got him.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Well, it sounds to me like he’s got a lot of talent. You really expect him to stick around after he gets his name out there? What could possibly keep a guy like him in Tadfield?”

Aziraphale didn’t have an answer for that. Aside from Madame Tracy and Shadwell, no one ever stayed much past four or five years. Even Newton had only been there just shy of four years, while Anathema was a year and a half in. Though he couldn’t very well imagine the place without them, they were young. They had their entire lives before them, just like other past employees had. Those who had started their own businesses, or got jobs closer to the city or followed their spouse there. They’d retired or decided they wanted a career change, something more lucrative and keep restoration more like a hobby than a way of life. 

Crowley wasn’t anything like his past employees though. He wasn’t like anyone he’d met before. Professionally or personally.

But was he really very different enough that he wouldn’t eventually tire of this?

Yes, he’d gotten a good look at the general sense of his life, but not the nitty gritty. The devil in the details. Right now Crowley wanted something that wasn’t prison or a life of crime out on the streets just trying to get by. That wasn’t a particularly high bar to step over, not once one had support in place. What would Crowley want once he wasn’t in survival mode?

What would Crowley want once he had… options?

Aziraphale’s eyes stung as he lifted his head from his hands and inhaled shakily. He already knew the answer. It was always the same. What could possibly keep a guy like him in Tadfield? What had ever kept anyone? The ones you didn’t drive away in your cowardice. His fingers steepled, then interlocked as he folded them in prayer. Lord, give me strength.

Whether or not Crowley refusing to eat was a way of him pulling away, searching for some control over his life, or just because he didn’t feel like it, it didn’t mean he deserved to bear the brunt of Aziraphale’s frustrations and fears. He had given him so much already. Who was he to demand more? Especially now that he’d put on the brakes. Second thoughts, maybe.

Well, Aziraphale wouldn’t push. It wasn’t his place. Crowley needed a friend, someone to support him and build him up and give him distractions so he wouldn’t get lost in the sea of his own worries. Adrift and unmoored.

“Keep it together, old chap. This isn’t about you,” he whispered to himself, unclasping his hands with a sniff. “Right.”

His tea was cold and he forgot his reading glasses in the house, but he worked for several hours until he had a binder neatly organized for the quarter and his stomach vehemently and quite vocally protested his lack of a proper breakfast. Collecting the paperwork to bring inside, Aziraphale steadied himself and looked up through the skylight. The threat of rain had passed, though clouds still hung overhead.

He’d bring the umbrella just in case.

The house was still quiet when he came in the front door. “Hello?” he called out, because he could, because someone would answer and then they could have a talk and sort all this out.

But no one answered.

Aziraphale swallowed down the swell of panic. Crowley could be napping, closed up in his room, or perhaps still angry and didn’t feel like answering. Yes, there were plenty of reasons why he wouldn’t return his greeting.

It didn’t make the non-answer feel any less… lonely.

He set the umbrella down in the holder, then turned into the dining room. He almost dropped the binder. The table was cleared completely, the surface gleaming and freshly washed, an unlit candle sitting in the center. Slowly, he set the binder down, then checked each seat of each chair. Nothing.

The kitchen was much the same. The counters were cleared of all save for the decorative and functional odds and ends, like the jar that held his cooking utensils, the canisters for his dry goods, cookbooks tucked together in a row, alphabetized and all. The sink was empty of eggs and the pot sat in the drying rack, the surface of the stove wiped down completely and each burner free of the char that steadily built up over time.

A peek in the living room showed that his coffee table had been tidied up, too. Books still accessible and out, just not as they had been. No longer taking over every visible surface.

Aziraphale’s breath punched out of him, hands hovering over his middle as he took it all in. Cleaning he always meant to get to and just… didn’t. He never minded the clutter, but then it had only been him for so long. Fourteen years now, really, since anyone had come to stay.

Hurrying up the stairs, Aziraphale took pause at the landing. Crowley’s door stood ajar. Wringing his hands, he approached slowly and tapped his knuckles on the doorjamb.

“Crowley?” he asked. “May I come in?”

He could see the plants in the window and on the writing desk from where he stood, leaves standing tall and proud under Crowley’s care. But he didn’t see the man himself. When he didn’t receive an answer, he poked his head further inside.

It was empty. The bed was made, navy blue comforter neatly creased and folded with perfect corners. Aside from the plants, there was no trace of Crowley in the room.

He hadn’t noticed the Bentley. Was the Bentley still parked outside?

Aziraphale nearly tripped over the rug as he rushed to the window that faced the back corner of the barn, not daring to breathe until he saw the car sitting in its usual spot beneath the overhang that was possibly meant for a tractor. But then where was Crowley? Perhaps on a walk to clear his head? Scanning the property, his eyes caught on the stone wall marking the eastern border of his land. The tension bled out of his shoulders and he softened.

He returned to the kitchen and made himself a turkey sandwich and cut up an apple to eat with it, but he didn’t make any more than he normally would for himself. It was obviously a meal meant for one. He would know. He was quite intimately acquainted with them.

This time he grabbed his coat, umbrella, and a tartan scarf, bundling up before venturing outside and heading for the eastern wall with his sandwich. Crowley sat atop the stone, staring out where the horizon met the tops of trees, and where the chalk hills rolled beyond them. An unlit cigarette rolled between his fingers, as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted it or not.

When he was close enough, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Hello,” he started, throat going tight at the sound of his own voice amidst the quiet fields and trees. “It’s me.”

“Hi, angel.” He looked back at him, noting the plate, and hesitated a moment before he tapped the spot at his right. “Sit for a minute?” 

“Of course. I was rather hoping I might join you.” The bubble of anxiety popped and relief flooded him instantly. He set his plate down on top first and propped the umbrella against the base of the wall, then hoisted himself up to settle beside him as primly as one could atop a bumpy slab made of old stone. “Lovely day. Looks like we missed the rain.” Well, perhaps not all of his anxious knots had loosened if he was talking about the weather of all things.

“Mmhm.” Part of Crowley had wished and waited for the clouds to open, another tucked away part that had wondered and hoped for an umbrella to appear overhead. The silly vision had passed with the darker clouds, but there Aziraphale was anyway with his umbrella and his lunch and bundled up far more than he himself was. It wasn't as if he had anything appropriate for cold weather anyway. “I know you said you like all your clutter and things out and about, but I couldn't sit still and I didn't... I didn't want to take a drive in case you came back in.”

Aziraphale looked at him, eyes wide and more grey than blue. “Really?” He watched as one shoulder shrugged, not shrugging him off but in more of a ‘what else could I have done?’ sort of way. “Well… I wanted to say I think it all looks rather lovely. You did a remarkable job and I do like it. When I said I liked all my clutter and things out… well, that was before you lived here. It’s your home now, too, for as long as you want it, so I’d like for you to be comfortable. Whether that’s with all the clutter or without it or to eat or not eat whenever you please. It’s all fine, Crowley. And I am sorry for making such a fuss over it.”

“It's a change without any sort of explanation, and you don't seem to enjoy those very much. I thought I could get away with it since it's just the one day, but...”

“You don’t owe me any explanation, Crowley. You shouldn’t have to worry about telling me things simply because it will spare my feelings. We’re both grown men, quite capable of reaching some sort of understanding. It’s been a while though, I think. For both of us.” Aziraphale picked at one of the apple slices on his plate. “But I want you to tell me things because you want to and I’ve no right to force that on you. It is entirely up to you and as your friend I will respect whatever it is you choose to do. Provided it isn’t illegal. Or putting yourself or others in danger. Let’s just say within reason.”

“Wanting to tell you is the problem. Telling anyone the important things just...” It gave them ammunition, something to use against him. Like putting stolen things in the back of his Bentley or tricking him into eating pork or a dozen other things that made Crowley wonder how he'd ended up with those people to begin with. Except he knew. He'd made his choices and let himself be taken advantage of. 

But Aziraphale was as far removed from those people as Heaven was from Hell. It didn't make the burgeoning trust any less terrifying, but it did make him want to take a risk. Somewhere between organizing cookbooks and wiping off the dining table, he'd decided to take one if Aziraphale still wanted to know. It was a day for atonement, new beginnings. He didn't want it muddied with hurt feelings and bitter secrets. “Can I just... talk?” 

“Of course, my dear. Whatever you’d like.”

He didn't quite know what he wanted, the quiet breathing between them for a few seconds before Crowley flicked the cigarette away and picked up Aziraphale's umbrella. His fingers tapped against it, his mouth opened, and he went back further than he meant. 

“It took two weeks to bury grandad. It's s'posed to happen within a day, but no one would listen to the fourteen-year-old lad who could barely get words out around a lisp and stutters. We didn't have a rabbi because he never felt like synagogues were necessary for our way of celebrating the holy days or living our lives. Which was fine. I've still never been inside one, and I don't particularly want to go. But it meant no one was there to speak for him but me, and they didn't rush the autopsy just because his sniveling little grandson was saying he was Jewish and it's what he would've wanted. 

“Nothing happened the way he would've wanted, and nothing happened the way I'd been taught to expect. I got thrown into a group home and didn't have a single person who understood and the anti-semitism was so casual. I knew we were pretty secular by traditional standards, but we at least ate kosher. Not at a group home in the eighties. You ate what was in front of you or you didn't eat. I went hungry a lot those first few months because I just couldn't make myself... Betray him, I s'pose. 

“And then I met Beelzebub. Beatrice is their real name. Or hers or his or whatever pronouns they felt like using. In any case, they said they noticed I wasn't eating and wanted to know why, so I told them. And suddenly I had a target on my back. I know why now: they spread it around like wildfire. 'Guess what, all, the skinny new kid with the weird eyes is a Jew.' The anti-semitism was a lot less casual after that, but Beelz made a whole show of supporting me after I’d get jumped and wearing me down until I agreed to meet their friend Luke.” Though things had really come to a head only after a meeting with his caseworker had taken a turn. Maybe if he hadn’t gone snooping, things would be different. Or maybe things would’ve gone sour all the same.

“Luke - Lucifer - was larger than life, it seemed, and he had the same questions I did about God and about the reasons for living and everything that seems so important when you're fourteen and alone. He was a little older than I was, already had other friends, and he said I'd fit in fine. At first, I think I did. I had all my questions and he used them to twist everything around. I ate all the things I wasn't supposed to for a few years until I got a glimpse of my old life again. 

“Through clocks, of all things. I got that first job with one of grandad's old friends. The horologist who used to work on our old cuckoo clock every time it'd die or needed some looking after. I stumbled into his place, probably reeking of whiskey and weed, and could hardly believe it was even still open. Like it'd been decades and not three years since I’d seen him. But he remembered my grandad. I hadn't known someone who knew him and cared and was genuinely sorry he was gone until I walked in there. He gave me an actual job, taught me so much, worked it out so I'd have a place to stay... I didn't look back for six years. Stayed away from the gang until I turned twenty-three. Old man died in his sleep. Heart failure, I think, but I didn't hang ‘round long enough to find out all the details. I just... left and couldn't make myself work on clocks for a bit, so I found myself in a garage and the gang found me. 

“That's when some of the worst started. I'd dared abandon them, hidden myself away, gone back to being sort of Jewish... Thought I was stronger than at fourteen, but I was sucked right back into their world. I tried to stick to a few things, mind. I'd been figuring out what my beliefs were and how I wanted to live my life, but they'd lie to me. If something had pig in it, they wouldn't say until I'd eaten. Someone would get food for the gang now and again and there’d ‘accidentally’ be cheese on my burger and there was no not eating ‘round them. If it mattered, I'd suffer for it. Luci even got himself a calendar of Jewish holidays just to make sure I didn't do anything on them. So I didn't argue with them for long. I just... let it go. Didn't seem worth it, and it was a lot safer to not give a shit.

“Then in jail, I checked every box that said anything about being Jewish, even if it wasn't something I actually cared about, and went through the motions of religion, really. It was just a way to inconvenience the system since they'd gone and locked me up.”

Crowley stopped there for a moment, tapping the umbrella. That was the easy bit, the history, the things that could be easily compartmentalized and listed. The now was stickier. “It's... Now that I'm out and all, I just want to... I'm trying to... It's just the past week-ish has been the start of the new year, and I'm still trying to figure out how much of what I'm doing is for grandad and how much is for me, but today's Yom Kippur. It's the day the new year gets sealed, you could say, and one of the only things I'm really comfortable doing is the fasting bit. It's just until sundown, so that's why I said I'd eat dinner. Not to appease you. It's- I've got to break the fast.”

Oh. Oh, of course. Aziraphale was familiar with Yom Kippur, he was familiar with much of the particulars of Judaism from his studies of theology and philosophy before he settled on classics as his field of choice. He’d been very interested in all the different depictions of faith and religion, and it helped that his great-aunt hadn’t been particularly religious herself and encouraged him to be open-minded to it all.

Though, just because he knew of certain traditions and holidays didn’t mean he knew when they were. It all made so much more sense, including why he hadn't just come out and told him. It might have been the 21st century, but anti-semitism didn’t disappear overnight. Just because it wasn’t rampant didn’t mean it wasn’t there. After the sort of upbringing he’d had, Aziraphale couldn’t blame him for keeping it under wraps.

After all that betrayal and loss…

Aziraphale swallowed past the lump in his throat and looked down at his plate, then set it aside, out of Crowley’s line of sight. “I would say ‘have an easy fast,’ but I don’t believe it’s been particularly easy thus far, has it?” He reached out, laying his hand against Crowley’s knee. 

“I'm outside. It's the best one I've had in years.” The reply was glib, but he still laid his hand over Aziraphale's as gently as he could. That he would think to say it, that he’d know to say it, meant the world to Crowley.

He tsked, but didn’t pull away. “Well, forgive me if I think the bar should be set a bit higher than ‘not in prison,’” he said, giving him a light squeeze. “I think we can do better. Let me put away my plate here, then if you feel up to it, why don’t we go for a drive? Just through the countryside. See where we end up.”

Crowley couldn’t answer beyond a few aching little noises, words trapped in his throat the way his gaze was trapped on their hands. It was just the sort of thing he’d hoped for, another little fantasy tucked away. Not only the drive, but the easy acceptance. It was, by itself, the best marker of his new year. “Yeah,” he managed. “I’d be up to that.”

“Wonderful. I'll be just a moment, darling.” 

The word slipped out; he didn't even notice. Not until he slid his hand out from beneath the cover of Crowley’s and hopped down off the wall. A blush rose to his cheeks, then he grabbed his plate and ducked his head as he hurried back to the house. 

Crowley stared after him, grip tightening a little around the umbrella. Darling. Calling him angel had started off as more label than endearment, a placeholder for an unknown name that had hung on simply because it had continued to be true. It was certainly more an endearment now, but it was a safe one. As safe as “my dear” or the more amusing “dear boy,” as that was clearly just a long-standing habit.

But darling?

Darling made his heart skip in his chest, unsteadied his breathing. There was nothing safe about darling. But he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had a healthy appetite for danger, and it somehow solidified the shaky ground he’d felt himself walking on. Darling closed the gap a little, was a balm to the ache. Maybe Aziraphale did want something with him. Maybe he was right about them dating? He just needed to be patient and see what happened next.

Crowley climbed off the low wall and slipped his keys out of his jacket pocket as he crossed the yard to the Bentley. A something with Aziraphale would be worth some patience.

----

Tadfield and Oxfordshire around it was beautiful. Not that Crowley would say so aloud, but he certainly thought it as they drove along winding trails. Trees dangled over the road, branches reaching for their fellows on the other side, their richly covered leaves waving in the breeze. Much of the grass along rolling hills was still green, winter not quite close enough to brown it, and wildflowers danced in the wind. 

The landmarks and history of the area interested him, too. An old U.S. airbase was tucked away just outside of town, its winding road blocked by fences. Crowley joked about driving right on through just so Aziraphale would tut at him. 

There was an old nunnery, now a conference building of sorts. Of sorts since when they stopped (“Crowley, you can't park in the grass!”) to get a better look at the way old singed brick and gothic architecture had been blended with new, they could hear the pop-pop of paintball guns. Interesting. 

“You know, young Adam was born here,” Aziraphale said, distracting Crowley from his wicked wonderings on what they'd do with real guns.

“Adam Young,” Crowley corrected, playing with his name. 

This, Aziraphale ignored. “It was a very odd night, I'm told. Unusually foggy for the time of year, very difficult to drive through in the dark. Luckily, an ambulance happened by and Arthur Young was able to follow it straight here.” He wiggled, tone reminding Crowley of the over-the-top way he performed his magic. “It turns out that it was the wife of an American diplomat who happened to be in the area. She, too, had a son. The Youngs met her very briefly, and Deirdre has always said they were both golden-haired little things who could've been twins. Or, if Arthur's to be believed, triplets.”

“Triplets?” Crowley goaded, content to be Aziraphale's rapt audience. 

“Yes. He tells the story of coming into the delivery room to find two bassinets often, swears up and down they looked identical but for the colour of their swaddling blankets. The nun assured him the unexpected infant was someone else's child and they were just watching the boy temporarily, and they whisked the second baby away right before Deirdre awoke.”

“But no one knows for sure if there were three?” 

“No. The nunnery caught fire just after the Youngs and the Americans left, so all of their records were destroyed. The Chattering Order of St. Beryl disbanded, so it’s all remained a great mystery.”

A bit of interesting lore in a small village, an intriguing piece of its history to add to the draw. Crowley could almost hear R.P. Tyler's firm denial of it being a possibility, considering the potential scandal of an unknown child and an unknown mother amidst the quaint brick buildings. Yet Arthur Young was so exceptionally normal that it seemed a bit far-fetched that he'd invent such a thing. Crowley was willing to believe there'd been three baby boys in the convent that night. 

“Bet the third one was adopted out and wins prizes for his tropical fish.”

Aziraphale hadn't been able to hide his amusement. “The young Johnson boy does just that, as a matter of fact.”

“Is he eleven too?” The look he'd gotten had made him grin. “He is.”

“Now stop that. It's just as likely that any potential third child was sent much further away. Convents are quite secretive sometimes.”

Sometimes, but it was fun to speculate. As much as it was to introduce Aziraphale to some more Queen as they drove and get his opinion on music made in the late twentieth century. It certainly helped ease all the aches he'd been feeling that day. It made it easier to watch Aziraphale flit about the farmhouse kitchen as the sun finally faded, Crowley once again leaned against the doorway. 

“Why don’t you select a good wine for us, my dear? I’d say it’s about that time,” Aziraphale suggested as he seasoned the noodle mixture sitting in his casserole dish with a few good cranks from his pepper grinder. 

There were few traditional dishes he felt comfortable enough to make, but a salt and pepper noodle kugel was one of them, and he had all the ingredients at the ready. It seemed like an appropriate dish for which to break Crowley’s fast. He’d had to double check with Crowley that eggs were pareve and not meat when he considered adding butter, though he was certain he’d seen him butter toast with an egg at some point. It would have been an easy fix with olive oil if they had been, but there was little that could compare with the taste browning butter provided.

As it was, the kugel looked appropriately browned and crisp on top, fresh out of the oven and put aside to set while Aziraphale threw together a quick little salad to accompany it. Some fresh vegetables wouldn’t hurt after all, and perhaps he wouldn’t feel as guilty about the carb laden casserole, even if it did have a bit of onion in it. It was more for flavor rather than nutritious value.

Crowley picked a chardonnay, the medium-dry white a better pairing for a buttery kugel than the reds he typically preferred. He was genuinely charmed and surprised that Aziraphale would make something traditional on purpose, that he cared enough to even ask if an ingredient would still keep it traditional. The wine wasn't technically kosher, but Crowley wouldn't call himself anything less than secular and wasn't going to narrow his wine choices. He was still learning his own preferences, rearranging his belief system into something he was comfortable with.

He didn't know if he'd ever settle completely, but it was a unique opportunity for him to discover now that he was somewhere he could safely do so. It wasn't something he'd had in more than half his life. 

As he set the table, he glanced at the binder of paperwork and hummed to himself before setting it in one of the chairs he'd cleared off that day and pushed it in. He wouldn't ask Aziraphale about it, not willing to fog the clear air between them, but he'd be there for him after they left the following day. 

He reached for the wine glasses when his stomach made an embarrassing noise and slanted Aziraphale a look, sunglasses tucked in his shirt as the sun disappeared. “This is your fault. I can usually get through the fast just fine.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale smiled in a way that could only be described as smug as he tossed the salad with a light vinaigrette. 

He could be such a bastard, though each glimmer of that hidden wickedness only made him more intriguing. “Don’t ‘oh’ like that as if you’ve got no idea. I don’t need a keeper anymore than you do.”

“I never said you did,” he replied, tone feather light. “I simply appreciate the company you’re willing to bestow on me, my dear boy.”

“Mmhm.” Crowley took the glasses and bottle opener to the table. “Only when you're equally willing.”

Aziraphale winced, lips pursing in thought as he brought the salad over to the table and also placed a trivet down for the kugel. “That’s… hm.” 

It wasn’t an incorrect statement. There was still an undercurrent of hurt feelings at being brushed off and practically locked out of the shop, which Aziraphale couldn’t blame him for, even if the time apart was what they both needed for some self-reflection. It didn’t take the sting away from it.

“Would you have wanted to be around me earlier? With the way I was behaving?” he asked, avoiding his gaze by testing if the casserole dish was cool enough to handle with bare hands.

“I don't know. I'm used to volatile tempers. I have one.” Crowley watched him put on the oven mitts, letting him evade but not bothering to do the same. “People say there's honesty in anger, but that's a load of bollocks. A whip of anger is thoughtless, hitting whoever happens to be nearby in whichever way might work best. I don't really think you were exactly angry with me. I think you were worried and stressed, same as I was, and it was just one more thing this morning.”

“It was still a mood.” Aziraphale did look at him then, placing the kugel on the trivet. “Even if it wasn’t anger, it wasn’t particularly pleasant and I was taking it out on you unfairly. And aggravating you in the process.” He gestured for him to sit, doing so himself once Crowley slid into his chair. “You hardly deserved such treatment and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to consider much before speaking. The distance was intended to benefit us both, though I must admit the way I went about it was… ornery, to say the least.”

He'd dealt with far worse than an irritated dismissal, particularly since part of the irritation had come from a very unfamiliar place of concern. But Aziraphale knew that. It still felt as though they knew so little about one another, but it was leaps and bounds beyond what Crowley was used to. “It's alright, angel. We're still muddling through.”

“If it was alright, you wouldn’t have brought it up. And to be quite honest, you have every right to.” Aziraphale cut into the kugel to serve them each a sizable slab of it. “We may be muddling, but I am sorry for my behavior, Crowley. I know it must have felt terrible.”

He poked at a noodle, staring at it as he made a few noises that could've been agreement or dismissal. Maybe there were still some hurt feelings, but the lashing out, he was used to. Apologies, he was not. “It is alright. Some space wasn't exactly a bad idea. We're both used to being alone to some extent.”

“Indeed. But I could have sounded a bit more reasonable about the whole thing,” he sighed, serving the salad next. “It can be challenging when one is ‘in the heat of the moment,’ so to speak. Oh, what do you think? Is it too dry?” Aziraphale looked on curiously as he watched Crowley spear some noodle with his fork.

“No. It's... This is right.” It was familiar in a way he didn't know how to talk about. “I think the heat of the moment isn't as important as what's done after. You've more than made up for snapping, angel.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed, the creases around his eyes and furrow of his brow smoothing over. “If you say so, my dear.” 

Cutting into the kugel with the side of his own fork, Aziraphale tasted it for himself. It was rich and creamy, the starch a comfort in a way little else was. He didn’t know how it stood up to others, having only made it out of curiosity rather than for a traditional purpose, but the fact that Crowley said it was ‘right’ had him wiggling happily. There’d been a flicker of recognition on his face, a memory in his eyes, and he readily took another bite and actually took a moment to contemplate the flavors in something other than wine.

Aziraphale wondered if his grandfather had made it for him growing up, on special occasions, and almost asked. There was a far off look in his eyes, as distant as the stars and golden gaze hazy around the edges like a setting sun. Aziraphale chewed quietly, holding his question in and trying not to look too closely, to give him that moment. He’d already shared so much today, in the entire time he’d known him. While he may have been frustrated earlier and snapped a bit himself, Crowley had been right. It seemed there wasn’t much Crowley wouldn’t give him if Aziraphale only asked. All those jagged little porcelain pieces of him offered up in open palms still healing from the scars they left, just for Aziraphale to take and fill in the cracks like Anathema would fill in a vase. Then empty hands would hide away in pockets too small to keep anything, but had nothing to hold onto in return so it didn’t matter anyway.

Aziraphale swirled his wine, then took a sip. “You know, Crowley,” he started while he still had the nerve, the sharp taste of the chardonnay lingering on his tongue. “I admire your fortitude. Now I’m not saying this to embarrass you, only to acknowledge that, well, you’ve been through… quite a lot and have every reason not to open up to a single person. Not when it’s gone so poorly for you in the past. It can’t be easy, yet time and time again you find the courage. It’s inspiring and I… I have to say I’m a bit envious.

“Not of your circumstances, obviously. That’s- no, just that you are capable of such courageous acts, whereas I’m afraid that I’m a bit more apprehensive. Cowardly, even, one could say. And without any reason for it, really. For instance, you already know that no one called me on my birthday, and I know you know, but we haven’t discussed it. Not really. You didn’t press. You let me not think about whatever it was I didn’t want to think about without any questions. As you do with anything once I shut it down. And for what reason? It isn’t that I don’t trust you or believe that you’ll somehow use it against me.”

Aziraphale sighed, leaning back in his chair as he set both wine and fork aside for the moment. “Even when I’m trying to say something important, I still wind up saying absolutely nothing at all. Crowley, I didn’t tell you because I thought it would be easier if you found out about my birthday from someone else while they were putting something together for me, than to find out from me ahead of time and then there be nothing to signify that the day was any different than any other. Easier for me, that is. Hardly easier for you. But I didn’t think I could bear it if you knew and there was nothing. And I’m afraid every year that this will be the one. This will be the one no one will acknowledge. I’ve tried not to expect anything, so it won’t be so painful when it does happen. My great-aunt said from the start that if I expected anything, I’d only be disappointed in the end. But I’m disappointed anyway. When they don’t call. I don’t even want them to, I don’t know what I’d even say to them, but I… I’m still disappointed. They don’t even try.”

He took a big bite of the kugel then, letting out a huff as he let the rich noodles do their job in offering comfort in the form of carbs and cream until enough irritation ebbed. “I’ve never wanted to be like them. My parents. The rest of my family I feel like I can have some kind of relationship. I can still reach them, form a connection. They weren’t responsible for me after all, they didn’t have to be. But my parents… they stuck me somewhere and never looked back and never mentioned it again. That alone is enough to not want to emulate. But I will not let my cowardice keep me from trying, I won’t let it make me even the slightest bit like them, even if it’s easier. It’s not worth it if it leaves someone disappointed.”

Crowley leaned back in his chair, letting that surprising burst of words sink in. He hadn't expected them, didn't know what he could possibly say in response. He didn't know the first thing about big families, and the one chance he'd had at possibly connecting with someone had been let go. He knew abandonment and avoidance and hurt just as he knew hope, but he didn't think he knew comfort or reassurance. He knew he wanted to help, but he didn't know how. 

Aziraphale dabbed at his lips, taking a few deep breaths before looking at Crowley, softer than he’d expected after all that. “I may move slowly, my dear, but I am still going to try. I don’t want you feeling as though you’re the only one willing to make an effort here.”

“I don't think being slow and cautious makes you a coward.” Hurt built up, could be smothering and stifling, and Crowley was only just beginning to see that there was so much of it in Aziraphale. There was plenty of reason to be cautious. “Being as good as you are takes its own sort of strength. Trying to reach people who won't reach back does too.” Crowley didn't think his family deserved him. He didn't particularly think he deserved this angel either, but maybe... He laid his hand on the table, palm up in quiet offering. He could take it or not, use the support he was willing to provide or not. “You can be slow with me, Aziraphale. I can be patient.”

Gaze dropping to his hand, Aziraphale thought it wasn’t so different than when they’d held onto one another in the cinema. But at the same time it was so completely new. This was in the light. Maybe not the sunlight, with night now upon them, but they both knew what they were doing. What they were saying.

Aziraphale reached back and laid his hand in Crowley’s. “Careful, darling. You’re being terribly sweet.”

“Ngk,” he protested, but didn’t pull his hand away. “It’s a temporary lapse. You made me kugel.”

“Mm. Perhaps I’ll have to make a habit of it then.” Aziraphale reached for his wine with his free hand, holding it between them with the intention to toast him. “To the new year? I hope it holds for you much opportunity and good will.”

It could this year. The build-up to it had brought enough rapid, positive changes that Crowley was almost willing to acknowledge the hope. “Shana tova,” he replied as their glasses touched, letting the warm hand in his take away the bitterness in memory.

The gap didn’t seem so uncrossable now.

Chapter Text

The morning was off to a dreadful start.

Aziraphale hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, not that he did most nights by most people’s standards, thoughts muddled and plucking at his brain incessantly until he lost himself in his copy of the Maltese Falcon, drawn to rereading the book after watching the film. He’d only intended to read until he could close his eyes with nary an anxious thought twisting its way through his mind. Naturally that didn’t happen.

He’d managed to doze off somewhere around four in the morning and overslept as a result. The bags under his eyes felt like pillows and he tried to press the puffiness out of them in the shower, palms rubbing fruitlessly. His neck was stiff from falling asleep half propped up in bed and the worries were still there. Not even the hot water could melt the tension knotted up in both.

At least he had the time for a shower. Gabriel and Sandalphon hardly ever showed up before ten in the morning, what with London’s traffic, but he did need to open the shop still. There were messages to check, appointments to schedule for the week, and he’d wanted to see how the glue was holding up on a 1724 Bible that had spent the weekend drying and sitting in his book press.

He left the bathroom window open to air out the steam, the morning air crisp and cold as a steady drizzle wet the earth. Goosebumps rose as the chill warred with the heat and he nicked himself while shaving in an attempt to be quick about it. It was only a dot of blood, easy enough to dab off his skin, but it was an annoyance he didn’t have the time or energy to deal with. Tutting at himself, he hung up his towel and slipped on his tartan robe.

There was only a single bathroom in the farmhouse, though for Aziraphale it had hardly ever been a problem and when he did have issues with plumbing, at least there was a toilet and sink in the shop. Even with Crowley staying with him it hadn’t presented any issues. Aziraphale always rose for the day much earlier and would already be downstairs to start breakfast by the time Crowley stirred. Of course, that was on days where he woke up on time.

As Aziraphale stepped out onto the landing, Crowley’s door opened. He stopped at the first flash of red hair, mussed up from a solid night’s sleep and fluffed in a way he’d never seen it before. Not even after he passed out on his couch after too much to drink. It looked soft to the touch and Aziraphale’s fingers itched to card through it. Amber eyes still hazy from sleep stared at him for a beat and his heart absolutely melted. It flooded his chest and liquefied in his limbs, this overwhelming adoration he didn’t have the energy to fight when he hadn’t expected it.

Darling more than suited Crowley. The accidental endearment not so accidental at all, really. They couldn’t have stood there looking at one another for more than a handful of seconds, though it felt as though time had stopped all around them. Until Crowley blinked and comprehension trickled its way into his gaze. 

All at once, Aziraphale was quite aware that he was only in his robe. He adjusted the tie around his waist, flush creeping down his neck as he watched Crowley’s cheeks turn a similar shade of red. In the week and a half they’d been living together, this had to be the most unkempt either of them had been in front of the other.

His hair was still damp, plastered to his forehead in darkened curls and his throat felt oddly bare, exposed by the deep V of his robe. His breath caught when Crowley’s gaze flicked that way, as if sensing his thought, the man’s grip on his towel tightening. If they’d been standing any closer, Aziraphale was certain Crowley would be able to hear his heart pounding.

“Ah… good morning,” he greeted quietly, trying to discreetly pull his robe closed over his chest.

It was far too early for this, a hot ball of lust lodging itself in Crowley's gut as he became so very aware of Aziraphale's lack of layers. He was usually so bundled up, rows of buttons between his fingers and the promise of warm, soft flesh. It was as pink from his shower as from embarrassment, and Crowley ached to find out if it was as warm and dewy as he looked. He ached to back him up against the wall and undo the flimsy little tie of his robe, replace the freshly clean scent of soap with the headier scent of eager need. 

“Ngk,” he managed, stupid and sleepy and wanting. 

Aziraphale bit down on his lower lip and he had to look away lest he lose himself to basking in that open, unguarded attention. “The er... shower’s all yours, my dear,” he croaked out, shuffling a step closer to him. 

He’d have to pass him to reach his room and the comfortable security of his clothing. But he’d read more than his fair share of romances to easily follow Crowley’s train of thought, wondering just what he’d do if Crowley’s clever hands found their way between the folds of his robe and coaxed it open. If Crowley would let him push his own hands into his hair and guide their lips together, warm and giving and perfect.

Oh, but wasn’t that just a fantasy? Aziraphale swallowed, lashes fluttering as he glanced back and away once more before padding past him, focused on the threshold of his bedroom. 

Crowley watched him, frozen in place because he really didn't trust his own hands. He should've been more worried about his own mouth. “Nicsse robe, angel.”

Aziraphale had to close his eyes at the slip of his lisp. His fingers clutched at said robe a little tighter as he savoured the sound of his tongue tripping against his teeth. What would his tongue and teeth do to his mouth? His throat? His thighs? He was conscious of the way they rubbed together beneath his robe, undergarments still tucked away in his drawers. He could almost feel how Crowley’s joggers would chafe against his skin if he wrapped his legs around him and pulled him close.

Oh, how tempting it was to turn around and tug him into his room with him, into his bed. They could hide away from the day, wrapped up in one another. Kissing until their lips were bruised and tongues tired. Aziraphale wanted to know what Crowley kissed like. He wanted to fold himself into his arms and stay there for a century, maybe more, breathing in the smoked leather and salt of his skin. It would be safe there. He could be tired and soft and he wouldn’t have to fight.

He wasn’t built for fighting.

Aziraphale exhaled shakily, holding onto the doorframe to tether himself to his reality. He couldn’t. It was entirely inappropriate. He was Crowley’s employer and now his landlord, how would that possibly look? Yes they’d held hands, but that…

That could mean anything, couldn’t it? 

“Ah… thank you, my dear. I’m rather fond of it as well,” he managed. “I’ll er… I’ll see you downstairs for a bit of breakfast.”

Crowley wanted to keep looking at him, wishes spiraling through him, but the shaky dismissal made him move. It wasn't the day for this sort of want, and hadn't he told Aziraphale just the night before that he could be slow? 

“Right,” he agreed, slinking quickly to the bathroom and closing the door behind him with a quiet click. 

Only then did Aziraphale look back, when he knew Crowley couldn’t see, and wondered if he’d imagined the note of disappointment and resignation in his voice. But today wasn’t the day for such thoughts. Not with Gabriel and Sandalphon on their way.

Aziraphale armoured himself in his button front shirt and waistcoat, cufflinks and stays holding him together. He watched his reflection in the mirror above his dresser as he fixed his bowtie, tucked in beneath layers that attempted to minimize the curve of his middle. He didn’t feel as soft when the fleshy bits of him couldn’t be seen. Couldn’t be touched.

He had to have been mistaken. Crowley couldn’t have been looking at him with anything like desire. What was there to want? There was an attraction between the two of them, yes, he could sense that, but it had to be purely mental. Emotional. An attraction to the connection they’d formed. Clearly it had been so long since Aziraphale felt this stirring urge to feel another’s body pressed to his own, he’d simply been caught up in his own feelings and projected them.

It wasn’t that he was unattractive, he took great pride in making himself look good with regular trips to the barber and proper grooming habits. The simple fact was there were others far more attractive than he, at least there had to be to someone like Crowley, at any rate. He shook his head and dabbed on his cologne, combed through his hair, then hurried downstairs before the water for Crowley’s shower stopped running. One indecent run-in was enough for the day, and he doubted Crowley had a robe of his own. Likely just a towel slung low across his hips.

Dear Lord, it was too early for such thoughts. Too early and too inappropriate.

Also too distracting apparently. Aziraphale oversteeped his tea and barely had time to put together a toasted bagel and cream cheese with blackberry preserves before needing to open the shop. He handed Crowley the other half of his bagel when they crossed paths on his way to the front door.

“The tea’s a bit strong. You might want to make a fresh cuppa,” he advised as he shrugged on his coat. “Let it steep too long.”

“Not the first time. I'll just add extra milk.” Crowley took a bite of the bagel, wondering if the simple question was overstepping before asking anyway, “Alright, angel?” 

Aziraphale flipped up the collar to protect his neck from the light rain. “Yes, my dear. Though I'll be better once I can put today behind me. A rough start to the day, didn't get much sleep last night either. Not the best state to be going into an expenses meeting.”

It was one thing to be told that Aziraphale was going to try being more open, another to hear it happen. Crowley decided, very easily, that he liked not being brushed off. “No, but you have all your papers ready and you know the shop like the back of your hand. Don't forget your umbrella. S'posed to only rain harder as the day goes.”

Aziraphale blinked, already reaching for the handle of one of the umbrellas tucked in the stand near the front door, but stilled for a moment as he thought about his consideration. “Oh… right. Of course. Ah. Feel free to borrow one as well when you're ready to come out to the barn. I have extras.”

“I've noticed. I'll grab one if it picks up anymore than this in the next five minutes. I'm hoping to finish cleaning that French rococo disaster today so I can stop looking at it.”

A smile tugged at Aziraphale's lips. “It isn't quite your style, is it?” 

It was a nine-centimetre high gilt bronze piece swarmed by intricately placed leafy vines on virtually every single spot available. The clock face was sunken in and nearly unseeable for all the frivolous decoration. Every day that he'd worked on it had strained his eyes for all the tiny spaces best cleaned with a cotton bud and determination. So, no, it was not his style but more than half of it gleamed bright as anything. 

Pale in comparison, some fanciful part of him thought, to Aziraphale's smile. It wouldn't last, but it was a spot, a moment in his morning, where he wasn't upset. It satisfied Crowley, though his dry “Not quite” belied the small pleasure he took into causing that curve. “I'll be out soon, angel.”

Not soon enough, apparently, as Aziraphale was back in the house moments later thanks to forgetting his keys. By the time he made it to the door with keys actually in hand, he found a motorcycle parked right in front. A figure in a red leather jacket, identity masked by their helmet, waited for him. They cradled a long package, wrapped carefully, in their arms. He didn’t have any appointments scheduled this early, but it wasn’t a requirement. People were welcome to walk-in on a first-come, first-serve basis, though those with appointments always took priority. 

Aziraphale hastened to unlock the door and turn off the alarm. “Dreadfully sorry, we’re running a bit behind schedule today,” he apologized, ushering the patron in, as if the drizzle was an actual downpour rather than just a light misting. “Give me just a moment. I’ll be right with you.”

“Take your time.” It was an American woman that replied, her voice low and amused, like there was a joke only she could hear.

 While Aziraphale removed his coat and bustled over to his workstation, flipping the light switches up on his way, the woman set down her package on the nearest empty surface. Deirdre’s table was the closest to the door and currently the only one bare. The woman removed her helmet and long, luscious red hair the colour of ripened cherries spilled over her shoulders. She tucked the helmet under one arm and surveyed the shop with a carefully arched brow and the hint of a smirk on red painted lips. She didn’t look like his usual clientele, but then Aziraphale wasn’t one to judge books by their covers. 

Neither did Madame Tracy for that matter, as she and Shadwell entered on their heels, the former already cooing over this stranger’s bike. “Is that lovely thing out front yours, dear?” she asked, beaming when she nodded. “Very bold colour.”

“Colour o’th’Devil.”

Madame Tracy ignored Shadwell. “Mr. Aziraphale didn’t say we were expecting any clients first thing.”

The woman grinned, still tickled by their very presence. “Just dropped by. Wanted to make it before the rush.”

“Well, you certainly did, my dear lady.” With ledger in hand and mostly composed, Aziraphale approached her and wrangled his customer assistance persona into place. “Now, how might we be of assistance?”

The cloth wrapping was stripped away to reveal an antique sword. A gladius judging from the pommel and broad blade. Aziraphale’s breath caught as he examined it. It appeared genuine despite the worn surface, the patina of age showing just how old this piece was. But it had obviously been kept up over the years, not too deteriorated, but wearing its age with pride.

“This is a remarkable piece,” he gasped, not even daring to breathe over it, let alone touch it. “May I…?”

She gestured for him to go ahead. “It’s been passed down through my family for generations,” she hummed. “Forged in the fires of my ancestors.”

Aziraphale put on his white cloth gloves before handling it, lifting it from it’s cloth case with a light touch on both ends. “Do you know how old it is? What year it was forged?” he asked, gaze tracing from the tapered point to the knobbed hilt, lacking guards where the steel met the capulus, as was typical for this type of Roman sword, but surprisingly bland. No intricate, ornate carvings in the hilt to boast status.

The woman shrugged with one shoulder, one corner of her mouth quirked up. “My grandparents have said it could be as old as seventh century B.C. Maybe even older.”

“It’s a miracle it has lasted this long, and in such good condition. Oh, Crowley! My dear, come take a look at this!” he called out as he spied his saunter through the door.

“I’m just looking to get it cleaned and preserved. It’s about time for its check-up,” she explained.

After dropping his borrowed umbrella in the stand by the coat rack, Crowley hooked his thumbs in his pockets and made his way to Aziraphale’s side. There was a little bit of red rust built up on the steel blade, the hilt a grimy bronze. Simple, but deadly enough for a Roman foot soldier raging into battle. “Impressive,” he hummed, tempted to run a finger along the edge to find out if it was still sharp. Something about its owner told him it would be.

“I believe this would be something Newton could take care of, given his proficiency with metalworks, but you've had experience with cleaning various metal parts, yes?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah. Something like this, you want to keep the patina and only take the grime.” Though he'd never worked on something quite this old, he was familiar with the intricacies involved. “I can do that.”

“That's exactly what I'm in the market for,” the woman replied. 

“Excellent. Then we'll just put together an estimate and talk payment.” Aziraphale opened his ledger to pencil in the newest project. “Might I have your name, please?” 

“Carmine Zuigiber.”

“I don't believe I've seen you around town before, Ms. Zuigiber,” Aziraphale hummed as he wrote down her information. 

“I'm not from around here. Just passing through. Had some business at the airbase just outside of town.” Her grin sharpened when the two men looked at her. “I'm a war correspondent.”

“Ah. I see.” Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. It wasn't like they currently had a war on that the base was involved in. At least he hoped not. They did keep things rather hush hush, as militaries were wont to do. “Well, er, will you still be in the area in a few days?” 

“No, but I heard it's possible for you to ship things?” 

“Yes, of course. We'll have to account for postage in the final price, but it's certainly a service we offer.”

“Then I'll do that. Thanks.”

It didn't particularly surprise Crowley that she was involved in war somehow. He recognized the undercurrent of violence in her, had seen plenty of it, but this was sharp and smart. Intelligent violence was far more dangerous than the stupid sort. “I can give you my estimate now. Newt should be here soon for his half, but it looks like the steel only needs the rust rubbed off. Soon before it eats away the blade.”

She was willing to pay the price, even after Newt arrived to give it his own inspection and added his estimate to the total. She wrote a cheque for the full amount and left it and the sword in Aziraphale’s hands before saddling up to ride out into the drizzly morning. Her motorcycle roared to life, like the guttural growl of a lion, and she revved the engine just as the Rolls-Royce Ghost pulled up through the gate. Carmine sped away down the road in a flash of red, the sound of her bike echoing long after she’d vanished from sight.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow as he opened his grey umbrella and held it aloft. He exchanged glances with the shorter, portly man who’d been in his passenger seat. Sandalphon cast a similar look of judgment, shaking his head a bit before opening his own umbrella. Though not as polished as Gabriel’s look, Aziraphale’s other cousin did hold himself with a similar air of superiority, his brown suit well-tailored and more monochrome than the varying shades of beige and cream Aziraphale himself preferred, even if they didn’t quite match.

“Motorcycles now too, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked by way of greeting.

“A sword, actually,” he corrected, holding the barn door open in case they wanted to come inside, though he already knew they would not. It was really the gesture that counted. “I’ll be right with you.”

Crowley leaned in a bit. He'd been curious about the motorcycle and more so about the accountant, so hadn't bothered to head to his workstation. “You didn't tell me he was egg-shaped,” he murmured. “Would've had jokes ready.”

Aziraphale glared at him glarefully, swatting him away. “Foul fiend. None of that now.”

“Oi,” he protested, unable to keep his grin fully at bay. “Fine, fine, I'll get to work and think of some for later. You know I'm right.”

“I would never agree to such a thing,” he huffed, grabbing his coat and umbrella. Not aloud, anyway, but he didn't want to give Crowley any more ammunition. “Good luck with the clock. You know where to find me if you need anything.”

“I know, angel. We'll be alright. Tracy'll keep Shadwell in line and I think that's all you'd really need to worry about here. So good luck with your advisory board.” Crowley hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Don't let them make you think you don't know what you're doing.”

Aziraphale softened as he glanced back at Crowley. “Thank you, my dear.”

He made another sound of protest, waving it away. “I'm- That's- Go on, angel. I'll see you in a bit.”

Aziraphale was sorely tempted to cup the man's cheek, to wordlessly convey his gratitude by stroking gently with his thumb. To feel the soft touch of his skin freshly shaven and cool from the autumn mist. He imagined Crowley's eyes would grow round and wide behind his shades at first, then slowly flutter closed as he soaked up the tenderness not readily offered to him in his lifetime.

But he didn't. How could he even begin to explain that in front of the rest of the team or to Gabriel and Sandalphon or to Crowley himself even? Best not to speculate or dwell too much on that.

“Gabriel, Sandalphon. Welcome. It's lovely to see you both,” Aziraphale said as he led them to the house. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I prepare some tea and coffee for us.”

“Just a glass of water for me.” Gabriel waved him off as he and Sandalphon stepped inside the foyer. “I’ve been trying out the keto diet and I decided to cut caffeine out along with it. I don't want to risk anything throwing my body out of ketosis. My doctor recommended it and I have to say, I’ve never felt more… alive. Well, except when we did the Whole30 challenge, right Sandalphon?”

“Yes, you know, I’ve been thinking about trying keto myself.”

It was a struggle not to roll his eyes. Aziraphale mentally patted himself on the back for not succumbing to the temptation. It wasn’t that he had anything against diets or wanting to eat healthy to better oneself, not at all. He just had a very specific thing against Gabriel’s diets, especially when he jumped on a new bandwagon every other year or so. Last Aziraphale had been aware, it had been the Paleo diet, two years before that he’d tried being vegan, and oh… he didn’t even want to be reminded of the juice cleanse days. Those had been dark times.

Mostly because with the fad diets always came the unsolicited advice. “I think you’d like it,” Gabriel told Sandalphon, then turned his attention to Aziraphale. “You too, Aziraphale. It’d really help with the gut, you know? Targets all that water weight and extra cushion. Plus, you’d still get to eat bacon and butter, so it wouldn’t be that much of a change for you.”

Aziraphale’s heart clenched as he turned the stove on. “Right. So I’ve heard.” 

He told himself Gabriel only had good intentions. After all, he was obviously suggesting it because he was concerned about Aziraphale’s health and well-being, which was a good thing. Sugar-coating it didn’t always make it easier to stomach though. Too much of it could turn a stomach sour, much like artificial sweetener.

There had been a few times where he’d tried a “lifestyle change” as Gabriel liked to call it, but oftentimes the limitations were not very inspiring. At least not for him. The intentions behind them also never felt very motivating, not in the way he felt motivated to make sure Crowley had everything he needed to be able to stick to his Kosher diet.

Aziraphale perked up a bit at that. It wasn’t on the same level as the keto diet or a juice cleanse, but it was a way to potentially meet Gabriel halfway. It couldn’t hurt to try and offer information on his own changes, especially when it was no secret that turkey and chicken products had less fat than their pork counterparts.

He left the kettle to boil, poking his head back out as Gabriel settled in the dining room and Sandalphon hung up his coat. “You know, I’ve recently made the switch to turkey bacon myself. Hardly taste the difference at all.”

“Oh?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s about time. What prompted the change?”

“Well, I’ve decided to try being a bit more mindful of eating Kosher foods.”

Gabriel snorted. “Why?”

Aziraphale winced, but soldiered on. “Do I need a reason?”

“No, but it’s not as if you’re Jewish,” he scoffed. “I’d be careful not to offend that community.”

“You don’t have to be Jewish to eat Kosher food,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And I’d hardly think-”

“What’s this?”

Sandalphon was still standing by the coat rack, eyeing the black blazer hanging beside Aziraphale’s dove grey housecoat. The black blazer that was obviously a size or two - or three - smaller than the wool coat. They were both frowning - Gabriel and Sandalphon - and Aziraphale’s pulse quickened as if he'd caught doing something wrong.

He wasn’t. This was his house. He could let in anyone he liked.

But would they see it that way?

“Is someone else here?” Sandalphon asked.

“No!” At the moment, it was true. “That is- ah. Well, you know Crowley, yes? Er, Anthony.” They both turned to look at him, so he clasped his hands behind him to keep from fidgeting. “You see, it’s his. I uh… well, I got it cleaned for him.”

“Cleaned?” Sandalphon’s brow furrowed.

“Yes. Dry cleaned, obviously. Wouldn’t want to damage the fabric.”

“Why did you take his jacket to be dry cleaned?” Gabriel asked.

Why indeed. “Because it was my fault, you see. Our workstations are quite close together and he left his jacket off while he was working on- on- on that grandfather clock we’d talked about previously? And well, I wasn’t paying attention and spilled something on it. Naturally I felt just terrible about it, so I offered to get it cleaned for him. I intended to give it to him today, but I forgot it here. On the coat rack. Where coats go. I’ll bring it to him later.”

Gabriel seemed to buy it, but Sandalphon still looked perturbed. “What did you spill on it?”

“Ah…” Aziraphale blinked, hot and itchy under his collar and he clutched his hands together tighter to keep from tugging at his bowtie. “Book oil.”

“Book oil?”

Book oil? “Yes, it… it keeps the pages from… sticking to one another. After the cleaning process.” Aziraphale’s gaze flicked back and forth between them. “It leaves behind a bit of an odd sheen on clothes though. And a smell. If not dried properly.”

Book oil was absolutely not a thing, and he didn't know why he couldn't have simply said tea or PVA adhesive or something real. Thankfully Gabriel and Sandalphon were as clueless as they came when it involved books. “Well, good then that you took the proper measures to make sure it got cleaned,” Gabriel commended, and Aziraphale wondered if his praise would actually mean something if it wasn’t for something as absurd as this. 

If it wasn’t for a lie.

The kettle whistled, so Aziraphale rushed to get it off the heat and finish supplying the beverages. “Still no milk or sugar in your tea, Sandalphon?”

“That’s right. No additives.” Sandalphon sat at the dining room table across from Gabriel, his laptop and some printouts finding a home in front of him. It was only after his laptop booted up that he surveyed the actual work space they had available to them. “That’s odd…”

“What is?” Aziraphale prided himself on keeping his tone even.

“It’s…” His eyes narrowed as Aziraphale set his tea down in front of him. “Tidy.”

“Ah… thank you?”

“You don’t tidy.”

It was true, but that didn’t mean he should say it. Certainly not with a sneer that showed off the sharp gold fillings in his teeth. “I beg your pardon. Everyone tidies at some point,” Aziraphale huffed. “Now, I thought we were here to discuss numbers, not how I keep my house.” Because he suddenly wasn’t sure if there was anything of Crowley’s that just happened to be out, lying around, that would create more suspicion.

While he didn’t exactly mind if people around town saw Crowley coming to and from his house so frequently, it was another thing when it was Gabriel and Sandalphon who knew his employee was living with him. They’d have something to say about that and with Crowley’s history that they were trying to keep underwraps. The less attention drawn to him the better. It wasn’t as if anything untoward was happening anyway. They were companions. Housemates. Friends. Who held hands once at the cinema. And one kissed the other’s hand whenever they parted. Who both maybe wanted a different kind of kiss…

It was too complicated to begin to explain to either of them. An arrangement that didn’t need to be advertised. Whatever bridges they came across in the process would be crossed as needed.

“Yes. Speaking of, there’s a trend Sandalphon here brought to my attention that we thought we should discuss with you.” Gabriel steepled his fingers and pointed them at their cousin. “I think that’s as good a place to start as any.”

Aziraphale slowly sank into one of the open chairs. Even though his table was round, it somehow felt as though he was positioned right in the middle, smack dab between them. Cornered. He adjusted his bowtie as he focused his attention on Sandalphon, to keep from volleying between the two of them as much as possible.

“Here.” Sandalphon turned his computer enough so that Aziraphale could see a line graph for the past three months. There were several different coloured lines and Aziraphale had to fetch his reading glasses in order to see what each one represented. “Costs have exceeded the usual monthly average. Spending has almost surpassed profits by an unprecedented margin.”

“Ah, yes. I have that noted as well.” Aziraphale opened his binder and flipped to the tab for September. “See, I traced the uptick to payroll for the new hire as well as the shift in suppliers, which I informed you of, Gabriel, when you were here two weeks ago. When I first noticed it.”

“The uptick isn’t because of the change in supplier,” Sandalphon interrupted, pulling up a new data set. “It’s because you’re purchasing items at a higher price point.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Because the new supplier charges more for what I order. How is that not part of the cause?”

“Because they have other options. Cheaper options.” Sandalphon tapped his screen. “Even by conducting a quick search for some of the things you bought I was able to find at least three comparable brands that were nearly half the cost.”

“Yes, but I don’t know those brands. I want to keep buying what I’m used to- what our team is used to. For example I can’t purchase just any cotton gloves, some leave behind white fibres on our projects. I’m not going to sacrifice quality to save money.”

“Aziraphale, it’s what needs to be done,” Gabriel cut in. “We’ve got to save costs where we can. This isn’t exactly a booming industry.”

“Yes, but with someone on clocks again and expanding into automobiles, we're offered an opportunity to attract more clientele,” Aziraphale defended. “Surely that will have some financial benefit.”

“Some,” Gabriel acquiesced. “But not enough.”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about, we’re not even in the red,” he huffed. Sandalphon’s graph had shown they were still above the breakeven line. They’d still made a profit. Granted it wasn’t a large margin, but it was enough to satisfy Aziraphale, especially considering they had a new full-time, salaried employee on their docket.

“We will be if you keep this up.” Sandalphon clicked on a new chart, this one showcasing more of a steady decline. “This is a forecast for the rest of the year. Profits always take a dip around December, so I don’t see that as a month where we can recover unless you stay open the week of Christmas.”

Giving everyone the week of Christmas off had been a tradition his grandmother had started, one Aziraphale was more than happy to continue. “Out of the question. Everyone looks forward to the holiday.”

“Fine, then don’t pay the staff for time not worked,” Sandalphon suggested.

“I couldn’t!” Aziraphale gasped. “I can’t not pay my team at Christmas.”

“Then force them to use their vacation time or don’t give them a bloody holiday bonus this year.”

“That’s absolutely barbaric, I’ll do no such thing!”

“Gentlemen, let’s calm down a moment,” Gabriel interjected, cutting through the rising tension as Aziraphale and Sandalphon glowered at one another. “Aziraphale, think about this rationally-”

“I am! I have a good team of people working for me who do extraordinary work. How could I possibly expect to keep them on by not showing my appreciation for their hard work and dedication? They deserve a bonus at the end of the year and they deserve to use their vacation time whenever they wish and not have it forced upon them.”

“No one’s saying they don’t deserve to have their hard work recognized. That’s not what we’re saying, right Sandalphon?” Gabriel smiled and motioned for Sandalphon to agree, though the man’s answering smile appeared more like a grimace, or like he had a twinge in his face. “These are just the kinds of decisions someone running a business has to make. It would be great if we could have everything the way we wanted it. Make everything fair. But that’s not how good business is done, Aziraphale, trust me. Now, maybe after we compare your numbers with ours, things will look a little different, but I think the right course of action would be to bite the bullet and maybe not spend so much on supplies. Right? That sounds like the lesser of two evils to me.”

He was just trying to help, Aziraphale told himself as some of his indignation ebbed. It calmed him down some, but there was still a shaky feeling in his gut that made him on edge. Defensive. Even if Gabriel was telling them both to take it easy, it felt like he was on Sandalphon’s side. Two against one.

Don't let them make you think you don't know what you're doing. Aziraphale sat up straight and tugged on his waistcoat. “It does,” he allowed, handling his words the same way he would a book on the cusp of crumbling to pieces in his hands, “but I also think it’s worth considering renewing our contract with Mr. Mackinnon. You see, I’ve spoken with him, and he’s willing to give us our old rate and not count this gap against our customer loyalty if we sign with him by the end of the year. Now, I think this is worth considering-”

“Aziraphale, we would have the same problem ordering through him, we’ve told you this,” Gabriel sighed. “Listen, it doesn’t have to be all at once, but you need to start gradually introducing these more cost-effective supplies into your inventory.”

“So we can save money?”

“So we can save money and look more attractive to potential buyers,” Sandalphon corrected.

Aziraphale stared at him like he wasn’t comprehending what he was saying. Because he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

Gabriel rubbed the space between his eyes. “Look, Aziraphale, we weren't sure this was the meeting to bring this up at, but Sandalphon, Uriel, and I have been discussing this and we think it’s time we start planning for the future.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you’re not getting any younger, right? None of us are. We need to start planning for your eventual retirement now so we can line up some interested parties who’ll buy the business when the time comes,” Gabriel explained in that slow, ‘you-can’t-be-this-stupid’ way of his.

He’d only just turned fifty. “You want to sell?”

“It’s the only logical conclusion. Obviously we want to sell to the best of the best, someone reputable who’ll continue our good work in our grandmother’s name, but in order to do that, we need to seem like an attractive investment. If our profit margin was just a bit bigger…”

“I don’t want to sell!” Aziraphale blurted out.

“Aziraphale, you’re not going to be around forever. You’ll have to hand the shop over to someone eventually, and the sooner we plan for it, the better shape we’ll be in,” Gabriel rationalized.

“But what about keeping it in the family?” Aziraphale looked between them both desperately. “Surely that’s what our grandmother would’ve wanted or she wouldn’t have left it to me.”

“There’s no one to leave it to, unless you have a kid you never bothered to tell us about, which let's be honest, is extraordinarily unlikely,” Gabriel chuckled. “Look, Sandalphon and I plan on retiring early, so we won’t want it. Besides, you’re only older than us by… what five years?”

“Two,” Sandalphon corrected when Aziraphale jerked back in offense.

“Right, so that really only leaves Uriel and God knows she doesn’t want this place.”

Aziraphale sat stiff in his chair as he processed. Yes, of course he knew he wouldn’t run the shop forever, but he hadn’t quite thought so far ahead yet. No, he didn’t have children, nor did he ever plan to, and while Gabriel did, they were rather estranged and he’d never presume to be the one to suggest such an option to his cousin. Not without Gabriel coming to him first. Michael and Sandalphon also didn’t have children, and while Uriel didn’t either, she and her partner were just settling down, so it wasn’t out of the question for her just yet. But even knowing all of that, selling still wasn’t the first option that came to mind.

They did have other family with close ties to the shop.

“What about Anathema?” he asked.

Gabriel and Sandalphon’s shared smirks faded. “The pottery girl?”

“Our cousin.”

It was Gabriel’s turn to appear puzzled and this time Sandalphon looked equally stumped. Aziraphale sighed and tried again. “Agnes’s-”

“Agnes’s granddaughter! That’s right!” Gabriel snapped his fingers with a triumphant grin.

“Great-granddaughter,” Aziraphale corrected.

Gabriel ignored him. “What about her?”

“Well, she might have a say in whether or not we sell. Perhaps she’ll have an interest in taking it over once I… er… am ready to retire, I suppose.” Oh, but he couldn’t imagine not being involved somehow. And of course he’d continue to restore books for as long as he could, he loved it. “It couldn’t hurt to ask her, at any rate.”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Gabriel chuckled, but it faded and tension pulled his smile taut when Aziraphale didn’t laugh with him. “You can’t leave her the shop.”

“Why not? She’s family.”

“Not the right kind,” Sandalphon sneered. “Agnes’s side has always been a bit… off.”

“That’s right. I mean, you know that, Aziraphale.”

“Aunt Agnes took care of me,” he protested. “Out of the goodness of her heart.”

“That’s a funny way to phrase ‘pity,’” Sandalphon muttered. “You have to admit it was a pretty pitiful situation.”

Aziraphale wanted them to leave. It hadn’t even been an hour and he was already at his limit. His fingernails dug into his skin as he clutched his hands together, the pain sharp enough to distract him from the urge to get up and walk out of the room.

“Now, Sandalphon, there’s no need to bring any of that up. But you do have a point. Besides, I doubt a young, ambitious woman like her would want to stick around Tadfield and wait to inherit an antique repair shop.”

She was trying to buy a cottage. She was interested in staying. If they’d only taken the time to get to know her, they’d see that. They’d see how much she already loved the shop and the people of Tadfield. Aziraphale didn’t know for certain if it was something she was interested in, but she deserved to at least be considered. To be asked about what she wanted when it came to the shop. Her great-grandmother had been just as a part of it as his own grandmother.

“Well, let’s just table that plan for now. It’s not as if things are afoot just yet,” Gabriel continued, skimming something on his tablet as a way to change the subject. “Just try and lower the supply expenses, Aziraphale, that’s really what it comes down to. Now, let’s start with July. Good numbers here. Sandalphon, what do you have for profits in that month? We’ll see if Aziraphale’s books match it.”

Their voices droned on, shooting off percentages and averages and back to business as usual. Aziraphale went through the motions, well-rehearsed when it came to comparing his binder with Sandalphon’s graphs, but otherwise whatever they were saying was no better than the sound of rain on a rooftop. As soon as they left, he’d be ready to sleep for a week.

----

It was a quarter to four by the time the Ghost pulled off of his property, its occupants hoping they’d beat a bit of the traffic. The rain fell harder now, a proper deluge, so Aziraphale brought over Crowley’s blazer when he finally returned to the barn. His head and binder were so full of numbers, he didn’t know how he’d have room for anything else. It had taken everything he had to endure the meeting and he doubted he had much more to give to the rest of the day.

Even so, he wanted to check in on everyone, at the very least. He’d put his binder away, say hello, then perhaps leave the keys with Madame Tracy or Anathema to lock up in his stead. It didn’t happen often, but there were times where it was impossible for him to stay until closing - whether it be an appointment or illness - in which case, one of them would place the keys under the doormat for him to collect later. It would be easier to leave it with Crowley, but he didn’t know if that would look strange to the rest of the team. It wasn’t as if they knew they were living together.

Though, he supposed the blazer was a bit of a giveaway. He kept it close to his side, then discreetly hung it up alongside his own coat. Most everyone’s attention was elsewhere, at least. Shadwell was shouting about Newt being able to make his own tea while Madame Tracy put together several cups in the kitchenette, so the three of them were otherwise occupied. Deirdre had the day off, so it left only Anathema and Crowley, who were quite possibly the most observant of the group. Of course.

He didn’t have a story. He didn’t have an excuse. Aziraphale took his binder to his desk and quietly put it away.

Anathema shot Crowley a curious look and he only shrugged. Behind his shades was a flash of guilt, the leaving of his blazer a complete accident. He was under no impression that his presence in the house would be anything but a secret from the rest of Aziraphale's judgmental family and he was a wretched liar on a good day. This had not been a good day. 

She made her way over before Crowley could, but he kept his attention on them more than the ugly clock on his table. “That bad?” Anathema wondered quietly, arms folded. She didn't think she needed to tell him how his aura was. She barely wanted to look at it. 

“It was a long meeting,” he sighed. “A lot of… different opinions.” It was the most diplomatic way he could think to phrase it. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear girl, but I’m afraid I need some time to… cope with all of this. I don’t believe I’ll make a very good conversationalist at present.”

“Okay. Current tea argument notwithstanding, it's been pretty easy here today. I can lock up after everyone heads home if you want?” 

He looked at her, eyes bright as some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Without being prompted, she’d known what he’d ask next. How the shop was doing, did anyone need anything, had anything come up? He offered her a smile, then reached into his pocket for the shop’s keys.

“If you don’t mind, I think I might take you up on that. Are you certain that’s alright with you?”

“Yeah. I'll just leave it in the normal place.” She returned the smile, taking the keys when offered. “There've been a few calls today, so I answered and just took messages. There wasn't anything that's pressing, though.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear girl. I’ll call them back first thing tomorrow. If anything does come up, feel free to telephone me at the house. Or send Crowley over.” He didn’t even think about how it might be odd that he’d single Crowley out for such a task until he’d already said it. “If it’s still raining, that is. If it’s not, you can come over, of course. Or Madame Tracy or Newton. Or Crowley can come if it’s dry, too, that’s fine. I just know he has an umbrella. I saw it this morning, when he came in. Yes. Well, I’ll just be off now. You obviously have everything well in hand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed easily, used to his rambling and letting it go. “See you then.”

“Pip pip.”

Crowley, while also used to his rambling, was as pleased by this bout as he was the glance Aziraphale sent his way as he left again. It was nice to be singled out, to be the one Aziraphale wanted to see when he was dealing with upset in his repressed way. It had also been nice to see the small lift in him when the topic stayed on the shop and didn't linger on the meeting he'd just been freed from. 

Though she could unsettle him with the way she seemed to see right through his sunglasses, he did like Anathema more and more. Even when she didn't go straight back to her station, gaze lingering on him. “So... Your jacket?” 

“Blazer,” he corrected. It didn't matter. 

“Whatever.” When he just smiled at her, she rolled her eyes. “You're not going to say.”

“Nope.”

They both glanced towards the kitchenette, aware of Madame Tracy's sharp hearing. But she was busy fixing Shadwell's version of tea with him blustering in her ear, so it was safe. “If you hurt him, I will curse you.” Rules or no rules. If she did it outside, that technically wasn't in the shop so didn't count. 

His smile didn't fade. He definitely liked her. It was difficult not to like someone so firmly and readily on Aziraphale's side. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Though hurting Aziraphale was the furthest thing on it. He'd likely gotten enough of that at that too-long meeting and being trapped in the shop the last two hours of the day because Crowley just couldn't think of a reasonable excuse to head to the house was driving him as mad as the stupid French clock. While normally the last to filter out for the day, he was on his feet the second that irritating clock hit six. Anathema could lock up and put the key in the usual place, wherever that may be, and that was just fine with him. One less thing to think about when his worry had spent most of the day mounting. He didn’t know if seeing Aziraphale had made it better or worse, but it certainly hadn't made it fade. He'd just seemed so... tired. 

Crowley didn't go inside, though. He'd planned, originally, on taking him somewhere. Getting him out of the house and into the world for a meal, but he didn't want to put the pressure of the outside world on Aziraphale's overburdened shoulders. So plan B. He shrugged on his blazer, grabbed the borrowed umbrella, and went around to the Bentley. It was a small thing, getting takeaway from The Discerning Duck, but it was one less thing Aziraphale would have to think about. If he was even aware of the time. Probably lost in a book and whatever record he'd felt like putting on. Hopefully. If he was reading, he was at least safe in another world. 

Except it was quiet when Crowley walked in, shaking out the umbrella before he dropped it into the stand. “Oh, angel,” he sighed, peeking into the makeshift library first. It was one of the rooms he'd gone through the day before, though he'd left most of the cluttered stacks where they were. He'd really only dusted, choosing to leave the space as Aziraphale liked it. There were new books on the piles now, set aside as if he hadn't been able to choose something. 

No other worlds then. Just the one which made him too sad and too tired. 

Crowley set the takeaway bag on the dining room table on his way to the living room, but could see him in the kitchen, staring blankly at the refrigerator contents. Food had been the right choice, then. He shouldn't have to cook like that. 

The little lift in his mood was gone. He looked drained again, thoughts so far away from the kitchen contents. It made Aziraphale seem untouchable, and that didn’t feel right. He was supposed to be so bright and cheerful, not limp and lost. Crowley didn't know what to say to pull him out of the funk they'd put him in, as lost himself as he'd been when Aziraphale had promised to try. This wasn't the sort of thing Crowley had experience in, comfort missing from his repertoire.

And the words he did have, the questions under the surface, just seemed like too much pressure for him when he was no more solid than a wisp of air. Crowley understood those moods, knew how exhausting hurt could be, knew how easy it was to float away from the here and now. 

Crowley stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing again. Bollocks to words. He crossed to him and closed the refrigerator, then cut off Aziraphale's startled reaction by pulling him into a simple hug. He couldn't remember the last time he'd given or received one, any attempts only giving him something vague and hazy, but this seemed like a good time for it. Something to ground him, maybe, bring him into now. Or maybe just to be a buoy in the ocean, something to keep his head above water.

Aziraphale went still in his arms, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest against Crowley’s as they breathed. It took a few of them for his shoulders to loosen, then a few more before he leaned into him when he was certain the circle of his arms would hold him up. Keep him from crumbling. His own arms lifted, banding around his waist as he curled his fingers in his jacket.

“Crowley?” he murmured after a beat, hesitant, like drawing any attention to the embrace would shatter the moment.

“Mmhm. I haven't hugged anyone in a good forty years, but you looked like you could handle one.” Though the seconds of stiffness had nearly made him back away and escape, the feel of Aziraphale slowly easing into it, returning it even, made it worthwhile. Made his own hold firm into something just as escapable, but more solid and there. “Jussst let go when you're done, angel.”

He made a small sound like he meant to protest, then fell quiet and let himself stay for a minute. Just a minute. It wouldn’t do to take advantage of Crowley’s kindness, although to go forty years without a single hug when it likely wasn’t by choice…

Aziraphale squeezed him a bit tighter, giving back what he was getting, and rested his chin on Crowley’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the scent of him, a little bit damp from the rain with a trace of the shop’s warm, woodsy aura. He was maybe a little sharp, not much cushion to his angles, but he was firm and steady and his long limbs perfect for wrapping around him, secure in his grasp. Kept in his coils like he was wanted - needed - close.

He wanted to ask, “what if I’m never done? What if I want this forever?” but he didn’t. That was impossible, ridiculous even, so he’d enjoy it while it lasted, this story of theirs. Wherever it led.

When the clock chimed on the hour, Aziraphale sighed and pulled away slowly, the parts of him that had been pressed against Crowley going cold at the separation. “My apologies, my dear. I don’t know what came over me.”

Yes, he did. They both did, though Crowley didn't have the details and wasn't going to press for them. “D'you have to apologize every time I do something for you? Not often I get to be...” Decent. But he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and made a few noises in lieu of any actual words. 

“Oh. Oh, no I wasn’t apologizing for needing the er… the hug. That was quite nice, actually.”

Admitting that had him blushing, but it seemed important to say to keep Crowley from retreating inwards and losing all speech capabilities. Though Crowley could agree it had been nice. All that soft warmth pressed against him, soft curls tickling his cheek when he'd tucked in. Crowley cleared his throat and Aziraphale continued.

“No, what I meant was that I was sorry you had to see me like… that. Before.” He gestured broadly at the space in front of the fridge. “Good Lord, who knows how long I stood there. I had no idea it had gotten so late. Well, I suppose I had some idea, that’s why I was getting ready to start dinner in the first place. I’m afraid I’m feeling rather uninspired at the moment though.”

“Dinner's on the table. We've eaten at the pub enough that I know what you like.”

Aziraphale blinked, then peered around him at the dining room. Sure enough, there was a bag of takeaway waiting for them. He gasped, lighting up with the brightest smile he’d had all day. With an act of kindness and a hug, his heart had been warmed through by Crowley’s efforts to cheer him up, igniting a spark of his vim and vigor that had been drained by his cousins. Aziraphale could hardly give him a reason to doubt himself now. 

“Oh, Crowley, what a wonderful idea!” he gushed. “Positively spiffing. That’s just what today calls for, I think. I’ll get the wine glasses. We can finish off the rest of the chardonnay.” He didn’t quite bustle around the kitchen with the same energy as usual, but the spirit was there. “Can you get the silverware, dear?”

“Yeah. Want a plate instead of the container?” he asked, crossing to the right drawer. This was better. Not perfect, but so much better. He hated how easily and readily Aziraphale's family hurt him. Not when he was so easy to please, so easy to pay attention to and be interested in. 

Aziraphale did want a plate and hummed to himself as he arranged his food to his liking. If he poured with a heavy hand for each of them for a work night, neither of them commented on it. They tucked into their respective dinners, Aziraphale asking what dish Crowley had fancied for himself this time and listening with rapt attention.

Then he told him everything. Even about the book oil, if only to stress how absurd it would be that they’d believe such a thing existed. He told him about Sandalphon’s graphs and Gabriel’s plans to sell and the implication that he was getting too old for this when he’d only turned fifty just the week before. He told him how they dismissed Agnes’s side of the family like they weren’t good enough, including dear Anathema, and that they’d even forgotten she was their cousin.

He’d been just about to move on to telling him about the keto diet when he realized that Crowley hadn’t known Anathema was his cousin. “Oh dear. Must have slipped my mind. Well, I suppose I haven’t exactly advertised it. I wouldn’t want anyone to think she only got the position due to nepotism, you see. That isn’t the case at all. You’ve seen her work, she’s very good.”

And her little threat suddenly made even more sense. That was the sort of family Aziraphale deserved. “I don't think anyone would call it nepotism after watching her work. She's young, but she's smart.”

“Precisely. And she came all the way out here from America to learn more about this side of the family and to figure herself out and they don’t even pay her any mind! I don’t understand why they don’t have any interest in getting to know her or in letting her in. Other than the fact that they didn’t like Agnes, but they barely even knew Agnes! They only know what my uncles have told them, and none of it is in her favour. Of course she and my grandmother didn’t always see eye to eye, but they were sisters. They’d argue and then they’d get over it,” he huffed, working himself back up after that brief interlude. “And yet all of her children, my mother included, have done nothing but judge her for as long as I can remember.”

“You said she could predict the future?” Which really shouldn't have been as readily believable as it was. “Maybe she saw something they didn't like.”

Aziraphale sighed and swirled his wine. “Even if she did, they wouldn’t have had a clue what she was talking about. She was always very cryptic. On purpose, mind you. Otherwise where’s the fun in that? That’s what she’d tell me. I believe they were more upset by the fact that she was a practicing witch and had the habit of criticizing people in a very blunt manner. In case you couldn’t tell, my family doesn’t take too well to being wrong. Because they’re not wrong. Oh no. Not Gabriel or Sandalphon or Uncle Met. They’re always right. It wouldn’t do to ever make a wrong decision now, would it? That’s the only reason I got the shop and the house. Our grandmother left it to me and she couldn’t have been wrong. Though that’s not to say they didn’t try. They didn’t tell me, at first, and they tried to sell it then, too.”

He'd said, Crowley recalled, that the shop had languished when changing hands. When they'd first met, before he'd known how to dig beneath the surface. But trying to sell it out from under him? “How'd you find out?” 

“My cousin Michael. She’s a solicitor and her father, my Uncle Met, was the executor of the will. So they got to see it first, naturally. Now, Michael and I aren’t particularly close, there’s a bit of an age gap, she's eight years older than I am, and we really only ever saw one another at holidays as children, but she knew that legally my uncle didn’t have the power to sell the property or the title to the shop when it was explicitly stated that I would inherit in full unless he went through a whole court proceeding, but then they had to notify all heirs that it was happening, so she told me and, well… obviously I said I wanted it.”

Crowley wondered quietly if it was the first time he'd gone so completely against them. How difficult had it been? “I'm sure that went down like a lead balloon.”

Hurt flashed across his face, open and raw, almost as fresh as the day he’d stood before them all. Young and alone and still grieving the death of his great-aunt not a year earlier. Shocked that out of everyone it had been him that his grandmother had trusted with her creation, even after he’d lied to her about the sword she’d given him. She knew he’d just given it away. How could she possibly trust him with her shop?

“They weren’t pleased,” he murmured. “They tried to talk me out of it. I was young. What did I know about running a business? I didn’t have the proper education. I’d studied books, not business. Just because I could restore and repair books didn’t mean I could restore and repair an entire shop.” Aziraphale swallowed, then met Crowley’s gaze across the table, watched the way he listened to him with his entire body, leaning towards him. “But she left it to me for a reason, and I wasn’t about to let her down. So I asked them if they thought she’d made the wrong decision. They didn’t like that, but they couldn’t argue either. Not without implying that they didn’t like the matriarch’s plan. So they let me have it, but made it quite clear that they wouldn’t bail me out of trouble if I couldn’t keep it afloat.”

“Good for you, angel. Though, even if they've got it in their heads that it's better sold, it seems to me that's just what Gabriel and Sandalphon have been attempting with all this advisory board tripe.” Though it seemed more like bullying than bailing out. He hadn't missed the little crescent-shaped welts in his palm from where he'd squeezed too long, too tight. A physical hurt over an emotional one and something Aziraphale could control. It stirred him up, infuriated him even while it made him ache. “It also seems to me that you don't need it. You work hard, Aziraphale, and you love it so much. You've made it work. Aren't you proud of yourself for it? You should be.”

“Oh, I am. I love the shop and everything I put into it.” Because he did put everything into it. “It took some time. I read up on all the business books I could find, but I wanted to do this right. And it paid off, it started doing so well. We won an award for small, rural businesses even. That wasn't the point of it, of course, but it felt like we were on the right track… That was when the rest of the family noticed.” The sparkle in his eyes faded a bit, uncertainty rising in his throat as he forced the rest out. “Not because it was failing, but because it was doing well. And they were interested in helping and I thought that was exactly what our grandmother would have wanted. Because we're family. That's… That means something. I couldn't just turn them away.”

He still couldn't. Though it wasn't right that they clearly weren't as proud of him as they should've been, Aziraphale still wanted something with them. Family didn't always mean something, but it wasn't Crowley's place to put anything in the way. They stressed him out enough without extra tugging in a different direction. “That's your choice, angel. If I promise not to be petty about it, can I give you my advice on the whole supplier issue they seem so hung up on?” 

“You not be petty? Welcome to the end times.” Aziraphale's lips quirked up, a hint of his light back as he teased him. “What are your thoughts, my dear?” 

“The first one that comes to mind now is that you're a bit of a bastard, but I like that about you.” Crowley tipped his glass towards him in a mock toast. “But saying this as someone who did briefly own a business of his own and your friend, this is not a good time for you to make those sorts of decisions or base profit margins around them. Coming into the school year and the onset of holidays, peoples' wallets tighten. And you do have a new employee who needs new tools and supplies, though I'm happy to keep using your grandmother's things as long as you trust me to.

“Don't risk losing your supplier, particularly not if a loyalty discount comes into it. If you want a compromise, do it. You won't know and they won't know unless it's done. Order half your things - the things you can't compromise on - from your man, and order the other things from this place they're so insistent on. If nothing else, they can serve as emergency supplies. Or just order a smaller quantity of things as tests. Either way, they'll probably see the numbers they want and leave it. Twist it, even, so it was their idea all along.”

He shrugged. “There are things that can be done, things Humpty Dumpty and the scarf don't and won't see because they're not here in the day to day. This doesn't have to be a one way or another decision. There are always shades of grey.”

It was good advice. Aziraphale could see the logic in it, and it really was tempting to just reinstate their supplier contract. He could do it on his own. Set up a compromise, like Crowley suggested. It didn't have to be all or nothing.

Except with them it was. There wasn't room for shades of grey in his family. There was right and there was wrong.

“Thank you, Crowley. It's a sound strategy,” he replied, fighting the tremor in his voice. “I'll certainly consider it.” 

Crowley took his hand, thumb rubbing against the thin marks his nails had bitten into skin. “I know you’re worried they’ll leave you again,” he murmured, knowing this was pushing but not wanting to see Aziraphale lose again. “But this is your place. Your grandmother gave it to you and no one else. You with your English degree and your ridiculously big heart. She didn’t trust the rest of your cousins or her own children with her creation; she trusted you. She left it to you because you can and have taken care of it, all on your own. You’ll do right by her legacy and if Anathema does want it in another fifty years when you’re ready to give her some of the management responsibility, you’ll do right by her too. Whatever choice you end up making.”

“Crowley…” His hand was trembling, palm opening beneath his touch only to clasp Crowley's in his gentle grasp.

Aziraphale didn't know what to do with this faith. Faith in him, belief in him. It almost felt sacrilegious, how Crowley looked at him. His heart leapt, as bruised as it was from the battering it endured all day. But Crowley's words were like a balm as they wrapped around him, an embrace of sorts in its own way.

For half of his life, he'd been trying to do right by his grandmother's wishes. He'd tried to do right by his family, so they could be a part of this, so he could be good for them somehow. He tried to do right by his team, his employees. 

He wanted to do right by Crowley. He wanted to earn that faith properly. He wanted to earn his love.

Maybe he was too tired to second guess it, winded by the emotional maelstrom that rattled him to his core. Maybe he felt emboldened by Crowley's assurances and the hug from earlier, with nothing to hold him back. Maybe it was because Crowley hadn't been held in forty years and Aziraphale could not stand for such a thing.

The reason didn't really matter. What mattered was he lifted Crowley's hand, without being prompted, and brought it to his lips. He kissed the back, a light and lingering thing, then lowered it back to the table, still holding on.

“Ngk,” Crowley managed, the sound chased on the heels by half a dozen others as he struggled to find his bearings and muster up a proper response. It was one thing when he kissed Aziraphale's hand. He liked the reaction, liked that it had become something of a thing between them. Almost expected, but safely unspoken. Having it flipped was entirely unexpected, it and the butterflies it set a flutter in his stomach brand new and bizarre and awful and wonderful. There was no finding a proper response. 

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, Crowley's reaction giving him butterflies of his own. “I know exactly what you mean, my dear.”

“Ssshut up,” he protested, cheeks a humiliating shade of pink. 

“How very dare you.” Aziraphale stroked his thumb over the back of his hand, entirely too fond as he reached for the wine bottle and topped Crowley off. “Obviously you need a bit more wine.”

Butterflies and laughter and faith weren't at all what he expected he'd end the day with when he woke up that morning. The hard knot of anxiety that sat heavy in his stomach hadn't completely dissipated, no, but it was certainly more manageable. Perhaps it wasn't so bad, letting Crowley in a little more.

Perhaps it would get easier.

Chapter Text

“My dear, I’m afraid I cannot put this off any longer. Try as I might, I’ve realized that there is no use in fighting the inevitable. The current of time is strong and though I am not ready to be swept up along its treacherous course, I can no longer resist its pull. In the end, I can only hope this will be for the greater good. That we will be better off after this difficult, terrifying decision. Yes, terrifying. I must admit the thought frightens me. Which is why I’m looking to you now. You can say no, of course. It is your choice and I would never begrudge you what is right by you. But I think together, perhaps, we’ll have a chance… So I stand here before you with this one request…”

Aziraphale clasped his hands together, holding them up as if in prayer, his blue eyes wide and beseeching. “Dear Anathema, will you help me make a social media account for the shop?”

Crowley arched a brow. “How long'd you practice that?” 

“Well, an hour to write the script, then two hours in front of the mirror memorizing it.” Aziraphale straightened up, adjusting his bowtie.

“Right. Well, she'll probably say yes but I'd preface it with the fact that you're not going to fire her. Because, frankly, that's the path it starts down.”

“That’s ridiculous, Crowley! It doesn’t imply anything of the sort!” Aziraphale frowned. “I only wanted to stress the enormity of the situation. It’s a rather large undertaking, you know. Giving the shop an… online presence.”

After years of wrestling with the idea and flat out refusing to fully engage with the online marketing world, Aziraphale had come to the decision the night before that he couldn’t put it off any longer. Divine Restorations & Repairs needed an - “Instant gram. You know, what is the ‘gram’ part of the application, Crowley? Is it like a telegram? Gramophone? No, that’s absurd, it’s only pictures.” - well, it needed some serious help integrating with the modern world. And what better time to start to try and expand their clientele to garner more profits to show Gabriel and Sandalphon that there were other ways to increase profit margins than to make unnecessary cuts to things?

And well, they’d been the ones to suggest such a thing in the past, so surely they’d approve of such measures being taken now. It wasn’t as thought he was purposefully undermining them, no. He’d taken their proposals under consideration and was now implementing them. Five years later.

The only problem was that he didn’t even know where to start. Nor could he imagine managing various social media platforms or whatever that entailed on top of restoring books and all the other managerial duties that came along with owning one’s own store. It would be a disaster if he was in charge of it. But, he thought, it could be an excellent opportunity to allow Anathema to explore more of the “behind-the-scenes” work. Give her more stake in the shop. She had impeccable vision - seeing auras and ley lines notwithstanding - and a very creative mind with all the… theories on Atlantis and Tibet. She also was fairly savvy with the Macintosh computers seeing as her family had sizable investments in the company, which meant she was already far more qualified than himself. 

And perhaps if she was designated as their marketing and PR person, then perhaps Gabriel and the others would take more notice of her, or at least be interested in getting to know her.

It was certainly worth a shot. He’d played out how he wanted to approach her over and over and over in his head until his agitation threatened to drive Crowley spare. Thus he volunteered to help him practice. 

The boom of social media had happened out of Crowley's scope, so helping him prepare was the best he could do. He'd had two MySpace pages, one for himself and one blank one he'd been considering turning into a page for his business before everything had gone pear-shaped. It was annoying, frankly, to be so out of his depth. He'd always liked to keep up with technology. The first with a cassette player, a CD player, an mp3 player, an iPod. He'd used Napster to download his songs and he remembered Limewire had been the thing once. His desktop computer had been just another thing sold by his solicitor, but he'd had one and he'd enjoyed poking around on it. 

He had no idea what the Internet had to offer now, computer access severely restricted for him in prison. He felt a touch overwhelmed each time he started to explore things on his phone now and detested the feeling. He'd much rather understand what he was doing than be as out of date as Aziraphale.

“I think it’s an undertaking she can handle.”

“Well, yes, of course she can handle it. It doesn’t mean she wants to though.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, truly concerned that she wouldn’t. “Of course I wouldn’t expect her to do it for free, I’d give her a raise to reflect the new responsibility, but she might not have an interest in it.”

It gave her a role in the family business besides a simple worker. Crowley didn't doubt that she'd want to try. “The raise bit wasn't part of your speech.” The look that garnered made him grin. “It's a good speech, angel.” Over the top and ridiculous and very appropriate considering who was doing the asking. “I think she'll know how important this is to you and be willing to give it a go.”

“You do? Oh, I do hope so as well. I think she'd be quite good at it, so long as she doesn't allow Newton to assist beyond staging the pictures…” Aziraphale hummed, fiddling with his waistcoat next. “Alright. I'll ask her today. Hopefully.”

He didn't get around to it until just after lunch, finally working up the nerve when she and Newt were the first ones to return. She wasn’t surprised when he asked to speak with her, she’d seen his aura twitching all morning, but the nervous energy was hardly the anxious wave that Gabriel’s visits caused. There wasn’t negativity surrounding him, just constant hesitation. It vanished when he did speak with her, his resolve certain as he gave her the same speech he’d practiced on Crowley at breakfast.

Of course, it was long enough that Madame Tracy, Shadwell, and Deirdre had all returned by the time he’d finished. “Oh, Mr. Aziraphale, I thought you were firing the poor thing!” Tracy chided before Anathema even answered him.

“Why would you-?” Aziraphale floundered, blushing as Crowley cackled with delight from his station. “That’s not how I would fire someone. I’m shocked that you would even imply such a thing!”

While Anathema hadn't expected to be fired, no matter how... wordy, the actual question was probably more shocking. “You want this place on social media? You?” 

Her disbelief was understandable. Aziraphale cleared his throat, wringing his hands together. “Well, I’ve been aware that the internet has played a key role in sustaining small businesses for quite some time now, but I knew I couldn’t take such a step to manage something like that on my own. It wouldn’t be nearly as effective. But in the hands of someone I trust, who is more familiar with how all the applications function, well, I feel as though that will benefit us in the long-run. Especially during our historically slower seasons.”

Which they were coming into. Anathema knew that. While the majority of work they did in December was for people surprising a loved one with a fixed up antique or heirloom, the week they took off meant fewer consultations and fewer accepted jobs simply because there wasn’t enough time. If word could get out that now was the best time to be thinking of those holiday surprises...

“Would I be allowed to update the website too?”

“Of course, my dear. I’d leave the creativity and vision to you on any online enterprise that you see fit to arrange or rearrange. I’d only like to see it before it goes out to the public, just to make certain everything looks tip-top.” He looked at her expectantly. “Does this mean you’re interested?”

“Well-” Her first inclination, still and probably always, was to check Agnes’s book of prophecies when handed an opportunity. But she hadn’t been quite as obsessed with it as of late, one of the reasons why very close by. She knew if she looked Newt’s way, he’d be smiling - dopey and supportive. Knowing it was as good as seeing it, so she smoothed her skirt the way Aziraphale might tug at his waistcoat and nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I would definitely be up to that.”

“Oh! Oh, wonderful! I have the utmost confidence in you.” He took one of her hands in both of his and gave the back of it a pat. “If you’d like to try it out first, see how things go before I make the adjustments to your position here, that’s quite alright. And if you decide you don’t like it, well, that’s fine, too! Whatever you decide, my dear girl. We can take it as it comes.”

“Wait, what adjustments?”

“Well… surely your job history should reflect all experience you’ve had in various departments…” He was back to looking a bit nervous. “Right? And all aspects of your hard work should be recognized and documented, and of course properly compensated for as you’d be doing more than your usual restoration work. Er… we can discuss the details more in private, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, probably.” But she had to know, “Is this a promotion?”

Aziraphale blinked twice. “Er. Yes, I believe it is.”

She pulled her hand out of his grip just to throw her arms around his neck in a fierce, excited hug. A promotion in the family business. Of course she wanted it. Never mind that social media websites were very clearly tools of corporations being used to herd humanity into neat little corrals to be force fed advertisements and capitalism, ugh. Of course she’d do it. “Okay. I’ll do my best, I swear.”

“Thank you, my dear. That’s all I ask.” Aziraphale hadn’t expected the hug, but he was in no way opposed to it and returned it with an encouraging pat.

He didn’t really know what to expect, didn’t have any sort of sense for what kind of online presence they should have outside of their bright and busy WordPress-based website. Aziraphale had purchased a domain of course, per Madame Tracy’s advice, but that had been a decade ago and little about the website had changed since. It was really more of an avenue to show that they were, in fact, a business and displayed their contact information, which was actually more of a memo.

If you would like to inquire about our services for your antiques and heirlooms, we strongly recommend you call the telephone number listed above. The email address does work as well, but it is checked only on Tuesdays through Thursdays, though we do make exceptions for some Fridays if it isn’t too busy. If you do email on Thursday after two o’clock, however, it is very likely you won’t hear from us until the following Tuesday after lunch. If you don’t mind the wait, then feel free to use the email, though we do advise against it.

Have a good day.

There was also a smiley face, so customers would know they were a friendly business.^[3] As well-read as Aziraphale was, even he knew sometimes tone and meaning could be lost or misconstrued when written instead of spoken. With the advancements made in the past decade, however, Aziraphale could agree that most people were familiar with reading things on the internet in 2020, and was open to changing it.

Which was good, as Anathema tackled it first. She wasn't going to start an Instagram and a Twitter - she put her foot down about actual Facebook when Newt had innocently suggested it - without having a decent website to link to. Even though she knew virtually nothing about coding beyond Tumblr themes before they'd sold out. Thankfully Newt had books for her to study and she did know how to navigate the internet well enough to get answers to questions until she had something. 

She didn't get rid of Aziraphale's ridiculous disclaimer, but she moved it and reformatted it. After sending a screenshot of the original to Crowley since he'd been absolutely tickled by the whole thing, of course. Not in a malicious way, either, but in a fondly charmed way that softened her to whatever was happening between him and her cousin considerably. That whatever being painfully obvious to even part-time Deirdre between their not-so-casual glances, noticeable even with Crowley nearly always wearing his sunglasses, and their lingering at the other's station. And, most obvious, the Bentley that virtually never left. If it kept up, even Shadwell would realize something was between them. 

It was just nice to see her cousin happy with someone. Not that he hadn't been cheerful and bright before, but there was something fuller when they were together. Even if those whispered conversations sometimes ended with Aziraphale shooing Crowley away with all the indignation he could muster. If he was actually angry, she certainly never saw it. 

So it was sweet and soft and she let it dictate the direction she took once the website was finished - that design leaning on their setting, pictures taken of the barn and the land it sat on, then doctored in Gimp because Adobe wasn't getting a cent of her money and Aziraphale didn't know, understand, or particularly care what she used. His approval bolstered her confidence in the direction she wanted to take their socials, the warmer sepia tones right up his alley and appealing to her own classic aesthetic. 

Crowley's phone was commandeered more than once, the model newer than her own and the camera better, and he didn't seem to mind so long as he could peek over her shoulder and watch her use layers and filters to doctor photographs. He seemed fascinated by it all as if it was as new to him as the phone, though it could've been. It made her wonder if he just didn't have anyone to show him technology's rapid evolution, or if he had anyone. There was rarely a mention of his life before he'd broken down in Tadfield, and never any names in those mentions. His references to things weren't nearly as out of date as Aziraphale's, but there still seemed to be a disconnect. Newt jokingly suggested a Rip Van Winkle situation on their drive to the cottage one night, but she wasn't so sure it was wrong. She only knew that his shades of grey weren't so prominent as October clicked by. Still there, probably always there, but not as heavy and overbearing. 

Everything seemed just fine as October went, actually, their subscriber count steadily climbing. Maybe it was more for the aesthetic than for the actual work they did, despite her before and after shots usually being met with flattering “these must be fake” comments, but there was definitely a boost in their little business. And an unfortunate boost in emails, which was what Anathema attributed the little flutters of growing anxiety around Aziraphale. 

She stepped into the kitchenette behind him and watched him bobble his cocoa canister when she asked, “Do you want me to take the email off Insta and just leave the phone number? It just seems a little difficult when you don't have an answering machine set up.”

Hand pressed over his heart, he gave her a look for the briefest of seconds before it faded, eyebrows drawn together and lips pursed while he contemplated. “No, I would leave it for now,” he sighed. “I suppose it cannot be avoided any longer. Either I invest in a new computer or an Ansaphone…”

“Is your new chauffeur not getting you to the library often enough?” she teased lightly. 

“Oh no, he’s not-!” Aziraphale fumbled with the cocoa tin again, spilling some of the powder on the counter. “Oh, you’re- you’re teasing, yes. Well, it’s- I don’t want to take advantage. Just because Crowley has a car and doesn’t mind driving and is available to drive much of the time doesn’t mean I can ask him to take me to the library whenever I want.” Nevermind that they’d been two more times since the first, a total of three visits in six weeks. “Plus with the amount of emails coming in, it would make sense to have something here that I could check during business hours.” He pointedly ignored the old machine under the sheet by his desk.

“At least it means putting the business out there is working. There's a market for what we do.” Anathema dampened a rag for him to wipe up, not quite looking at him. “You don't regret it already, do you?” 

“Hm? Oh no, not at all! My dear, this is exactly what I hoped for. You've captured the artistry of what we do here and made our website make much more sense. I think if there's anything I regret, it's that I didn't quite plan ahead for the increase in email correspondence, which is entirely on me.” With the mess cleaned up, he resumed stirring his cocoa, focusing on it harder than he really needed to. “I'll sort something out though. I'm certain it will turn out perfectly tickety-boo,” he continued. 

“Okay. I just want to make sure...” She leaned against the counter, cupping her elbows. “This is the first big decision I've ever made without Grandma Agnes's book. I want to look at it every day because there has to be something about all this. Some kind of advice on how to keep from overwhelming you or everyone else or- or me. My whole life, mom's told me she left us with a guide to be happy. We just have to be clever enough to crack her codes and actually follow her advice. Be... Be professional descendants.” And then Newt had come along and pushed so much of that training aside. 

“Then you've been so happy since Crowley got here except the last few days, you've been getting... anxious. I don't want to mess things up for you. Should I look?” As much as she adored Newt and his advice, he hadn't known Agnes. 

“Oh, Anathema…” Aziraphale set his mug down, giving her his full attention now, no other worries or distractions running through his head. “Agnes, she wanted… Well, as much as I understood, she simply wanted to be there for her family, in whatever way she could. It was more difficult back when your grandmother Virtue first moved to America, long distance phone calls were expensive and the time difference- well, that hasn't changed, but it made it difficult to stay in contact on a regular basis. And once she took me in… She couldn't visit as often as she probably would've liked to. 

“The book was a gift. A way for your family to have a little bit of her with you. So she could drive you all spare with her cryptic messages, just as she did when her daughter was a young girl and with me. Of course she wanted to help you and your family, to share her gift in a way that could benefit and take care of you all when she couldn't, but I'm certain she wouldn't have wanted you to feel like being her descendant was a job. And she certainly wouldn't have wanted you to tell me anything. 'That would be too easy.' That's what she would say to that.” He managed a smile for her, reaching out to rest his hands against her shoulders and give an encouraging squeeze. “Don't you go fretting about me, I'm quite alright. A little confused, perhaps, but that's nothing new. However, if you're feeling overwhelmed, we can put all of this on hold. I don't wish to put too much pressure on you.”

“You're not. I know messing this up somehow isn't the end of the world or anything. I just want to do the right thing. Not just for Grandma Agnes or Aunt Frances, but for you and me too.”

“Are you enjoying it? Being more involved in the business aspect of the family business? And taking the pictures?” he asked. 

That was easy to answer, her own smile returning. “Yes. It's interesting, and you do... a lot, to put it mildly. I'd rather help you than put more on your plate.”

Aziraphale softened, his heart clenching at the honesty he could hear in her words. “Then that makes it a right enough decision for me, I should think.” 

“Okay. If you're really sure.” 

“I’ve never been more certain,” he assured her, and he honestly was.

The concerns that had been steadily mounting in the first two weeks of October had very little - if anything - to do with the improved traffic to their shop’s website. The only thing that did worry him was that Gabriel would continue to be unimpressed and all of Anathema’s hard work would go unrecognized by them. Which he couldn’t see how that was possible when they already had some appointments booked a month out already. He was being careful not to overbook any of his team, checking in with them one on one to discuss workloads and see that they didn’t feel any added stress. Quite the contrary, it was a relief to know that they’d have a fairly comfortable cushion of work taking them through November and December.

So, it wasn’t really anything involving the shop that kept him up at night.

Not unless Crowley counted. Though it was less Crowley himself and more thoughts of Crowley and wondering what was happening in regards to their budding… whatever they wished to call it. It was quite the ineffable arrangement they’d found themselves in. Not quite romantic, an attraction enhanced by friendship, but still incapable of being put into words.

Aziraphale had never had a relationship quite like it. Granted he’d really only had three that had gone beyond a second date. He had standards, after all.

 But they hadn’t been anything like Crowley. He’d never actually lived with any of them. The longest time spent with any one of them had been two weeks and he’d been in need of a break, time alone with his books and his music and his things that made him feel like himself. When he and Crowley passed the two week mark of cohabitation, a break was the farthest thing from his mind.

Crowley gave him the space to simply be. Sometimes they would watch a film together, having discovered the library had a collection for them to borrow, but it was always something the two of them agreed on. Sometimes they would play a game of chess, but Aziraphale liked chess, even when he’d lose multiple times in a row. It didn’t occur to him Crowley might’ve been cheating, nor did he notice the desperately fond curve of his lips as he watched and waited for him to make his next move, triple-guessing them all. Sometimes they’d go for a walk, if it was light enough and not too cold.

But after, Aziraphale would settle in with a cup of cocoa and a book while Crowley basked in front of the fire to warm up. They’d have a glass or two of wine when they watched the film. While they played chess, Aziraphale’s records would fill the sitting room with Mozart or Vivaldi or Schubert or Loreena McKennitt. “What the bloody hell is this, angel?” Crowley had asked about the last one while squinting at her record.

Aziraphale had responded, “I think she sounds nice.” They might’ve been in one too many glasses of wine; otherwise, Aziraphale would’ve had a better argument, like how she put poems to music and painted pictures of Celtic folklore in song.

In the end, the point was this: Aziraphale never once felt like anything other than himself while he was with Crowley. Perhaps it was because they weren’t dating that there were no pretenses to uphold. He wasn’t sure. And as the days passed, he was starting to worry that he’d never be sure.

They were settling into a state of complacency, comfortable in the presence of one another save for ill-timed bumps in the hall post-shower that left him blushing and aching for the feeling of his skin against his own. Aziraphale was glad for the comfort, how settled Crowley was becoming with his plants and with the tidying that kept the clutter from being too overwhelming. He wanted Crowley to feel safe. Protected. Like he belonged somewhere.

But they hadn’t talked about holding hands yet. They didn’t embrace one another again, though Aziraphale could feel the ghost of arms around his waist as he washed dishes, his back to Crowley while the anticipation that he’d slither up behind him quivered against his ribs. There were no more kisses to the backs of hands because they no longer parted in the evenings. “Goodnight, angel,” and a stroll across the hall wasn’t the same as a walk into town.

And when the door shut behind him, the contentment was snuffed out with the fire and Aziraphale scolded himself for daring to want anything more. He’d told himself time and time again that it was ridiculous. It couldn’t happen- wouldn’t happen. He was Crowley’s boss and landlord. He was a fussy, pious man who dressed in clothes that looked older than some of the antiques they worked on and Crowley was a rebel who questioned everything and surely… surely would want something more than a quiet life in a quiet town in a quiet cottage. 

One day he’d leave and Aziraphale would let him. There’d be no more excuses, no need for their arrangement. They could be friends, catch up every now and again. Meet for lunch. He could be happy with that, he just needed to accept that was how it was going to be.

But then Crowley would come downstairs in the morning and Aziraphale would pass him his tea and he’d look at him without his sunglasses, smile and say, “Good morning, angel.”

He’d fall. Head over heels all over again and the cycle would start anew. It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. He’d never been happier and at the same time he was so, so scared.

After all, it wasn’t like he could just talk to Crowley about any of this.

Crowley wished he would, though, because he certainly didn't know how. Whatever was happening between them didn't feel like being on two sides of a gap anymore so much as it was a slow, meandering walk. He'd told Aziraphale he could be slow, but waiting for what came next was a unique test of his patience. If it hadn't been so unique, maybe he would've known how to give Aziraphale the right nudge forward. 

As it was, he'd bide his time and maybe slip a Queen record into Aziraphale's collection for the fun of it. He picked up a Chopin collection as Saturday evening settled around them, humming in consideration before he set it on the player. “What do you think about heading to the library tomorrow afternoon, angel? We can do dinner.”

With his nightly cup of cocoa in hand, Aziraphale stilled in his chair and watched as Crowley fiddled with the needle. “Did Anathema say something to you?”

“She tends to talk to me daily, so you might need to be a bit more specific.”

“This isn’t a joke, Crowley.” His grip tightened around his mug. “You’re not my chauffeur. You don’t have to take me anywhere.”

“I know that.” Crowley turned to look at him, baffled by the tightness in his tone and the rejection. He enjoyed their trips, their little dates, and Aziraphale seemed to as well. “If she's asking questions and you're embarrassed, you can just tell me no.”

“What? Embarrassed? Why would I be embarrassed?” Aziraphale asked, just as confused now. “I only don’t want you thinking that you owe me any favours. Or that something’s wrong. Because nothing’s wrong. I told Anathema and now I’ll tell you. Things are fine as they are.”

 Crowley's brows arched. “Our movies are about due and I thought we'd established I like taking you places, so I'm not asking because I think I owe you anything. And I didn't think anything was wrong until right about now. What's gotten into you?”

“Nothing. I just told you, everything’s fine.” The cocoa in the mug nearly spilled from its shaking, so Aziraphale set it down on a coaster. “I believe I’m going to have another chocolate digestive. Would you like one?”

“No, and you're not acting like everything's fine. Did Anathema say something to upset you?” 

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. And I’m not upset.” Aziraphale hurried into the kitchen, wringing his hands together as he went for the cupboard that had his biscuits. He wasn’t upset, and he did want to go to the library with Crowley tomorrow and have dinner. “It’s Sunday, the library’s closed tomorrow. How about Monday? And we could get sushi! I know just the place.” The plastic wrapping around the biscuits crinkled as he fumbled with it, unable to get one out of the package.

Crowley watched him for a moment before tugging the package out of his frantic grip. He was definitely upset or at least far away from fine. “Thought you were going to tell me when things were bothering you.” Crowley got a biscuit out and offered it. “Did I do something?” 

“No.” His tone was so sharp, it made him flinch himself. Aziraphale took a deep breath, then took the biscuit. He looked at it until the chocolate started to melt against his fingers, but even then he still couldn’t bring himself to eat it. “No, my dear,” he repeated, a bit softer. “But I don’t think I can tell you about this.”

“Ngk.” Pushing him to admit things didn't tend to work, though that was all Crowley wanted to do. He couldn't soothe if he didn't know what he was soothing. “Then what d'you need?” 

“I don’t know.” 

The ache was sharp and sudden, grief like a knife burrowed into his back. He wanted to know. He wanted to ask his great-aunt and demand to know if this would end in heartbreak. Prayer wasn’t working. He’d prayed and asked for some kind of sign, anything to get a glimpse at God’s plan for him and Crowley. He wanted to know.

Despite what he’d told Anathema, he had his own copy of her book at his desk in the barn, nestled amongst her old bookbinding things, where she’d once worked decades before. He could look. He’d never want Anathema to feel like she had to for him, not when she seemed so conflicted when it came to her great-grandmother’s prophecies, but he could look on his own. It wouldn’t be clear and there weren’t many prophecies about him, but maybe if he had a better idea of what to look for… maybe it would be there.

“I think I just need some air.” His fingers brushed against Crowley’s sleeve as he reached for him reflexively, then curled in on themselves as he retreated. “Maybe tidy up my desk in the shop. That might help me make sense of…” He gestured to his own head helplessly.

Alone, then. Space. It wasn't as if they didn't each get their fair share of it, so that wasn't a problem. It was not knowing, not having him close when he was distressed by something. That was always a problem. “Right,” Crowley agreed anyway. “Whatever you like, angel.”

“Right,” Aziraphale echoed, gaze finally centering and staying on his face. “Thank you, my dear. Please don’t look so disappointed. I shouldn’t be too long.”

Except he was. Evening turned into night, the waning moon high in the sky and Crowley's self-imposed bedtime slipping by. He did try to keep himself busy, fiddling with his phone until a headache threatened, bellowing at his plants until he imagined their leaves trembling, pacing to the door so many times he was surprised there wasn't a hole worn in the hardwood. 

He should just give up. See him in the morning for brunch and... Were they still on for brunch? It had turned into a habit for them, a weekly rendezvous with Aziraphale across from him in his Sunday best, glowing like the angel he was, cheered by scripture and song.

A peek out of a window showed a glow in the barn windows, faint and small as though he'd only turned on one light. Well. If Aziraphale was going to work this late, he could surely bring him a snack for when he inevitably felt peckish and just make sure brunch was still going to happen. It didn't have to be that Crowley was checking up on him, nope. Not at all. Perfectly normal, not worried, not a check-in. He was just asking a question before bed and bringing him an apple because it was the first thing he saw in the kitchen.

The door sounded too loud when he opened it, making Crowley wince even as his gaze sought Aziraphale's desk. It didn't look different from the entryway, books and tools still cluttering the surface as normal. The decanter of amber alcohol was a new addition, though, and it made Crowley sigh. 

“Hi,” he greeted, the question he'd come in to ask fading away as he closed the door behind him. 

“Hello, Crowley.”

Aziraphale looked golden and haloed in the lamp light, it and the moon and stars peering in through the skylight not enough to bother his eyes. Even if they were, Crowley didn't think he could go back inside for his sunglasses. He didn't think he could go anywhere but forward, closer and closer until he could set the apple on Aziraphale's desk. “Here. Probably should've cut it up, but I wasn't sure if you'd actually want it.”

Aziraphale looked at it, his eyes still clear and hand steady as he lowered his glass beside it, cushioning the sound of it against the wood with his pinky. It was exchanged for the apple, fingers rubbing over the blushing red and yellow-speckled skin. “Oh… you wily old serpent.”

Flicking his gaze up to him, his lips curved at the sight of his dark figure sweeping across his space, filling it with his sprawling presence like he belonged just as much as any shadow the lamplight cast. Aziraphale motioned for him to stay as he leaned down, procuring a second glass from within one of the drawers. It was offered in a wordless question.

The smile and offer were both a relief, though there was still something in the air. Crowley leaned against the side of his desk. “Yeah. Save you from drinking on your own.”

“Well, I suppose I should thank you for coming to my aid.” Aziraphale poured for him, two fingers’ worth of the single malt. When they each had their glass, he toasted him, the crystal tumblers clinking gently. 

“Nah. Selfless when it comes to alcohol, me.” Crowley watched him as he took a sip, not sure if he was ready to talk but willing to do what he could to cheer him. To ease whatever had him so... not fine. 

Aziraphale huffed, shaking his head as he shifted his gaze to his desk. Amidst all the usual clutter was his great-aunt’s book of nice and accurate prophecies, his own notebook open beside it. Notes from years ago, when he’d amuse himself with trying to crack her sayings, just to see if anything stood out to him now. There were one or two that gave him pause where they hadn’t before, ones that mentioned serpents and smoke and chariots and flame, but nothing that included him. Nothing that gave him any more insight to any of this. If Agnes had seen his future, she kept it out of her book.

It made sense, he often pestered her about it as a child. She’d shoo him away, take the book from him, remind him to keep his head in the here and now. “If you look too far ahead, you’ll miss it,” she’d chided.

A crease formed in Aziraphale’s brow as he flicked his gaze back to Crowley, but he smoothed it over before he could think too hard on it. “This is my great-aunt’s. I suppose I got a bit distracted looking it over. I like to read it from time to time. When I miss her.”

“Ah.” That was something Crowley was far too familiar with. “If that's what was bothering you, you could've said. I would've understood.”

“Oh, I know you would have, my dear. But that’s not…” He shook his head, sipped his scotch. “That’s not the only thing on my mind. Right now I mostly miss being able to ask for her advice.” A heavy sigh had him tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Not that she’d give it readily. Not really the nurturing type, my Aunt Agnes.”

Crowley took a generous swallow, wondering what he needed advice on. Maybe it was them, the thing growing between them. Slow could just be frightened. He reached out but couldn't quite make himself touch, so shifted himself within Aziraphale's reach instead. It was a small space behind his desk, but not so small they couldn't share. Looking down at the book, lingering on the prophecies part of its title, he hummed. “Guess you didn’t find anything helpful if you’ve broken out the scotch.”

Aziraphale made a sound like he wanted to scoff, but it lacked the energy for it. “No, I suppose I didn’t. Though perhaps by leading to my breaking out the scotch, that is as helpful an answer as I could hope to receive.” 

“Liquid courage,” Crowley murmured, at a loss. The ache in the air, the uncertainty, was almost tangible, and he wished he could reach out and just pluck it away. But it reminded him of Yom Kippur, the hours spent apart for them to stress and feel their feelings in their own ways, just for Aziraphale to come find him in the end. It had turned now, Crowley finding him, but the time apart had let them both calm over the holiday. Now, there was still so much overlaying the calm in Aziraphale. Something almost like despair and Crowley simply didn’t like it. Not on his angel.

“You keep letting me talk out all my sad. Take your turn.” This time when he reached out, he touched. Not Aziraphale’s hand for once, but his cheek. Soft and gentle, fingertips only just brushing his skin as if he’d break as easily as porcelain. “Just talk. Ssstart anywhere.”

“I…”

Aziraphale blinked at him, eyes wide in wonder. Now that was certainly something he couldn’t expect to get from any book, a sign that couldn’t be clearer if it was flashing in neon lights on a strip in Soho. Sensation sparked and his heart fluttered as all his nerves seemed to converge where Crowley’s fingers trailed, dizzied by the cool, flickering caress of them on his skin. His touch was surprisingly stable, for all its softness, purposeful, but under the urge to comfort there was hesitation, a silent question. Is this okay? 

There could be no explaining something like this away. He was wondering, too. This entire time. Of course Crowley would be uncertain of the steps to take in navigating this unconventional relationship. He had so much at stake if he read the tone wrong. Yes, he’d made most of the first moves, hand-holding in the cinema notwithstanding, but nothing that would truly jeopardize his standing as an employee and a tenant. At least not with him.

Aziraphale’s lips parted as he struggled to respond past the intoxicating sensation of Crowley’s fingers against his cheek. He wanted him, too. Wanted this. He was just as uncertain of the path ahead, but he was here, beside him. Ready to walk it with him at whatever pace he needed. Not pushing or prodding. Just patient. Standing over him, arm outstretched, and waiting.

It was up to him, now, to reach back and meet him. Aziraphale’s fingers tightened around the glass in his hand, telling himself to let go and lift towards Crowley’s. To assure him with his touch that he was wanted in return, that they’d figure this out together. His heart clenched just as tightly as his grip though, that unspoken uncertainty freezing him in place, even when he longed to chase after the fingertips that fell away from his cheek.

Where Crowley let actions speak for him, Aziraphale locked up and fidgeted and overthought every opportunity to reach out. Swallowing, his gaze flicked down to his glass to contemplate the ripples in the liquid. Words suited him more, as Crowley so easily recognized from the start. Just talk. 

“I don’t believe it’s all… sad,” he started, voice a bit dry and a little too soft at first, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried again. “Uncertain, I suppose. Afraid of what the future might hold. Possibly of the present, too.” His gaze flicked up for a moment to find Crowley still watching him. “But sad… well, I’ve found it quite difficult to remain sad for any great length of time as of late. Not that I’ve ever been one to wallow. I prefer to focus on all the blessings that have been bestowed upon me throughout my life and strive to be the kind of person who deserves them. That usually helps. But I will say, given some of the obstacles I have had to face over the years, that sometimes I would be filled with… with such an ache... I just don’t have the words for it. All the books I’ve read and the vocabulary at my disposal and yet not a word to describe it...”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he motioned towards his middle, in between his heart and naval, where the V of his waistcoat began, then his hand fell back to his lap and eyes to the contents of his glass. “Books would help. I could lose myself in other’s struggles and triumphs. Forget for a few hundred pages about that ache and fill it instead with the hope of a happy ending. Or Agnes’s book of prophecies.” His lips twitched up, but the smile was still missing something as he remembered all too well what it had felt like to be young and lonely and so, so afraid that was all he’d ever be. 

That was why he’d wanted to know; why he pestered his great-aunt. If he could know, then he could prepare. He could try and make everything okay if he just knew what to expect. While he’d never given voice to that, he wouldn’t put it past her that she could see that just as well. If you look too far ahead, you’ll miss it.

Hadn’t he almost just done that with Crowley? So caught up in his own head that he missed the hints Crowley scattered at his feet, some subtle and others quite the opposite. Perhaps that was Agnes’s advice for this moment. That, and one other that came to him in silence of the shop.

“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke quietly to his half empty glass of scotch, tilting it just so, the dim light of the shop shining through the amber. “When I was a child, I used to ask my great-aunt to tell me about my future. Her premonitions enthralled me, even from a young age, so I’d ask. Though, you know, I suppose I never stopped asking.”

He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle as he gestured to her book, but forgot the humour somewhere in the back of his throat. He set the glass on the desk, but he didn’t release it, though his gaze traveled to Crowley’s thigh. The cross stitch of his skinny jeans.

“‘What will my future be like?’ became… ‘will I be happy? One day?’” Aziraphale blinked rapidly, a gentle crease forming in his brow. “I’m certain you can relate. It was a different time in our youth. A time where the thought of something like… being loved was practically too much to hope for.”

His eyes were too blue when they flicked up to meet his then, far too blue in the yellow light. “So I wanted to know. ‘Will I be happy?’ And I know what you’re thinking. Woman like Aunt Agnes, oh, she likely made up something ridiculous to tease me or wouldn’t say anything at all. Or something wise, like, ‘the future is a wall, built one stone at a time. But what kind of wall you build depends on which stone you reach for,’ or some other proverb-like platitude.

“But, no.” Aziraphale rubbed his thumb over his glass, spreading the beads of condensation along the edges as he softened. “No, she gave me an answer. Every time it was the same answer. ‘What will my future be like, Aunt Agnes?’ And she’d always say, ‘Never forget an umbrella when it rains.’ I thought it was just a bit of cheek. A joke between the two of us. Something to cheer me up. Obviously my future would be marginally better if I had an umbrella every time it rained,” his attempt to scoff fell flat. “Those were her last words to me, before she passed. ‘Never forget an umbrella when it rains.’ And you know… I wondered then, did I have it all wrong? Was it a metaphor? A way of saying: you can’t stop the bad things from coming, but at the very least you can protect yourself from them? I mean, that makes sense, doesn’t it? And still sounds enough like a proverb to make her feel clever.”

Aziraphale swallowed, thought about lifting his glass for a drink, but changed his mind before his grip had a chance to shift. “I don’t think that’s it either, though. Not anymore,” he murmured. “I think what she was actually telling me…” When he looked up again, his eyes were even brighter, the sheen of unshed tears and hope and fear and want reflecting back at him. “Was that I’d meet you.”

The last words Crowley could remember from his grandad hadn't been so profound. Just a normal morning, rushing to get ready for school, and he'd barely heard him call out, “Have a good day! See you later!” Except he hadn't. Crowley had seen him, rushing in the same way he'd rushed out, but the man had been in the same chair he'd been in that morning, stiff, unseeing, gone. Something in Crowley had left too, washed out in dark shades, and he'd never really gotten it back. 

Until an umbrella had shielded him from the rain and pushed the colour back in. 

He didn't hesitate, but he was careful as he set his glass down. “Funny thing, that, because I can’t think of a single thing I want more than just a chance to make you happy, Aziraphale.”

Their fingers brushed, Aziraphale finally releasing his own glass as he reached for him. He didn’t quite hold on, a slight tremor kept them from fitting together, but the pads of his fingers ghosted along the back of his hand to the slender wrist. His soft grip encircled it, a little cool from the glass, a little damp. Aziraphale could feel the shiver that vibrated just under his skin, but he didn’t let go. Crowley could pull away if he wanted to, his hand would open easily, but he let him hold him still as he stood.

He stepped close, his thighs nearly sandwiching Crowley’s in the cramped space of his workstation. Aziraphale held his gaze the entire time, drinking in the awed amber of eyes smoother than the finest scotch. He only looked away once, and it was to gauge the distance between their lips.

Aziraphale’s parted, a question poised on the tip of his tongue as he flicked his gaze back up. His free hand rose to press against Crowley’s bicep, then inched a little higher to cup his shoulder, and then his jaw. They both inhaled sharply as the light scrape of evening stubble grazed Aziraphale’s palm, and the smooth caress of a well-manicured hand made Crowley’s lids heavy with its soothing touch. Still warm and skin smelling of old books and leather.

“You do,” Aziraphale said suddenly, drawing Crowley’s attention away from his hand. The fear still lingered in his eyes, but the want - the need - eclipsed it entirely. “Oh, Crowley, you make me so very happy, I don’t quite know what to do with it.” 

Crowley's hand lifted, touch featherlight as fingertips laid on his wrist. “I'd be pretty stupid to stop, then.”

“Yes, I’d rather think so.” The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth lifted into something tender and unspeakably fond. “May I…? That is, I’d very much like to…” His gaze dropped to Crowley’s lips, closer than they’d ever been and that pull in his gut only cried out to be closer.

A rough sound scratched its way out of Crowley’s throat, his eyes suddenly wide and all too hopeful. Aziraphale took it for the permission it was. Craning his neck back as he guided Crowley’s face down, his heart felt full to bursting, expanding in his chest as it hitched in anticipation. Oh, how he wanted this. Wanted to savour this like the crack of a crème brûlée or the aromatic bouquet of a vintage red.

His lips nudged up against Crowley’s, soft and dry, rasping over the sensitive skin of his lower lip as something sparked at the top of their heads and trickled its way down their spines. It was the lightest kiss, a sample, a prelude, an overture, to what promised to be a symphony of sensation. Crowley made another soft noise, almost sounding wounded by the tenderness of Aziraphale’s mouth pressing into his, like pressing gently on a bruise. Aziraphale swept his lips over Crowley’s again, then again, each time daring for a bit more contact, a little bit longer, seeking to soothe with more aching sweetness.

Like Aziraphale and all the extra happiness, Crowley didn't quite know what to do with it all. It had been so long, he couldn't say this was unlike what he was used to. But it was so incredibly different from what he remembered. He remembered heat and flame, kisses serving as lit matches in a gunpowder factory. 

This wasn't quite that, but it was far from cold. It was the sun in spring, something to bask in whilst the chill of winter melted away. Crowley seemed to be melting himself, little by little lost to each press of lips. His knees felt weak, his limbs heavy, but he didn't know if he should lean away or into the sun. The only thing he could do was let his grip tighten a hair, afraid to lose this when it was so new. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s breath whispered over his lips as he stroked his thumb over the tattoo just in front of his ear. “Is this alright?”

He shivered, a little surprised to find his eyes had closed. He was less surprised when his voice failed. “Ngk,” wasn't a good enough answer, though, so he tried again when he thought he could speak through the syrupy haze. “Yeah. Sss'alright.”

Blinking open his own eyes, Aziraphale took the opportunity to admire him shamelessly. The way his eyebrows arched and the play of shadows along the slope of his nose and points of perfect cheekbones. A bubble of giddiness swelled up to push aside whatever apprehensions he’d had initially and he smiled into the next kiss.

“Mm, quite alright,” he agreed, pressing closer until they nudged up against the work table, an attempt at finding support while they were otherwise distracted. The hand that had tethered itself to Crowley’s wrist finally relinquished its grasp, his palm skimming up to rest against his shoulder.

Crowley reached out, hands settling at Aziraphale's waist to finally actively encourage the nearness now that it didn’t seem as if he’d back away. He seemed brighter, lighter, as if some burden had been lifted off his shoulders. Or perhaps questions had been answered. Crowley's had been, some things he hadn't even known he'd been asking, and he was interested to see what might follow. “I think we should aim for better than alright.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale had never felt such a heady combination of secure and unsteady at the same time. Even as Crowley held onto him, he wondered if he might flutter away on an ill-timed breeze. “What did you have in mind?”

“Mm...” Crowley's head ducked so he could mouth along his jawline and get his head to tip back. “Let's just see what I can get out of that vocabulary of yours,” he murmured, awed and somehow humbled to feel Aziraphale shiver against him. Like it was a power he shouldn't have. 

A hand left his waist to press against the small of his back, slotting them together in support and amazed by how they fit. Something else he didn't think he should be allowed to have. Too aware he was holding onto something soft, Crowley kept his lips the same as he explored Aziraphale's throat. It was new for him, but all of this was and the soft catches of Aziraphale's breath and the fingers flexing in his shirt were too intoxicating to ignore. 

He was holding onto someone who liked to indulge, but didn't always like to be caught. Didn't always feel comfortable without some sort of permission, even if it came in the form of someone indulging with him. So when their lips finally met again, it was with indulgence. Something in his chest loosened, opened, and Crowley let it spill into this kiss as it deepened. 

And, oh, did Aziraphale indulge.

His lips parted on a greedy little noise, the same kind of pleasured sigh he’d make after finishing a good book, tasting a perfectly prepared dish, or hearing the right combination of notes on his phonograph that made his heart sing. He kissed back to take in everything Crowley had to offer, swept away by the sheer intensity of it, the knowing. They both wanted this, so why couldn’t they have it?

Only when the haze that filled their heads became because they needed to breathe did they break apart, Aziraphale blindly attempting to follow Crowley’s lips and catch them for one last taste. He eased back, dropping his heels from where he’d risen to meet him, and let his eyes flutter open again. He’d intended to gaze at him dreamily - after all, this was like a dream, wasn’t it? Certainly something Aziraphale had dreamed of with only a thin wall in an old farmhouse separating them.

But then he realized the look on Crowley’s face was nothing short of smug and his heart fluttered anew as it forced heat into his cheeks. “Oh, good Lord.”

Crowley almost - almost - bit back the laugh, but it really couldn't be helped. He'd been hoping, wondering, waiting for this. He was allowed a bubble of happy. “Something wrong, angel?” 

“One has to wonder when you’re standing there looking so terribly pleased with yourself,” he huffed, but the sound of his laugh only made him want to nuzzle the hollow of his throat and nibble at his Adam’s apple, though he refrained from the temptation. For now.

“I think I've earned being pleased with myself. I can't remember the last time I even wanted to kiss someone, and you've kept me on edge for weeks.” Even huffy and mildly offended, Crowley couldn't get enough of him. He didn't want to let go. “Definitely left 'alright' behind.”

Aziraphale tilted his chin up, lashes batting twice. “You sound so sure of yourself,” he couldn’t help tutting, even as his arms encircled Crowley’s shoulders, taken in by the confession. “I think I might need a bit more to work with to be as certain.”

Crowley hiked him up to his toes, holding him fast as Aziraphale gasped out a startled, “Oh!” and gave him yet another kiss, though this one was far more playful and light. “Who am I to stand in the way of such important research?” 

Aziraphale laughed when Crowley didn’t let him lose his balance, the easy kiss something that had felt so far out of reach just an hour ago. “Well, that would be quite the wile, I’d think. I’d certainly have to thwart you if you tried.”

“Think you could?” Crowley leaned in again, though deliberately kissed the corner of his mouth at the last moment. “We might have to test more.”

Hardly satisfied with that as their last kiss, Aziraphale caught his lips and dragged him back in for another that made their pulses race. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he breathed. “It could take a great deal of tests. Oodles of tests, even.”

“Right,” Crowley murmured, dazed and just fine with it. “Good thing we've got the next two days free. Sounds like we'll be...” It took him a moment to remember the joke. “Tesssting.”

“You know, my dear, I believe I’d rather call it what it is and say we’ll spend our weekend kissing.” Saying it outloud like that did bring out a bit of pink in his cheeks. “If that’s alright with you.”

“If you're going to keep rattling my brain, yeah. S'fine with me.” A hand lifted, cupping Aziraphale's cheek to feel the warmth beneath his palm. The brightness in his eyes had nothing to do with loss and fear now, and it was as relieving as it was a source of pride. Except it was him and he just had to make sure that everything was, “Alright, angel?” 

Aziraphale placed a hand over the back of Crowley’s to keep it there, the touch as gentle as everything Crowley offered him. Would continue to offer, it sounded like. And for the first time since those lips had brushed over his knuckles on the night they’d met, Aziraphale wasn’t afraid of what it all meant.

“More than, Crowley. I’m starting to think more than.”

Footnotes

^3. If you'd like a peek at this marvelous atrocity.↩

Chapter Text

Apparently adding in kissing changed things in dating. Aziraphale certainly seemed more comfortable with physical contact, and seemed to take quite a bit of pleasure in some of Crowley's reactions. Over sushi, Aziraphale’s hand suddenly in his had made Crowley splutter mid-sentence and he still couldn't remember what he'd been saying nearly a week later. But he didn't think that was his fault. If he'd known that was a thing that was just allowed during dates, he would've initiated it more often. 

On Tuesday morning, his tea had been handed to him much the same as normal except Aziraphale had left his hands on the mug and bobbed up for a very sweet good morning kiss and then another before he'd left to open the shop. He'd done the same Wednesday morning, but had followed it up that night by sitting on the couch when they'd decided to pop in a movie. He'd sat very close, had leaned in even closer, and somehow Crowley's arm had found its way around him. He couldn't remember a single thing about the film, but it was his new favourite. 

He'd gone to bed that night thinking about the dozens of romance films he'd seen over the years, buying whatever ticket to whatever was showing and tucking into a theatre once one of his favourite hobbies. That genre had always just left him mildly curious about some of the gestures that tended to happen in the happy montage before the inevitable liar-revealed or other cliche which caused a temporary break-up, but he'd never been curious enough to try any of them. Aziraphale had been making him curious since day one, considering the way he'd kissed the back of his hand without hesitation. Everything that had followed - the hand-holding and hug and now the kissing and... Cuddling? Had that been cuddling on the couch? Probably. Anyway, all seemed to be met favourably. 

So Thursday night, when Aziraphale did his near-nightly torture routine of rolling up his sleeves to do dishes, Crowley didn't keep himself relegated to watching from the entry. He slithered up behind him for once, arms banding around his waist and chin nestling atop soft white curls. Aziraphale's cologne fought and ultimately won against the subtle, clean scent of Fairy soap, pleasing him as much as the feel alone did. He was just so warm and soft and somehow right against him. Though the way Aziraphale's hands stilled in the water didn't go unnoticed. “I'll move if I'm in the way. Maybe,” he teased after a small pause. 

“Foul fiend,” Aziraphale huffed, but sounded just as pleased as Crowley was, so the heat just wasn’t there. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he added, scrubbing at a pan while pressing back against his chest. Aziraphale was eagerly discovering and enjoying all the different ways they could slot together, and this was no exception. Simple, steady, yet still thrilled him with its quiet intimacy.

“No?” Crowley smiled, ducking his head to press an impulsive kiss to his neck. He tucked himself into the crook, breathing him in the way he'd wanted the first day he'd changed scents. “Have me where you want me, angel?” 

The washing paused again, Aziraphale fighting a tantalizing shiver as he basked in the attention. Warm, sweet, and welcome. “Yes, I rather think I do. Certainly keeps you out of trouble,” he hummed.

“Depends on your definition of trouble,” Crowley teased, punctuating it with a nip. As tempted as he was to let his hands wander, to push them into a territory he did know a thing or two about, he was discovering that he enjoyed the lightness of this new part of their relationship. 

Aziraphale feigned an affronted gasp, his stomach flip-flopping at Crowley’s boldness. He tilted his head back to press a kiss of his own just below his ear. As much as he enjoyed how their back-and-forths stayed easy even with this new development, peppering some of the newness into their budding relationship was just as important and he wanted to encourage it. The weeks leading up to this had been full of enough hesitation. It was time to figure out what they liked and how they fit together. The thought of slipping back into that cycle of uncertainty was enough to bolster his courage to show Crowley what he was ready for.

“You know what kind of trouble I mean. Now careful, darling. My hands are still rather sudsy at the moment and you’re making it difficult to resist your wiles,” he tutted.

Crowley made a few unintelligible noises against his neck before settling in to watch Aziraphale finish dishes. If it took a little longer than normal, neither of them mentioned it. They didn't need to. 

The next day, he did it again. It was nicer than he expected it to be without the thrill of discovery, and it was encouraging when Aziraphale leaned back against him and continued washing as if the embrace was normal. It could be. Crowley wanted these things to be, but he couldn't think of anything new. There were plenty of things he could think of to tempt Aziraphale into sex with him, but that was a fleeting thought. It had taken so long to kiss him, he couldn't imagine how long before he'd be allowed in Aziraphale's bed. 

In the meantime, he wouldn't mind figuring out this affectionate part. “Angel,” he wondered into his hair, “what other things like this d'you like?” 

Drying his hands as the sink drained, Aziraphale hummed to himself. “Like this?” Once dried, he rested his palm over Crowley’s hands. “Dating rituals, you mean?” At Crowley’s muffled sound of affirmation, he grinned and gave him a squeeze. “I like being close to you. Like this or sitting on the sofa together. Holding your hand, have I told you yet how much I like them?” He broke the hold around his middle if only to bring one of Crowley’s palms up to his lips. “They’re quite lovely, you know.”

It was impossible to hide the way both compliment and kiss made him squirm, but at least Aziraphale couldn't see the colour he could feel warming his face. Small miracles. “Ngk,” he said instead of making a joke - or, perhaps, a promise - about how well he could use his hands, but he made himself focus. Crowley wanted to learn more about this soft, sweet place between kissing and sex. He just wanted to do it all the right way for an equally soft and sweet angel. “I meant how do I-? What can I-?” He broke off on a frustrated sound, annoyed with himself. He was nearly fifty himself. This shouldn't be so difficult to get out, but it was important and he didn't know if he had the right words. 

Aziraphale turned to face him, releasing his hand so he could encircle Crowley in his own arms. “Dearest, you don't have to push yourself. It's alright.”

“M'not- It's-” He was a little bit. “I need to. All of this is-” Wordless noises took over, annoying him until he managed to admit, “I've never bothered before, so I've no idea- This part's new, angel. The us thing before all this extra was a little easier to figure out. Contact-wise.”

“Oh.” Concern wrinkled Aziraphale's brow and he made to step away from him, small of his back bumping into the sink before he could get too far. “If it's too much, you only need to say so,” he assured him. While it was fun to fluster him to a point, he wanted it to be because he was enjoying himself too much rather than because he was uncomfortable. “I must admit, perhaps I've gotten a bit ahead of myself.”

“No, that's not what I'm-” He absolutely did not have the right words. “I like it. That's the - ngk - the odd bit. I've never wanted to- Never understood the point before you, so... I'm just trying to do it all the right way, angel.”

Aziraphale's eyes widened. “You've never…? Oh. Oh, my dear. Perhaps we should sit for this conversation. Fetch your wine, yes come on, then.”

He led him to the couch, sitting them both down on it, a sliver of a gap between them. Aziraphale took Crowley's hand and held it gently, caressing the inside of his wrist with his thumb, tracing the lines leading right to his heart. He looked a bit nervous, too, thinking about where to begin.

“Firstly, I don't believe there's a right way to do this. The steps, I mean. You do what feels right for you and your partner in the moment. If you like holding my hand,” he squeezed once for emphasis, “then we can do that as much as we like. As long as we both have an understanding of each other, keep one another informed, then the rest will come with time, my dear.”

Crowley looked at their hands and shifted carefully, closing the little bit of distance between them just to feel the warmth of Aziraphale's thigh flood into him. He did like holding his hand and being close, so it seemed simple enough. Completely at odds with the complicated flurry of feelings he didn't quite know how to sort through or label, but none of it was what he'd call unpleasant. “I've just been... following you, I s'pose. And it's been working out.”

“Yes, I'd say it has been.” Though his smile conveyed that he felt it was more than “working out.” “But if there is anything you want that you're unsure of, you can ask me. And we'll take it from there. I'm not an expert on the matter either, my dear. My experience is a bit… Dated. And limited.” But he supposed, at least, he had experience. If he was inferring correctly, it rather sounded like Crowley hadn't ever actually… “Perhaps we can plan a few more proper dates. We are doing things a bit unconventionally, after all. I've certainly never gone this fast with anyone before. It's… It's new to me, too.”

Fast. Crowley's lips quirked as he turned their hands over, tracing the lines of his palm. “Took two weeks for you to kiss me, so I'd really hate to know what slow normally is for you.”

A flush bloomed in his cheeks as he bit back the defensive “but I didn't know,” instead focusing on the way his skin tingled under his touch. “I meant everything since the kiss. What with us living together already. It makes much of the next steps… You know. More accessible.”

“Mm.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale's palm to his lips. “I do like having you accessible. As long as things aren't going too fast for you?”

Aziraphale's look turned fond as he watched him. “No, my dear. And after all, you did say you're following my lead. I simply think it might be nice to plan another night out. Or a picnic, before it gets too cold. Although, we might have missed the season for it.” 

Crowley laced their fingers, lips quirking as he caught the fond gaze. “Dunno about that, angel. There hasn't been any snow yet. It might be a little cold, but that just means we pack something warm.”

“I could make a stew.” Aziraphale's eyes lit up, inspired. “And something with apples for dessert. That's properly autumnal.”

Almost painfully fond, Crowley leaned in to taste the delight on his lips. “If you're going to try baking something again, we should go weekend after next so you can practice.”

It was rather difficult to tut when his mouth was busy kissing back, but Aziraphale found it was a reasonable trade. “Fine. But I won’t need to practice. You were entirely too distracting last time. That was the issue.”

“You're the one who opened the wine. I'd say it was that more than it was me.”

“It was a joint effort. Between you and the wine.”

His smile was hidden in the path his lips started to take along Aziraphale's jawline. “D'you really think I'll be less distracting now?” 

Not if he planned on pressing damp kisses against his skin while he tried. Each brush of his lips was like a shock to Aziraphale’s system, breath hitching with each jolt. It was fast. Fast and dangerous, but Aziraphale didn’t want to stop. Adrenaline sent his stomach spinning each time Crowley drew him in, on the verge of falling without any idea of what waited at the bottom. But each kiss convinced him it was worth it. Each time Crowley looked at him with surprise and delight, like he didn’t expect sweet kisses to come his way or tender touches just because they could, made Aziraphale want to hold fast and give him the affection he’d been deprived of for so long.

Oh, he’d be doomed, and so would whatever he attempted to bake. “I’ll have to find out some way to thwart you; otherwise, I fear for all future meals,” he hummed, sliding his hand around to the small of Crowley’s back.

A noise of agreement or simple pleasure escaped against Aziraphale's neck, Crowley's mouth slipping down to tease above his collar. The warmth of his hand seemed to seep right through his shirt and flutter across his skin in a way that made him want to melt or push Aziraphale against the cushions and start undoing buttons. That wouldn't really be letting Aziraphale guide them along a walk, though. It was more like Crowley just pushing him into the Bentley's passenger seat and speeding straight to the next stop. 

It would be such a nice stop, though. All of this warm, round, soft to touch and taste. To linger on and treasure when the urge to do either had never come up before. Crowley wound an arm around his front as he shifted and twisted, skipping those tantalizing buttons and laying a hand against Aziraphale's waist instead. 

“Making you miss actual meals wouldn't be as fun, I think, but the baking...” He let his teeth graze. “You should probably just buy a cake from the bakery.”

“Mm… They do have a rather scrummy apple spice cake this time of year.” 

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed on a sound that was absolutely simple pleasure. He ached to lie back against the cushions with Crowley spread over him, or slotted between his legs as he sought to ravish him. Too fast. Though he wanted - wanted him with a staggering, heady haze - it certainly was too early in their courtship for Aziraphale's comfort to take that plunge. Though, he rationalized, one could claim their courtship began the day they met, when he walked Crowley home and Crowley kissed his hand like a couple of Regency era lovers. When he put it that way, six weeks was a fairly decent amount of time.

But no, he knew Crowley had experience with taking someone to bed, but he'd specifically said the dating part was something he wanted to do with him. Aziraphale would give him the proper courtship experience he deserved, with all the romance and longing looks and stealing kisses when they could. It would heighten the anticipation. Make their eventual joining all the sweeter. 

Just the thought pulled another pleased sound from him and he nudged their foreheads together to distract that mouth of his from unraveling him. “Kiss me properly, please,” he requested breathily.

Crowley brought their lips together on a murmur of agreement, the hand not at his waist sliding upwards to cup the back of his neck and tease the short curls at the nape. He could hear the want, taste it as the kiss deepened, and knew he could get more with a little bit of pushing, a little bit of tempting. 

But those old familiar steps, rusty though he may have been, didn't feel right here. Not yet. The unfamiliar anticipation could be exciting in its own right. He'd just have to find out, was more than fine finding out with Aziraphale. 

That weekend it rained, so it was just as well they pushed the picnic back. Instead, Crowley picked Aziraphale up after church on Sunday and they forwent their brunch tradition in favour of spending the day in Oxford. They perused the Ashmolean Museum and had afternoon tea with prosecco at the New Theatre Oxford’s piano bar. It tickled Aziraphale to be able to guide Crowley to various exhibits with soft touches and stand with shoulders brushing while they debated over artworks and exchanged opinions. The toes of their shoes rested together beneath the table while they had tea, Aziraphale practically glowing as he talked over scones and petit fours while Crowley satisfied his own hunger by drinking him in.

They held hands on the drive home, Aziraphale tracing the lines of Crowley’s palm and the whorls of his fingertips, memorizing the feel of him so when he watched those hands work on a Scottish mahogany bracket clock, he could imagine the care and precision of them against his own skin. They held themselves in check in the shop though, limiting themselves to sharing glances and hovering nearby to ask about each other’s projects. On their lunch break they’d steal kisses in the kitchen and at the end of the day they’d sit close to relish in the warmth radiating off the other.

One evening, Aziraphale glanced up from his book to catch Crowley’s eyelids drooping, then squeeze shut to ease some of the tension from staring at his phone. He slid out from under the arm draped around him, to the far end of the couch and patted his thigh when Crowley blinked at him. When he didn’t move, Aziraphale coaxed him down to lay his head in his lap, letting him rest while he continued to read. If Crowley asked him again about what he liked, he’d have said that dragging his hand through the soft strands of his hair while he pillowed his cheek against his thigh would be near the very top of his list. He marveled at the trust it took to lie in such a vulnerable position, belly up and throat exposed, Aziraphale’s fingers sometimes lingering where it met his jaw in gentle caresses.

He wanted to wrap this creature up in all manner of sweet and soft things. Protect him from anything that came after his surprisingly tender heart. The way Crowley tilted his head into every touch and grumbled little half-protests that held no heat captured his heart in a vice that squeezed so tightly whenever he caught a glimpse of hesitation. Like he was so far out of his element, he didn’t know how to enjoy being the center of someone’s affections without doing a single thing other than existing.

So when there was no rain the following Sunday, just a bit of overcast skies with a hint of blue peeking through, they decided to have their picnic in lieu of brunch again, though Aziraphale had second thoughts when they got ready to leave. “Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, giving Crowley a onceover as he carted the basket to the Bentley. “You’ll freeze.”

Crowley glanced down at himself - denims, button-up, blazer - and shrugged. “It's what I have.”

“Do you want to borrow one of my coats?” He almost didn’t get through the question, Crowley’s exaggerated grimace enough to tell him just what he thought of that suggestion. He had a feeling that would be the case, but Aziraphale frowned just the same. “Perhaps we shouldn’t picnic outside then. It’s far too cold, Crowley.” 

They'd just barely hit double digits, temperature-wise, and it would likely only fall from there, but it was the only semi-clear day forecasted for the week ahead. He wiggled in place, considering for a moment. “I technically have a jacket.”

Aziraphale’s brows lifted as if to say, is that so? then dragged his gaze along his frame once again. “Well, I suppose it’s up to you. Are you comfortable, dear?”

At the moment, yes. After even fifteen minutes sitting on a blanket outside, it would very likely be a different story. Shivering would likely kill the entire mood and render the whole excursion moot. “I'll grab it,” he decided, unlocking the Bentley so Aziraphale could tuck the basket in the back. “It's tucked away in the boot. More of a souvenir than something I actually planned on wearing around.”

“Oh! Oh, I assumed you meant-” Aziraphale shook his head, perking up as he realised Crowley hadn’t been implying that his blazer was a suitable coat for outside. “Nevermind. I’m sure it will be fine, my dear. As long as it isn’t full of holes, otherwise that would completely miss the point.” He set the basket down on the floor of the backseat to ensure it was secure enough for the drive.

“It isn't. It's just... unconventional.” And it still pleased him to think about that particular success. He popped the boot and found it easily, tucked and folded in a corner. “It's also very stolen, but I was twenty-seven so it's a moot thing now.”

“Stolen?” Aziraphale came around to look at it. At first glance it looked like a basic black jacket, but for a large strip of colour up near the shoulders. “Is that… orange? Crowley, what sort of jacket is this exactly?”

“The fuck shit up sort,” he said with some amusement, grin wicked when Aziraphale gave him a highly unimpressed look. “Road construction, originally. I'd just moved into an already wretched neighborhood and they were starting to build a bloody roundabout. So I nicked this off the back of one of their vans one day.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale looked so offended, one would think it was his jacket that had been nicked. “What if someone took you as a construction worker while you were wearing it? They’d be completely fooled.”

“They did and they were. That was the whole point.” Crowley folded the jacket over his arm. “Get in, angel. I'll tell you on the way.”

On the way, Aziraphale also decided that it was absolutely not a proper coat at all and that Crowley deserved something better. Though he couldn’t deny how interesting Crowley made his mischief sound - the kind that didn’t involve actively hurting anyone or pointless violence - his demon quite clever and creative. He was quite proud of his antics, ever amused by Aziraphale’s perfectly timed reactions, gasping and tsking every now and then. 

“You make yourself out to be quite the rascal.”

Crowley smiled. It had been fun, sneaking onto a construction site as if he had every right to be there, ingratiating himself with a handful of workers who really should've known better. His hair had been longer then. In style for the time, but not for a manual labor job. Plans had been changed with the right words to the right people, one or two phone calls mimicking intimidating bosses, and a rather miserable, wet night moving markers by hand. All worthwhile when they'd paved a four way stop instead of an irritating roundabout. It was probably long since changed now, but he’d been satisfied at the time.

“I think the word fits well enough, but it was fun. And the jacket's just a good souvenir. I don't have many of those left, but it's hard to sell something like this. Even for a slimy solicitor.”

“Well, that may be, but people will certainly question it if you wear it about town.” Aziraphale turned his gaze to the window, watching the scenery as they passed through one of their small, neighboring towns. “Oh, stop here, darling.”

He hadn’t been planning to wear it around. That was why it was in the Bentley and not on the coat rack. But he didn't bother arguing that point, brows arching as he looked at his passenger. “Why?” 

“Because I- You drove past it.” Aziraphale craned his neck back to watch the road they’d needed to turn onto. “Turn around- Crowley! You can’t make a u-turn in the middle of the road!”

“Oh, no one's around. S'fine.” Crowley made the next turn when he was huffily directed. “Just where am I taking you?” 

“Ah, left here, my dear. Onto their main road, yes. And you’ll see once we’re there.” There happened to be a small boutique shop sandwiched between a jeweler’s and a bank. “Park right in front here. We’ll just pop in for a tick.”

Crowley pulled up to the kerb, eyeing the boutique with a quirk to his brow and none of his amusement allowed to curve his lips. “This is an insult to my fuck shit up jacket.”

“Must you call it that?”

At that, he did grin. “Yes.”

Aziraphale huffed, rolling his eyes, but nonetheless pleased to see that Crowley wasn’t unhappy about the stop. “Well, I don’t believe our picnic is the proper venue for such a jacket, so perhaps we’ll find something suitable here.” With a firm nod, he got out of the car, adjusted his waistcoat, then walked into the shop.

Crowley was quick to follow. It wasn’t as if he was being stubborn about not having an actual coat, knowing he’d need one sooner rather than later, but it hadn’t come up and it hadn’t been a thought concerning their picnic. The changing of seasons hadn’t been a concern in a very long time for him. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets when he reached Aziraphale’s side again, the little boutique cramped and decorated for Halloween. “I think you’d be surprised at the places one can get to in a jacket like that. Get a fake badge, scratch most of it off to look like wear and tear, and you can slip in just about anywhere.”

“I don’t doubt it, dear, but just where do you think you’ll be ‘slipping into’ on our date?” Aziraphale asked, flicking his gaze up at him with an amused quirk to his lips. “Besides, if it’s a souvenir, as you say, it’s likely something you’d want to hang onto and not risk ruining. Now, I take it you’ll want something in black?”

“Yup.” He popped the P, sauntering alongside Aziraphale as they poked at the racks - well, he poked, Aziraphale more perused - and trying to recall the last time he’d done something as simple as look for a coat. Even after months of freedom, there were still little things to experience, to relearn. Reintegration wasn’t a simple or immediate process, and he felt it more keenly some moments than others.

Though it was easier to handle those moments now than it had been when he’d first gotten out. Part of that was likely the simple fact that there wasn’t as much immediate change to adjust to. In London, roads he’d known had changed, shops he’d once known had moved or closed, restaurants he’d eaten at or gotten takeaway from had changed hands, signs, menus. Music had evolved so drastically, the small radio he’d been allowed in his cell only receptive some of the time and the names and beats so jarringly unfamiliar as to be exhausting. Layer after layer of change had been as smothering as shackles and bars until he’d finally gotten the Bentley to a place where he could put it all in the rearview mirror.

The rapid changes since reaching Tadfield should’ve been just as awful. Small town, new faces, new places, a job that should’ve brought on more bad memories than it did, a housemate, a- a romance. For all his past experiences and feelings on relationships and the trappings that came with them, this should’ve been just another circle of Hell.

Except it hadn’t been. It wasn’t. The town had come with an angel, and instead of suffocating him, every change was slotting into place to cocoon him in something warm and probably a lot more intimidating than expected when Aziraphale had teasingly asked him what his taste for danger was weeks and weeks before. Crowley hadn’t been lying, though, when he’d claimed to have a healthy appetite. He could handle this and thought he had been pretty well, even if some of the affection tended to leave him stuttering and flustered when he wasn’t expecting it or when Aziraphale took his teasing to a more wicked place. They were doing a bit better than just muddling through.

Even now, after reminding Aziraphale yet again that he was dealing with a criminal with a tale of several broken laws just to modify a street and an implication that he’d done more and possibly worse after acquiring the jacket, there wasn’t a hint of disgust or serious disapproval or mistrust. He was just plucking up coats, casting them and Crowley a discerning glance, then replacing them. As if it was fine and normal and okay to be with him and, for Somebody’s sake, Aziraphale made it so easy to believe that it was. Every single moment - even when they’d managed to annoy one another since they kept gravitating back - filled a crack in him, letting doors open when he knew the walls around them wouldn’t collapse.

Aziraphale may have thought him brave for still being able to reach out, but Crowley saw it more as his own bad habits resurfacing. He’d spent most of his life putting his trust in people he shouldn’t have, and here he was doing it all again. He didn’t consider himself brave so much as foolish in that regard, but Aziraphale’s reactions and actions were where the differences lay. He saw Aziraphale as a pillar, strong and sturdy despite the hurt that made him buckle sometimes. The least Crowley could do was prop him up in turn, keep him from crumbling to pieces so he could stay strong enough to be soft.

When he realised that the discerning glances had been exchanged for a lingering, patient look, Crowley blinked a few times and weaved a bit with a sharp little inhale, a little hiss. “Wot?”

“No need to fret, darling,” Aziraphale assured him, growing fonder rather than put off by the hissing. “I asked what you thought of this coat? Mid-length, single-breasted rather than the doubles we keep seeing. I just think that look is a bit too broad in the chest, so this should suit your frame better. Nice wide lapels though. I think it adds character. But it doesn’t matter what I think in the end. Here, take a look.”

It mattered. What Aziraphale thought mattered quite a bit. He reached for the coat, knowing he’d get it if Aziraphale liked it on him. “Are you secretly a fashion expert, angel?” he teased.

Colour rushed to his cheeks as his gaze darted away, scanning the racks without paying attention to the coats he was skimming through. “Well, I… I’ve noticed that most of your clothes are… well-tailored. That is to say, they’re close-fitting, so I thought that might be what you’re most comfortable in.” He glanced back, quick and shy, to see him slip an arm through it. “The lapels are because you have a bit of a flair for the dramatic.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he lied, pulling the coat on fully and smoothing his fingers along the lapels. Besides just knowing he looked good in them, it was the pressure of tight clothes that he liked, the cling and phantom sensation of constant contact when he got so little of it. The coat suited that well enough, heavy but not cumbersome, and it had better pockets than his jeans. His hands dipped into them as he tipped his head, as expectant as he could look with his sunglasses on. “Well?”

Hands clasped behind his back, Aziraphale slowly circled him to get a good look. It did fit him nicely, accentuating his shoulders and not so long that it took away from his legs. Once they were face to face again, Aziraphale followed the path of the polished, black buttons up to his collar. He squeezed his own hand, then brought both forward to fuss with Crowley’s lapels so his clothes would sit smooth beneath the coat. He very gently pulled on the silver chain he always wore, the cool metal sliding through his fingers as he adjusted it to suit the coat’s collar.

“I think you cut a rather handsome figure in it,” he replied, finally meeting his gaze. “It certainly suits you. Are you comfortable?”

Not the word he’d use for the jumble of everything the fussing had inspired, the heat pooling in his gut and the quivering in his chest. “Mn- nn- muh- yeah.”

Aziraphale smoothed his hands over his shoulders, the light scratch of the wool fabric tickling his palms as he mimed dusting him off for a moment more of contact. “Tip-top. Well, I think this might be the one then. Oh. But you should see yourself in a mirror first. Seems as though there’s one over there.”

“S’fine. You like it, so that’s good enough for me.”

He gave him a look. “I also like tartan. Are you honestly just going to take my word for it?”

This wasn’t tartan. This was black and picked because he liked closer-fitting things and to look a little dramatic. Picked because Aziraphale gave enough of a damn to pay attention. He didn’t bother taking his hands out of the pockets when he reached out, pulling him a step closer into the fabric and meeting him halfway so he wouldn’t lose his balance. Then he swooped down, their lips meeting so he could topple him with his mouth instead.

Aziraphale’s gasp was muffled in the kiss, heart thundering as he clung to Crowley. As the initial shock faded, his eyes closed and he lifted a hand to cup Crowley’s cheek. Skin to skin, so they weren’t as chilled when Aziraphale broke the kiss.

“Crowley, we’re in a store,” he protested breathlessly, looking at him through his lashes, the blue of his eyes bright as ever. 

“And if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you in this store twice.”

“Foul fiend.” But he didn’t stop, tempted to see if he’d follow through.

Of course he did. It was hard enough to resist Aziraphale on a normal day, impossible when Crowley was stirred up, when body, heart, and mind all wanted the same thing. It didn’t matter that they were in a store, it never mattered where they were to him. He wanted this, wanted Aziraphale, and let every bit of it pour into the kiss as he held him tighter and pressed him closer.

Aziraphale’s fingers tangled in his hair, mussing it a bit as he pulled him in to get a better taste. He let it linger a little longer than the last, just as drawn to him and heart aflutter from the way Crowley wanted him. He had to muster a great deal of self-control to step back this time, flushed and giggling as he fixed Crowley’s coat once again.

“Alright. Give it to me now, dear, if you’re certain it’s the one you want.”

“That’s one way to phrase that,” he mused, shrugging out of the coat and bundling it in Aziraphale’s arms, too charmed by and too fond of the way he giggled and happily wiggled to realise the implication. For a minute, anyway. “Hang on, you’re not buying it.”

“I believe I am, actually.” Aziraphale draped it back on its hanger, looking pleased when it fell the way he wanted it to. “Think of it as my treat, just as you’ve treated me to sushi and tea and you did buy the apple spice cake from the bakery.” Which Crowley would maybe have a bite of on his own if not enticed by Aziraphale himself, though they both found it easier not to draw attention to this fact. Even if it was practically spelled out in neon lights. 

“S’not really an equal trade,” he protested, though could barely admit why in his own head. Aziraphale’s enjoyment of food was nearly hedonistic and being an audience to that enjoyment was a consistent pleasure. Cake, with the way frosting tended to fall onto his fingers or cling to his lips, had become Crowley’s favourite thing to watch him eat. Treating him to meals was a gift to them both, frankly. “I eat when we go out. Dunno what you get out of buying me a coat.”

“Well, this way I won’t worry about you catching a chill or feel guilty since going on a picnic was my idea in the first place,” he reasoned. “Which I will. I’ll feel quite guilty. After all, I go to church. It’s one of the first things they teach you, how to feel proper guilt.” Not that he looked like he felt a shred of it presently.

“There, see, that’s a good reason to not go.” Though he’d never begrudge Aziraphale his desire to go just as he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t his own decisions to avoid places of worship. He followed him and his eye roll to the counter, but couldn’t get a word of protest into the cheerful chat Aziraphale immediately engaged the cashier in. He truly could be a bastard, but it was so incredibly sweet. He was impossible.

Crowley adored him with every fiber of his being as they stepped back outside a few minutes later, him in his new coat. “So anymore unscheduled stops? Thought you were peckish, angel.”

“No, that’s it, darling.” Aziraphale beamed at him, as content as it was possible for him to be in with this matter settled. “Come now, best get a wiggle on before the stew gets cold,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat.

Adored him. Probably besotted and what in Hell was he doing, going around being besotted by bastard angels? “If it does, it’s your fault.” The Bentley came to life around them and Crowley shifted gears. “I was willing to wear my fuck shit up jacket.”

“Pardon me, my dear, but I didn’t think it appropriate for you to ‘fuck shit up’ on our picnic.”

Any and all attempts to pull away from the kerb were aborted, Crowley’s fingers freezing on both wheel and gear shift. Which was really for the best as every bit of heat in his body had made a direct and instant path between his legs and, oh, had he not been prepared to hear those words out of that mouth in that tone. “You-” was the first word he managed to say and eventually he added more, “-are not allowed to ssswear in the Bentley.”

Both brows arched as Aziraphale cast him a sidelong glance. “Oh?”

“No. New rule. Christ, angel.” Crowley made himself put the Bentley in gear and shot out of the parking spot. 

“Right. Terribly sorry, my dear. It won’t happen again,” he promised as solemnly as he could, which wasn’t very given that he couldn’t quite keep his smile from tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Bassstard,” he hissed, too much fondness and too much desire in the word as he carefully focused on the road for once. No amount of speed would get him away from either, but he pressed the accelerator down and did his best.

It definitely got them to the park quickly, more than making up for the detour. The grass underfoot was still green, many of the trees still clinging to golden, orange, red leaves. They were certainly the only fools there for a picnic, though that didn't seem to dampen Aziraphale's cheer. It was just fine with Crowley, carrying the basket while Aziraphale sought a suitable place to spread their blanket in this miniscule meadow.

It would probably be full of life in other seasons, Crowley mused. Winter would see children pelting one another with snowballs, building rounded men, flailing around to make snow angels. Or snow demons if they knew to cup their hands and push the sides into the snow above their heads. 

Spring would doubtlessly bring flowers in the carefully planted bushes some landscaper had deemed appropriate and in the wild way of nature, in the fruit trees Crowley recognized nearby. Much of it would live and last through summer. Through couples young and old, hand in hand or arm in arm, through children impressing one another and their parents with eager cartwheels across sun-kissed grass, through babies pushed in prams, through people just being so very human. It was all so simple, yet so intricate because it was free.

He stopped when he realised Aziraphale had, turning since he'd left him a few steps behind in his wonderings. There was freedom there too: in the patience and quiet fondness in his smile, in the open and innate goodness of him, in the way Aziraphale didn't bury him in questions, in the way Aziraphale just let him be. Like it was easy. Like it was simple. 

Crowley had craved simple far longer than he'd ever admit, even to himself, and he was going to cradle it with both hands now that he had it. 

“It hits sometimes,” he said, explaining this lapse and the one in the boutique, “that I can do normal things again like looking at clothes and that I can do new things like taking someone I like on a picnic.”

The warmth in Aziraphale's chest spread as he watched him, arm outstretched to him and hand open in offering. “I understand, my dear. Take all the time you need.” 

Because it never should have been taken from him in the first place, but things happened for a reason. There was a plan, somehow in all this, Aziraphale had faith enough in that. Far be it from him to drag Crowley away from these experiences and relearning the world he lived in. Adjusting to it now that he was free.

Crowley stepped closer again, taking the offered hand with an ease he certainly hadn't felt that first time when Aziraphale had touched his hand by accident in a darkened cinema. No questions of whether or not it was okay, if giving or taking the simple contact was safe or welcome. It was that and more. 

“I really didn't think I was used to being locked up. All the routine of it, the same exact pattern every day and someone in a uniform poking and prodding at you through it. It was dull and frustrating and I hated it, so I thought it'd be easy. Then after I got out, it took two weeks before I let myself sleep in and the first time it rained, all I thought about was how shit it was that I couldn't go outside. It didn’t click that I could until afterwards. The second time it rained, I was already out and about. Waiting on a bus to pick up a part I needed for the Bentley. I think I sat on the bench for two hours because I could. I got sick like a damned idiot, but it got a little easier to start stepping out of the routine after that.”

“I wouldn't call you an idiot. A bit reckless, perhaps.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand, then brought it up to press it against his cheek and held it there. “I can't imagine how staggering it must have been. Having to start all over like that.” And without anyone on his side. 

“A bit, but I clearly didn't learn my lesson. Came to Tadfield and am doing the same thing.” His fingers warmed against Aziraphale's cheek or his cheek warmed under the touch. Or maybe they were warming each other. “It's leagues better this go around. If you were wondering.”

“Only for your sake,” he replied, so much fondness shining in his gaze. “Though, I must say, I've been reaping the benefits of your decision, too. If you were also wondering.”

“Might've crossed my mind. Briefly.” Crowley leaned in, kiss as sweet and light as the tease. “Are you going to pick a spot to sit in the next millennia or is your stew going to get cold?” 

“I have picked a spot,” he huffed, warm breath tickling Crowley's lips. “I need your help to spread out the blanket.”

Crowley kissed him again before stepping back, setting the basket down and helping him spread the blanket across the grass so they could sit. Not quite side-by-side so they could see one another, but not at all on opposite sides of the tartan spread. “We'll need to do this again when it's not ten degrees.”

“I was willing to wait, but you did make the suggestion to pack something warm,” Aziraphale couldn't resist pointing out as he settled cross-legged and began unpacking the basket, pulling out two bowls first, then a large tartan thermos. “This spot is quite lovely in late spring. In May, perhaps early June.”

Crowley nodded, reaching in for the Bordeaux and their glasses. It might be nice to be one of those couples, wandering the park in spring. “S'about when apple trees start to flower, so I'm sure it is.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, trying to tamp down the surge of hope and delight at the thought that they would picnic again in May. Best not to get carried away just yet, so he focused on putting their meal together and chatted about what else bloomed in spring: the cherry trees and primrose, cowslips and violets. In addition to the stew and wine, they'd also packed large slices of a sourdough loaf, a container with apples and honey, and some Cornish pasties they'd picked up along with the cake. Aziraphale doled out equal portions of everything between their bowls and the small plates he'd brought along. Steam still rose from the hearty stew, beckoning them to indulge with its tempting warmth and spiced aroma. Crowley and Aziraphale made a trade, a wine glass for a bowl, then tucked into their meal as a light breeze rustled the edges of their blanket and moved the clouds overhead.

Chapter Text

Neither of them had an umbrella for this rain. Though, to be perfectly fair, rain hadn’t been in the forecast. At least it had waited to start pouring until after they’d finished eating, the remnants of their picnic in the basket Aziraphale clung to as they tried to hide beneath an apple tree whilst Crowley pulled up the weather radar on his phone and muttered about meteorologists being paid to be wrong. The tree didn’t make for the best cover, though, droplets still able to sneak through the branches. 

“Looks like it’s gonna stick around a while.” Crowley pocketed his phone and tugged off his new coat as he spoke, tucking it over Aziraphale in an effort to keep him and his curls and his clothes from getting much wetter than they already were. “We’ll just have to make a break for the Bentley.”

A soft “oh” escaped Aziraphale, just as surprised by the gesture as he’d been by the rain. Though it left Crowley exposed to the onslaught of the Heavens, any guilt he might have felt was effortlessly drowned by the chivalry of the act and how very sweet it was. Aziraphale shifted his grip on the picnic basket so he could hold onto the edge of the coat and keep it from slipping. 

“I suppose you’re right. The whole point was to try and get a picnic in before the weather really took a turn for the worse. And it started out as such a lovely morning,” he sighed, praying what remained of the apple spice cake wasn’t as soggy as the rest of them. He’d rather been looking forward to indulging in the rest of it later that evening, offering tastes of it to Crowley off his own fork in between his nibbling, unsure if he should be embarrassed or pleased by the way the man watched him eat his cake. 

If it hadn’t been soggy when they first packed it away, it certainly was after their journey to the Bentley. Aziraphale’s attempts to shield the basket were thwarted by the wind guiding the rain right into their faces. Crowley’s sunglasses were absolutely mottled with droplets by the time they reached the car, their bunched up picnic blanket offering meager protection to the seats before they slid inside. It wasn’t until they were no longer being pelted that they realised how soaked they were. Aziraphale’s trousers were plastered to his thighs and calves, the beige fabric darkened to a taupey grey and Crowley’s blazer and shirt clung to his chest and arms like a second skin. They looked at each other as the rain on the roof of the car echoed around them, dripping wet and the taste of their last kiss nearly washed away.

Fingers still curled in Crowley’s coat, Aziraphale clung to it as he leaned in and kissed the rain from his lips. “Bit of a sticky wicket we’re in,” he murmured, fondly recalling that being one of the first things he’d ever said to him, in another rain, in another lifetime, it seemed.

“Christ,” Crowley replied, the laughter bubbling in his tone just as far away from the frustration he’d been wallowing in that first meeting. He was much happier in this lifetime than that one.

Aziraphale grinned, pleased as ever by the sound of his laugh. “Clearly I’m not keeping your mouth busy enough if you’re still able to blaspheme like that.”

Said the angel who'd sworn in that very seat a little while earlier. On a Sunday, no less. Crowley slipped off his sunglasses, wicked smirk pulling at his lips as he tried in vain to do more than just smear water droplets over the lenses with the damp sleeve of his blazer. “Mm. Guess you’ll need to find something to occupy my mouth with.”

“I suppose I will.” Aziraphale traced the curve of his lips with his eyes before doing it again with his own. “In future, perhaps. For now, I imagine sitting in these wet clothes is going to get rather uncomfortable rather quickly.”

“Probably.” But Crowley didn’t lean away from him to put the Bentley in gear, gaze sweeping over him. All the layers kept him from seeing much difference from normal, but that was hardly a deterrent. The low tug of want wasn’t new, but it was insistent. The cling of fabric made his hands itch and his mouth water. Every bit of skin Aziraphale ever showed was a tease, a sample, and Crowley wanted the whole meal. It had been lingering on his skin since the boutique and even icy rain hadn’t chilled it. “Want some help out of them?”

The playfulness in Aziraphale’s eyes flickered as he followed the path Crowley’s trailed over him. It wasn’t the first time Crowley looked at him like that, but it was the first time either of them had actually suggested what he inferred he was implying. In, well, words. In the weeks since their first kiss, he’d certainly found himself better understanding the idea of undressing one with one’s eyes. Particularly when they gleamed like molten gold, igniting a heat in his belly that spread to the tips of his fingers and tongue urging him to touch and taste.

They were darker now, Crowley’s eyes, in the shadow of the storm. Aziraphale shivered as the crackling warmth clashed with his chilled skin. He’d wondered what it would be like, but was it too soon? Did Crowley really understand what he wanted when he looked at him like that? Would he want what he’d find when he moved on from undressing him with his eyes to… actually undressing him?

He took his turn to drink in the state of Crowley’s clothes, the neck of his shirt just wide enough to see the shine of rainwater dappled skin pulled taut over his collarbone. He wanted to drag his lips over it, into the hollow of his throat and pull all manner of senseless noises out of him and feel them rumble as he kissed there. His jeans were really no more tempting than they usually were, just as dark and tight, but he knew his legs must be just as icy as his own and he wanted to feel them warm up beneath his touch.

Oh, he wanted those things desperately, but…

Aziraphale swallowed, forcing his eyes back up to Crowley’s, the colours of the storm reflected in them as he realised he was taking too long to answer. Much too long, good God, he wouldn’t wait forever. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he breathed.

It gave Crowley pause. The long, lingering look had stirred up the want even more, spilling into his bloodstream to warm every inch. Every inch. But the words- He'd never push his angel if he wasn't ready. That wasn't and had never been his style. “Right.”

Aziraphale recognized the disappointment on his face nonetheless and his hand came to rest on Crowley’s thigh before he could think twice about the bold move. “That’s not a ‘no,’” he added slowly.

Crowley blinked at his hand, hope hot and tight in his chest. “Oh. Then...”

“Then if… if you’re certain it’s something you want…”

“Angel, I very much want to get my hands on you if you'll let me.”

He inhaled sharply, fingers scraping against damp denim in an attempt to seek purchase. “Oh, I… I want that, too. But I think it’s only fair to warn you that it- it has been quite some time…”

“Has been for me too. I still know how it all works.” Crowley took his hand and lifted it, watching Aziraphale as he kissed his palm. As he nudged up his sleeve and very carefully undid the clasp of his cufflink. “I'd love to know what it's like with you,” he murmured, pressed a damp kiss over the pulse point of his wrist and relished the full-bodied shiver that shook Aziraphale and had nothing to do with the cold. He wanted to watch him come apart under his hands, taste the rain-kissed skin on his tongue, hear every word in that extensive vocabulary fade into basic, breathless sounds of pleasure. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale's pulse quickened under his lips. His fingertips brushed against his temple and the shell of his ear with quivering wonder. He wanted it all, too. “Yes, but perhaps somewhere a little more auspicious than the Bentley, dearest.” At least for their first time. “Take me home?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley kissed his palm again, slipped his jacket back up to cover his wrist like it was a secret he wanted no one else to see. And, in some ways, he didn't. He'd seen him roll up his sleeves more than once, but he'd never gotten to expose the skin himself. He'd never gotten to kiss his way from wrist to elbow before, and he wanted to. Permission given, it was bordering closer to a need. 

Once the Bentley was in gear and he was on an actual road, he held out a hand and shivered when Aziraphale took it and laced their fingers. He held his hand as tightly as he did the belief that a brake pedal would magically appear under his foot if he pressed down hard enough. 

It was still raining when they reached the farm, Crowley parking around the side of the barn in his usual spot. He reached out before the engine had fully switched off, sliding his wet self closer. Without giving himself a chance to be embarrassed or annoyed at the squeak the blanket couldn't mask, he brought his lips to Aziraphale's and sank into a kiss. Deep and coaxing, slow and thorough, warm and promising so much more of the same so long as Aziraphale stayed open to this change, this next step between them. Crowley would never begrudge him a no, but he hoped with everything he had that it would stay a yes. 

Aziraphale's lips parted for him, tempted by his promises and drawn to the warmth he exuded. He traced along the angle of Crowley's jaw with the pads of his fingers, barely pressing at all, then delved a hand into his wet hair. Neat fingernails scritched along his scalp as he angled him closer. He wanted him, all of him. He wanted to show him the tenderness he'd been deprived off for so many years and take him apart with pleasure. 

His teeth scraped over his lower lip as he pulled back, looking at him through his lashes. Aziraphale didn't consider himself sultry, but he wanted to be desirable for him. If Crowley wanted to unwrap him, he wanted to make it something worth his while.

“I haven't changed my mind, Crowley,” he told him, voice a little low and rough from the kissing. 

“Right,” Crowley managed, voice cracking a little. Some part of him, tucked away and too big to be brought to the surface, felt as if he'd been waiting his entire life for this chance. He reached over Aziraphale and opened his door for him. “Your room?” 

He nodded, heart pounding as he got out of the car, still shielded beneath Crowley's coat. The picnic basket and blanket were deposited just inside the door. Aziraphale really should have put the latter and their clothes in the wash, but the door had barely closed behind him before his hands cupped Crowley's delightfully sinuous hips and tugged him close to replace the rainwater on his lips with the taste of his own. The sodden coat finally succumbed to its own weight and gravity's pull, sliding off his neck and shoulders to land with a wet slap at their feet.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, distracted by the sound and now the puddles they were leaving on the hardwood floor. “Oh, we'll track water through the house…”

They would've regardless. They would've gone to their respective rooms and dried off, but there still would've been puddles on the floor in their wake. Crowley didn't bother to point that out, though, pushing Aziraphale's coat off his shoulders and drawing him into another kiss. And several more after. “We'll take care of it later,” he managed between them, Aziraphale’s coat somehow landing on the coat rack when he tossed it. “Bed now, angel.”

He'd gone pliant from the kissing, so much of it muddling up his head, he didn't spare another thought to the floors. They couldn't make it up the stairs without sneaking in a few more. Aziraphale always found it hard to stop kissing Crowley once he'd started, his self-restraint strained so terribly around him, but now… Now they didn't have to stop.^[4]

In the threshold of his bedroom, Aziraphale tugged at the hem of Crowley's shirt, tight and clinging to his stomach and waist. “What was it you were saying about helping us out of our wet things?” 

“Getting there.” Crowley undid his bowtie, the top two buttons of his collar, and ducked his head to press a sucking kiss to the newly exposed skin. “In a hurry?” 

“Well,” he tried to huff, but was waylaid by the damp heat of his mouth. Aziraphale tilted his head, offering more as his eyes slipped closed, senses centering on Crowley. He peeled up the edge of his shirt and placed his hands against his skin. “I'm- oh… Happy to be patient, my dear, but it is a bit cold.” 

“It's your own fault for having a good four layers on.” Though he really didn't mind taking the time to remove them all, fingers busy on the buttons of his waistcoat and a shiver running through him as those soft hands added some heat to his own chilled skin. 

“Insulation, my dear.” His lips quirked up and he slid one hand between his back and the tight, damp fabric, stroking along his spine. “When it's not quite so wet.”

“Ngk.” He hadn't given much thought to Aziraphale's hands being on him, but he clearly should've. They drew out little sounds with ease, each of them spilled against Aziraphale's neck as he parted the waistcoat and moved on to the next set of buttons. 

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale hummed, breath tickling the curve of Crowley's ear. He drew his hands back only to toy with the metal chain swaying in what little space there was between them. “Touching you?” 

“I’m not complaining.” He lifted his head with every intention of kissing him again, but huffed. Four layers had been a joke, but there was another shirt beneath the pale blue button-up. Just a thin white thing, but another layer in his way. “You’re a tease.”

“I beg your pardon.” He gave the chain a little tug, then slid it off from around Crowley’s neck and laid it carefully atop the dresser. “I wanted to be properly dressed for the occasion. I have standards, you know.”

“And right now, they’re very much in my way.” Aziraphale’s pocketwatch joined the chain before his waistcoat hit the floor, both shirts untucked with a few tugs. “You don’t have nearly as much in yours.” 

“I suppose I don’t.” 

Aziraphale stepped back enough to keep Crowley from undressing him further so he could push his blazer off his shoulders and peel that clinging black shirt the rest of the way off, up and over his head with his own insistent tugs. His mouth went dry, like he just swallowed a glass of sauvignon blanc, his gaze flitting over the planes of his chest and abdomen, tracing the long lines from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. His heart leapt and heat pooled lower as he imagined his mouth exploring every inch of him to quench his thirst and make a map of his rapture. 

It was his turn to press kisses to the column of his throat and down along the curve of his shoulder. “Lucky me,” he murmured against his skin, hands busy memorizing the dips and bumps of his spine and hips.

“Angel,” he moaned, the word spilling low and steeped in want. He pressed closer again, a hand bunching in his shirt and the other diving into damp curls to tip his head back and get those lips under his own again. If there was any water on his skin, it was surely evaporating from all the little flames Aziraphale’s touch seemed to ignite. The kiss only stoked them, drawing out a greedy little sound. “If I don’t get you under me very soon, I’m gonna go mad.”

“Mm. Can’t have that, can we?” he gasped, breath hitching at the tugs to his hair and the way each one of Crowley’s sounds sent a shiver through him. “Perhaps, we should make our way to the bed then.” He nudged him towards the edge of it, stopping only to crouch down and unlace his brogues.

Crowley took two breaths to steady the reaction Aziraphale getting down in front of him caused, but it didn’t help. It didn’t matter that he was focusing on his shoes in his practical way. “It has been a long time if you don’t know what picture you make right now.”

Aziraphale glanced up at him, wet curls still framing his face and lips a little swollen from being so well-kissed. “Who says I don’t know,” he replied, a touch of mischief gleaming in his eyes.

“Fuck,” was Crowley’s rather succinct opinion on that. It was the best thing his brain could come up with anyway, gazing down at him. “Knew you were a tease.”

He set his shoes neatly beside the bed, his fingers skimming along Crowley’s calf, down to where his pants tucked into his boots and then tapped against his ankle. “Would you like assistance with yours while I’m down here?”

Since he wasn't an idiot and was enjoying it every bit as much as Aziraphale seemed to be, “Yesss.”

The sound of the boot’s zipper heightened the heady anticipation in the air. Aziraphale guided Crowley’s hand to his shoulder, encouraging him to hold on for balance even as he braced his hip with his own palm. After the first boot was tugged off, Aziraphale leaned forward to brush his lips against his stomach, just beside his navel.

“You know, dearest, I didn’t think anything could possibly be as tight as your trousers, but your boots are certainly giving them a run for their money,” he hummed.

“Trousers are still winning. Getting tighter, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh dear.” He kneaded the back of his thigh as he shifted his grip to get to the other boot. “Better see to that next then.”

“Ngk.” It would save him from the decidedly unsexy wiggling he’d have to do to get them off himself as wet as they were with the decided benefit of getting Aziraphale’s hands on him even more. His fingers tangled in bright curls when the second boot joined the first, lightly tugging and gently scritching his scalp. He wanted him back up, to finish tugging away all those layers, but he could be patient.

Aziraphale tipped his head back, admiring the flush creeping down his neck under his attention. His own skin was starting to feel heated as his blood rushed through his veins, especially when he finally looked at the physical proof of Crowley’s arousal straining against the confines of his trousers. For a moment he could only marvel at it, that he was capable of drawing it out from his hands and lips alone. That he could make Crowley want him. He kissed the skin just above the low waistband, his palm cupping him through the fabric and grinding slowly.

“You’re so very gorgeous, my dear.”

Incoherent noises spilled out, words lost to him as easily as ever. It had been longer than fifteen years since he’d had someone else’s hands on him. The whole thing had just started to feel like a bother, but there couldn’t be a word further from that here. Not with those stunning eyes on him and those soft hands doing wicked things to him. “Killing me, angel,” he eventually managed, voice catching on a groan.

Nuzzling the hollow of his hip, Aziraphale finally popped the button of his trousers and slid the zip down. He leaned back just enough to start inching the waist down, only for his heart to leap into his throat when he realised there was nothing else between his fingers and Crowley’s skin. “Oh…” he exhaled, suddenly so very close to his cock as it curved up towards his belly.

Crowley blew out a breath that was part relief and part something else. It almost could've passed for a laugh. “Told you there were fewer layers.”

Aziraphale stammered for a good minute as his cheeks reddened. “Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting this,” he defended, resisting the urge to squirm as his own throbbed within the confines of his clothes. “We were in public.”

He had to grin. “Angel, if you think I bother ever, I have news for you.”

He didn't know how his face could get even hotter with the amount of blood suddenly rushing south, but it did. “You foul fiend.”

It sounded a little too husky to be an insult. “Mmhm. Come on now, Aziraphale, I'm the one who's supposed to be helping you out of your things. Hurry up.”

“‘Hurry up?’ Oh, yes, Heaven help me for not wanting to rush through this. Why, I suppose I’ll simply snap my fingers and have it all done with, shall I?” he babbled as he rose out of the crouch at Crowley’s feet, still attempting to help tug his trousers down the rest of the way. “‘Hurry up.’ Hmph.”

The put-upon “hmph” made his whole day. Current and very near activities aside. “It'd be a handy trick.” Crowley's hand slipped down to cup his cheek, though, aware that it was babbling and not quite their usual back-and-forth. “Are you nervous?” 

“Nervous? Me? No,” he said, possibly a bit too hastily. Aziraphale tilted his cheek into Crowley’s hand, his own curling around his wrist and thumbing over his pulse point. “Possibly. As I said, it has been some time. For both of us, for that matter. Perhaps I should draw the curtains first. Light some candles. The lighting, it’s not- it could be better. I do want this to be a good experience for you, my dear.”

“You should let me finish getting rid of all those layers so I can touch you how I want. That’ll make for a good experience.”

“Well, I- I- I’m not exactly stopping you.” Aziraphale fiddled with the cufflink that was still on one sleeve, undoing it so it wouldn’t get lost in the middle of things and set it on his bedside table. “Only doing my part to disrobe you as well.”

“Uh-huh.” His mind was a little too busy still if he was nervous, so Crowley cupped the back of his neck and drew him in for a kiss that would hopefully distract from whatever he was worried about. He tried to push the blue shirt from his shoulders, but Aziraphale’s arms wound around his waist and prevented that. So his hands just skipped down to undo his slacks and Aziraphale pressed them closer together and halted that as well. 

The kiss broke, Crowley’s lips making their way up to Aziraphale’s ear. “You’re definitely stopping me.”

He shuddered pleasantly as his tongue and breath teased the sensitive skin there. “No, I’m not. Why would I do something like that?” he asked, raking his nails with the lightest touch against the small of his back.

“Dunno. I know you want this.” He could feel him through the slacks and whatever he wore beneath them. “So why aren’t you letting me touch you? I’m not going to push you. I just want to know.”

“I want you to touch me.” Aziraphale was rather proud of himself for holding back the quip that he was touching him - cupping his cheeks, stroking along his elbow, taking his hand - because he knew what Crowley meant. 

And he did want. He wanted to be pressed against the mattress with Crowley’s hips nestled in the cradle of his own, their chests flushed and heaving as they moved together in search of mutual pleasure. He wanted to feel what it was like to have Crowley’s long, clever fingers curled around or into him as he pressed more heated kisses into his skin. He wanted Crowley to straddle his thighs and feel the pulse of his cock against his stomach as he rocked and moaned and took pleasure in his body.

But that was when it seemed like too much of a fantasy. Aziraphale pulled back, his hands drifting over his soft middle as he averted his eyes. He couldn’t look at Crowley - lean and lithe and lovely, firm muscles and smooth stomach and truly gorgeous - while he thought about how he’d used the past thirteen years as an excuse to not really bother. If no one else was going to see him, did it matter if he went up a size or two? He’d always been on the rounder side of things, that was just his body. But he’d seen people judge when it wasn’t buttoned up in layers that could believably be the reason behind any extra padding, not that it mattered what others thought, but it did matter what Crowley thought.

He subconsciously tried to tug on his waistcoat, fingers clenching when he realised it wasn’t there, then smoothed over the thin white cloth instead. “But I don’t think I could bear it to see you disappointed,” he admitted quietly, then closed his eyes. It meant he wouldn’t get to see Crowley, the colour in his cheeks or the way he’d move against him, but some sacrifices could be made. “You can touch me.”

Crowley couldn’t even begin to imagine what was running through his mind, but the permission didn’t feel right. He pressed close again, though his hands only cupped his cheeks and nuzzled their brows together, watching and waiting for those blue eyes to come back. “Dunno what I could possibly be disappointed in when I’ve got you, all soft and beautiful, right here.”

Aziraphale sighed as he held onto Crowley’s wrists, the sentiment a bittersweet ache. “Oh, darling. That’s lovely of you to say, but…” He couldn’t mean it. Feeling his intense stare, watching and waiting for him so patiently when he was still hard and pressed against his thigh, Aziraphale kissed him blindly, little seeking pecks at his chin and the corner of his mouth before he found his lips.

Through the haze kissing Aziraphale always seemed to bring, it occurred to Crowley that he could just leave most of it on for now. It would be better to get out of them because they were still wet, but they could work up to that. It also occurred to him that his angel didn’t always seem to have the highest opinion of himself - which was ridiculous - and that it apparently also included how he might look naked - also very ridiculous. If the words didn’t work, he’d just show him.

“Bed’s gonna get wet,” was his only warning before he simply picked him up and put him atop the bedspread. 

“Crow- mmph!”

Quick to follow, Crowley settled atop him and sank right back into a kiss that got Aziraphale’s eyes to open, hands seeking purchase against his skin to hold on tight as he adjusted to the sudden shift in his center of gravity. Any protests at being manhandled so were lost to Crowley’s lips, swallowed by his greedy mouth. It sent a quiet thrill through Aziraphale. He hadn’t thought Crowley capable of actually being able to pick him up and drop him where he liked. A soft moan escaped him as he kissed back, hips rocking up in an abortive, jerky motion.

Crowley ground down in response, the kiss breaking on a pleased hiss. Smugly satisfied with the reaction, he smirked down at him before lowering his mouth to his neck. Tongue and teeth worked down the column, Crowley breathing in his cologne whilst he removed the tartan bowtie fully and tossed it to the nightstand. “My angel.”

His heart swelled as he basked in the joy two words could bring him. “Crowley,” he exhaled, carding his fingers through his hair and tugging in response to the pleasant sting of his teeth. “Oh, you wily thing, you.”

“You like it.” His mouth travelled lower. He didn’t wrest the blue shirt fully away, but he pushed it down one shoulder then the other so each warm, wet, nippy kiss could find skin. New spots he’d never seen and needed to appreciate. He seemed to carry so much on them, how could they be ignored? His forearms were next, Crowley straddling his waist and sitting up. A hand was brought to his lips and, instead of pulling the sleeve off, he just rolled it up. “You have no idea how mad your forearms make me. Every time you roll your sleeves up, I lose my head.”

It was adorable and sweet. Hardly the kind of thing that he’d think would drive anyone mad, but he knew Crowley would linger near him when he rolled his sleeves up. His stare always a bit more intense, focused, and maybe Aziraphale liked the attention even if he didn’t understand it. 

He smiled up at him as his cheeks pinkened, helplessly fond. “Suppose I’ll have to roll them up more often then,” he hummed, trailing his free hand down Crowley’s chest, pausing to circle a nipple with the tip of his nail.

The light touch made him shiver, but he captured Aziraphale’s hand and kissed the palm before setting it on the bed. “Don’t distract me,” he requested, smile nothing but wicked before he turned it against his other hand. His teeth scraped lightly over the pulsepoint at his wrist. “You’ll get your turn if I’m ever finished touching you.”

Arousal thrummed beneath his skin, hot and eager, even as he squirmed with embarrassment. “You can’t just say things like that, Crowley,” he protested weakly, even as his hips rolled up against him. “And why must I wait to touch you?”

“Mm.” He didn’t answer right away, mouth busy trailing the path he’d imagined earlier. They were both surprised when a tease of his tongue at the inside of his elbow made him shiver, so Crowley of course did it again. “Do you think you can’t?” he asked, setting that hand down and picking up the other to deliver the same treatment.

“Of course I can,” he huffed, but the effect was rather ruined by the groan Crowley wrung out of him with his tongue. “But I don’t want- no, I- I shouldn’t be the only one to- oh, dearest, you deserve to feel good, too.” The hand he’d relinquished crept to his thigh this time, thumb stroking the stretch of skin close to the crease where it met his hip.

“Oh, angel.” Crowley caught his hand, both in his grip as he lifted up and tipped forward. He pinned them to either side of Aziraphale’s head, leaning down to nibble his earlobe. “You know I like to watch you. Just spent a whole picnic watching you indulge yourself on wine and food and listening to every single sound you make when something pleases you. Let me be that something for a little while.”

His breath hitched and lashes fluttered, eyes closing when the heady haze of being pinned mingled with the lovely torment of Crowley’s teeth. “Longer,” he breathed. “Oh, I’d indulge myself on you for far longer than a little while, Crowley, and I’d be a great deal more than pleased about it.”

“Good thing we have all night and all day Monday. Maybe you’ll get a turn by dinner tomorrow,” he teased, slipping back down. He went lower this time, bunching the white undershirt up so his tongue could journey just above the waistband of his trousers. While he sucked and nipped a little mark near his navel, his hands undid the button and drew the zip down. “Can I?”

Aziraphale chanced a peek down at him and shuddered as those warm, golden eyes gazed up at him from where he lingered by the pale curve of his belly. “Yes,” he croaked out, already twitching, Crowley’s hands so close.

“My angel,” he hummed, praise as well as claim as he began to inch Aziraphale's trousers down. “Arch up for me a- That's it.” He drew them further down his thighs, cupping his hips and lowering him back down when they were far enough. The white shirt got nudged a little further up while Crowley peppered the curve of his stomach with appreciative kisses. No different from what he'd done for his arms, his shoulders, his throat - it was all Aziraphale and there was no part of him that could ever be disliked. 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale’s fingers clenched into the pillow, staggered and breathless by the tenderness. He hid his face in the crook of his arm on a moan, but couldn’t resist peeking every now and then to catch a glimpse of his tongue against his skin or a flash of rapture on the other man’s face at just being able to put his mouth on any part of him. That of all places, this was where he stroked and sucked and nibbled, where he hummed his approval at each of Aziraphale’s punched out gasps and muffled sounds. Blue eyes darkened with hunger and need, unable to look away at all by the time Crowley had his fill.

And this time, he didn't get in the way when Crowley worked his shirt up and off. Both blue and white joined everything else on the floor. Crowley sat back, eyeing him the way Aziraphale might a particularly excellent bottle of wine or artfully arranged sushi. “My angel,” he said again, almost a purr in its low satisfaction. The pads of his thumbs brushed over his nipples, his mouth quickly following. 

Aziraphale made a sharp keening sound, the last of the chill chased from his skin when the hot, wet of Crowley’s mouth worked one into a stiff peak, the other pinched and rolled between his fingers. He released the pillow and clung to him, the sensation and attention to this part of him - to every part Crowley had doted on so far - so unexpected. It was just as staggering as the pleasure. Each flick of his tongue was another shock of arousal that shot straight to his cock, torturously still brushing against the cotton fabric of his powder blue boxers, securely fastened with three pearly white buttons.

“Crowley, that’s- oh, my dear, that’s so- you’re so lovely. You’re incredible, I can’t-” he gasped, back arching and falling, unsure if he needed more contact or if it was too overwhelming. “I don’t know how to cope with this.”

“Not s'posed to,” he murmured, committing every single reaction to memory and the way every word of praise sang down his own body and made him twitch. Definitely a good place to linger with every sound, every breathlessly gasped word music to his ears. He considered swapping to the other nipple, but took enough pity on him to slither down and figure out the remaining fabric. The moment he realised the boxers didn't have any elastic and that he had to undo even more buttons, he shot Aziraphale a look that was so full of exasperated fondness that he would've been embarrassed by it in any other context. 

“You're impossible,” he claimed, all that fondness coating his tone as he undid the three little buttons. 

Aziraphale actually laughed, completely delighted by him and unable to stop the mortifying giggles from spilling out. “Oh- oh, my dear, I promise it wasn’t intentional.” He lifted his hips without being prompted this time, helping Crowley slide them down his thighs, then kicked them away, the both of them only in their socks now. 

“I almost don't believe you.” Crowley did away with their socks in short order, just as wet as everything else abandoned on the bedroom floor. The fondness still in his gaze added a different sort of layer to the hunger as he surveyed Aziraphale finally laid bare before him. Every curve, every faint stretch mark, every hidden freckle had to be held onto and remembered and cherished. 

“'Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed. And every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature’s changing course, un trimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade,'”^[5] he quoted, the sweet sonnet a direct contrast to his busy fingers. They found Aziraphale's length, from the base nestled in a thatch of white-blond curls to the tip dripping already from how hard he was. He had to touch, long fingers curling around him and stroking smoothly. Oh, yes, the mechanics were easy to remember, but the feelings behind them were new. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitched, brows arching in agonizing bliss, head pressed into the pillow while his hips rocked up into Crowley’s hand. “Sonnet 18,” he choked out, overcome with adoration for this beautiful man who’d quote Shakespeare at him while in bed together. From anyone else it might have sounded cliche and trite, but Crowley’s low timbre and inflection, his tongue caressing each word and coating it with loveliness, oh, Aziraphale would listen to him recite anything and be completely swept away by it. He grappled for his free hand and fit their fingers together, squeezing and bringing them to his lips so he could brush them over his knuckles. “Crowley…”

“I know, angel. Just let go and enjoy.” Crowley watched him as he moved his other hand, noted everything that made Aziraphale's hips lift or a gasp escape and did them again. He watched his pupils blow so wide the blue was nearly erased. At some point, he rubbed the pad of his thumb against his cockhead to spread the pre and make the slide even easier, and he learned that Aziraphale liked when he twisted his wrist at a certain place. 

He felt his own arousal twitch and ache from every reaction, but it was so very satisfying to watch him come apart at the seams, to know it had been so long and yet Aziraphale had chosen him. He got to see this, cause it, be awed and aroused by it. And when he was teetering on the edge, Crowley leaned down and licked. 

 Aziraphale choked on a moan. “Oh, good Lord,” he practically sobbed, so close and trembling, nearly coming with a single flick of his tongue. “Crowley.”

“Blasphemy, angel? You astonish me,” he teased, not giving him any reprieve. His lips closed around the tip on a little hum, a little suckle, his tongue as deft and busy as it had been from the start. 

Every nerve was alight, his brain firing spark after spark of pure unfiltered pleasure. It was perfect, every part of Crowley was perfect and made him feel so good and wanted. The way he looked and sounded didn’t even cross his mind. His self-conscious thoughts and fretful habit of overthinking had been quieted by Crowley’s attention and fondness until all he knew was how good he felt. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this good, this wanted. 

Someone like Crowley wanted him. Aziraphale hiccupped and wriggled as he was stroked and suckled in an endless loop, cries devolved to repeated utterances of “please” and “yes” and “Crowley,” over and over. It didn’t stop. He couldn’t take it.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut as spasms shook his body, but cool air hit his cock and stilled him for a moment as Crowley lifted his head and called, “Angel.” 

He wanted to see his eyes. He didn’t have to ask, but Aziraphale knew. Hazy with pleasure and glinting with tears, he blinked down at him and watched Crowley watch him back, oblong pupils wide as he’d ever seen them, beautiful and so, so pleased. His kiss-bruised lips closed over the head of his cock and then he did something ineffable with his tongue.

Aziraphale saw white and came in his mouth on a wordless wail, aftershocks wracking his body with tremor after tremor of ecstasy. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even feel the mattress beneath him until the shock of orgasm faded. It left his skin humming and his busy mind blissfully quiet.

When he could finally speak, tongue heavy and stupid in his mouth, all he could say was, “Gosh.”

Crowley laughed against his thigh, low and wrecked. He nipped the soft skin there, knowing there was more he wanted to put his mouth to, his fingers against. He'd skipped quite a bit, but they had time and once he'd seen that first blissful look, he'd had to have more. He'd had to get him to peak, to watch him tumble over, and it had been more than he'd expected. 

Watching those shining eyes go blind in pleasure had been a treasure, one he'd be all too happy to see happen again and again. For the first time in his life, he wanted an again and again. 

Crowley slid back up and settled atop him, sank into all the plush warmth and kissed his cheek and stroked his sides because he couldn't be completely still. Not with so much of Aziraphale left to touch and arousal still hot and heavy in his veins. He gave him his moment, though, waiting for all the ridiculous, wonderful thoughts that made Aziraphale him filter back into his emptied mind. 

“Darling,” he sighed soon enough, as content as it was possible for him to be, and reached for him, hands sliding down his shoulders and across his back. Aziraphale blinked at him, smile transcendent, before he tilted his chin to pointedly draw attention to his lips. “Kiss me properly please.”

“As if you have to say please,” Crowley murmured, lips moving against Aziraphale's before he'd even finished saying it. He'd wondered if he would have hangups over where his mouth had been, if that was another thing Aziraphale would be particular about, but he clearly hadn't needed to worry. He kissed him properly, tasting the satisfaction on his tongue and trying to ignore the edge of need still on his own. 

Pleased by his compliance, Aziraphale started to wiggle, humming when his thigh moved against Crowley's hardness. He did it again purposefully. “Mm, seems like you might be in need of some distraction, dearest.”

“Ngk,” he conceded, the idea of Aziraphale's hands on him making him twitch as much as the movement beneath him. “Think you can have your turn.”

“Oh, how generous of you.” Aziraphale took one of his hands, kissing the knuckles and then the tips of his fingers. “You are so very generous,” he murmured a little more sincerely. “You took such good care of me, dearest. Time for me to take care of you.” 

He rolled Crowley off him so he could lay him on his back, spread out before him like a feast. Propped up on his side, Aziraphale stroked along his chest, all the way down to his stomach, past his hips, and right back up along his length, hard and aching, tip already slick with his want. Aziraphale leaned down to tease his tongue over Crowley's nipple as he moved his hand again in a loose hold. 

Crowley groaned, the light touch the best sort of tease. He rolled into it, everything in him trying to chase that soft contact. The contrast of it sparked in his mind, both lighting and soothing fires. And his tongue. The tease of it had noises trapped in his throat and a hand delving into his curls, not to keep him in place, but just to touch and give himself an anchor. He might need one since taking care of him didn't seem to only involve getting him off. He wasn't actually sure he could handle more. “Angel- ngk. You don't have to-” 

“Shh, Crowley. It’s my turn. It was your decision to deprive me of getting a proper taste of you, after all,” he reminded him, pausing to suckle the stiffening bud between his lips. His grip on his cock did shift, a firmer hold providing more friction, though his wrist didn’t move much faster. He flicked his gaze up to watch him, the bob of his throat as he held back his sounds of pleasure, though he couldn’t quite hide how ruined he already looked. Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he released his nipple with a scrape of his teeth. “Will you let me savour you later? There’s so much of you I haven’t had a chance to touch and I want to take my time.” He rubbed his thumb just under the tip of his cock, filing away the jerky stutter of his hips and the way his head tipped back, exposing his throat. Aziraphale leaned up to lick the dampness from his skin - less rain and more salt, sweat, desire. “I want to find out what you like.”

He already was, the wet drag of his tongue drawing out some of those pleased sounds: formless praise for pretty eyes, a wicked mouth, clever fingers. He didn't know if he could handle being savoured by him. Piece by piece, he imagined, until all of him was swept away. It was stunning that he'd ever even ask. As if he really-

“You want to? Me?” As if he'd forgotten who was in bed with him, the life he'd lived, the way he'd found himself in this town to begin with. He wanted, desperately, to be someone Aziraphale would see as being worth time and energy because, though no stranger to being in someone else's bed, it was usually a bit more self-serving. This was new in a dozen ways, new and impossible and he couldn't mean it. It was just in the moment or repayment or-

Aziraphale kissed him hard, all tongue and teeth and a sweet suckling at his lower lip like he wanted to fill his mouth with the taste of him - him, and only him. He stopped stroking him only to straddle him, the full weight of himself settling across Crowley’s hips for a moment before he shifted to support most of it on his own knees. He kissed him through it all, deep and seeking to muddle his mind so he couldn’t think such ridiculous thoughts.

“Crowley,” he murmured when he finally broke the kiss, only for his lips to pepper fluttering butterfly wing kisses across his face, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his chin, no part of him left untouched. “I wanted to, that night in the shop. We kissed and I thought you’d look stunning in the moonlight, draped across a table where my lips could scatter kisses on your skin like angels scattered the stars in the sky. You. My wily serpent.” His lips found the snake tattoo and lingered there as he took him in hand again, fingers fast and firm as he moved. “My dearest one. Crowley. Crowley. There’s nothing I want more.”

Words were difficult enough to come by sometimes without Aziraphale’s swirling in his mind, pressed into his skin with each kiss. “Ngk,” was the best he could manage. “Ngk” and a dozen other little sounds, pleas and praise and little hisses since he’d lost control of his lisp and there were two S’s in “yes, please” which was all he really wanted to say. In response to both the question, “Will you let me-?” and the touch. Firm and grounding even while it tried to make his head float right off his shoulders. Yes, please. 

“Angel,” he choked out and, impossibly, “Aziraphale,” while his own hands tried and failed to find a place to settle. Tangling and tugging at soft curls, stroking down his back with his nails digging in once when his thumb found that spot beneath his tip again. When he could move something besides his eager hips again, his hands found their way down to Aziraphale’s waist to cling and a stuttered moan escaped at just the thought - the thought - of having his weight press down on him again, though this time to fill himself, to let Crowley be the one filling him. “Aziraphale.”

“That’s it, my dear,” he encouraged, kissing and nibbling at his ear. He loved the sound of his name on his lips when he was overcome, how wanted he felt. He gripped one of Crowley’s hips to guide their rocking as he brought him closer to the edge, giving him another point of contact to lose himself to. “Just feel good. I’ve got you.”

Crowley’s hands had to move again, one snaking back into his hair and the other not sure where it wanted to be since the answer was everywhere. His back, his hip, down to his thigh, along the curve of a buttock where he couldn’t resist pausing to squeeze. It earned a breathy little sound right into his ear and Crowley couldn’t even tease him for it, only echoing it as Aziraphale guided him higher and higher. He was being smothered by him, surrounded by his scent and his taste when he licked his neck on a groan. Cologne and rainwater and sex, old books and barnwood. His touch was soft as feathers, firm as steel, brilliant as- as something brilliant. He didn’t know. He only knew that if this was only a glimpse at being savoured by Aziraphale, there wasn’t going to be anything left of him after the whole of it.

There was barely anything left now, clinging to the edge the same way he clung to Aziraphale, until Crowley heard it again. “I’ve got you,” he said and Crowley came on an outcry of his name, barely muffled against his shoulder as he shook and shuddered and fell apart.

Aziraphale gathered him close, stroking his sides and murmuring soft praises into his hair. Their thighs and stomachs were sticky as Crowley's trembling quieted, but it could wait as the sensation of skin on skin grounded them and kept them tethered to one another. Aziraphale's lips grazed his temple, then he nosed his way down to see the moment Crowley's beautiful eyes focused on him. 

^[4.5]“Alright, dearest?” 

“Nearly.” Fingers still buried in Aziraphale's hair, Crowley kept him in place as he angled his head for a kiss. Languid and sated, hands long since relaxing their tight grip in favour of lazily stroking his back, Crowley sighed into it. Even if he did combust while Aziraphale did as he liked to him, it would be an incredibly good way to go. “My angel,” he mumbled, cupping his cheek. 

Aziraphale turned his head to rub his lips against his palm. “Oh, Crowley,” he said in reply, still caught up in the scent of his skin, the scent of himself on his skin, and the shared warmth that settled over them in the wake of their desperation for one another. “I have to say, that was positively tickety-boo.”

Crowley's head fell back on an unimpressed grunt, though his thumb brushed against his lower lip. “You really don't have to say that.”

“I really think I do,” he chuckled, moving to lay his head against his shoulder, but stopped when he felt their stomachs press together, not wanting the bulk of his weight to be uncomfortable for him. “Oh, let me get off you. So sorry, my dear.”

Crowley simply banded his arms around him and held fast. “Nah.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, stilled by the coil he found himself in. “‘Nah?’”

“Means ‘no.’ As in, ‘no, you’re not moving.’”

“I know what ‘nah’ means, Crowley,” he huffed, but gingerly settled down, easing into position bit by bit until he was laying atop him fully. “I’m not too heavy?”

“Nah,” he said again, immediately flinching at the sharp pinch to his hip. “Oi.”

“Stop that, I’m being serious.” But Aziraphale rubbed over the spot to soothe it nonetheless.

“So’m I.” Sort of, but it was difficult to take seriously. Aziraphale was warm and comfortable, pressing down on him in some perfect combination of pillow and weighted blanket. Crowley was fairly certain those weren’t the right words to use, so stroked his back and picked simpler ones. Metaphors had never been his strong suit anyway. “You feel good. Dunno how many different ways I have to tell you I like you. I like thisss.” He squeezed, gentle but meaningful. “You’re not too heavy. You’re fine. You’re bloody beautiful, and I want you to stay right where you are.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale hugged him back a little tighter, dropping a quick kiss to his shoulder. Crowley said it so simply. Like it was ridiculous to even fathom anything contrary. Even the way he held him, clung to him, like he’d have something more to say about it if Aziraphale dared to take his warmth and weight away. “I think I quite like your different ways of telling me,” he admitted, pressing his smile to his skin. “And I quite like you as well.”

“Good. I don’t think I want to let go of someone who can identify a Shakespeare sonnet when he’s got a hand ‘round his cock,” he teased, deciding the matter was settled. At least for the moment.

“Crowley!” he gasped, lifting his head to scowl at him, even if he looked positively adorable, smiling at him like the snake that he was. “Don’t ruin it. It was terribly romantic. And you know very well how I feel about Shakespeare.”

“Yeah.” Liking that he could rile him up, even like this, Crowley brushed his thumb against the corner of his scowl. “I’ve never bothered quoting him in anyone else’s bed before.”

“No?” Aziraphale settled back down, watching him curiously as his brow smoothed out thanks to the light touch. “Not off comparing your other bedfellows to a summer’s day?”

Crowley’s grin was quick, all impish delight. “Nah.”

Aziraphale tsked and rolled his eyes. “I’m going to get up and fetch us some washcloths before I’m stuck to you like this for good. Not to mention we should probably shower off, get our wet things in the laundry, mop up the floors…”

“We wouldn’t need washcloths if we just showered. Together,” he added as if that wasn’t perfectly clear. “Then we skip those last two and come back here so I can keep having my way with you.”

His heart beat heavy in his chest an unexpected shiver caught at the base of his spine. “Oh, well, that’s…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, blush rising as he thought about how it felt to have Crowley’s mouth on him, to have him over and under him. How it would feel to have even more. “I’m not so sure. I believe I didn’t get to ravish you quite as thoroughly as I’d meant to, so if anyone is having any ways with them it should be me with you first.”

“Mm...” Crowley already had plans for the shower, so decided he could be amenable to that. “Alright. Just don’t plan on finding clothes the rest of the night. You really won’t need them.”

“You wily serpent.” Aziraphale wiggled atop him, then made good on his threat - or was it a promise, at this point? - and sat up, stretching his arms above his head to work out the kinks. “Best get a wiggle on then,” he said cheekily as he slid off him.

Crowley aimed for a bland look in response, but was entirely too interested in just looking when Aziraphale wiggled right on out of bed. Soft and round and grippable like he had any right to so easily torment and tempt him. “Y’know, just to be sure my fantasies are in order for this eventuality,” and impressions correct, “bottom?”

Aziraphale glanced at him over his shoulder, looking at him through his lashes as he hummed, then turned away and fetched his robe from the closet. It didn’t really count as clothes, besides, it would be chilly waiting for the water to warm. He did leave it untied, however, toying with the belt as he headed for the hallway.

“Sounds to me like your fantasies should align with mine quite nicely,” he called back to him, pausing in the doorway and was struck by the image he painted still spread across his bed, hair mussed and limbs loose and lovely. His heart fluttered, affection and longing dancing together in his veins. Crowley looked very right in his bed. “Don’t take too long, my dear, or I’ll have to start without you.”

“Well, that just sounds exciting,” he retorted, seeing the smile hidden in Aziraphale’s haughty little tut before he turned away. Crowley just took the minute alone to stare at the ceiling and listen to the patter of rain against the window, waiting for his own heart to settle. Those pretty blue eyes really had no business looking at him like that, stirring up every tangled, messy feeling he had in the process. He still hadn’t labeled any of it, not quite brave enough to do so.

But he’d never quoted Shakespeare to anyone in bed before. He’d never lingered and taken his time or focused so wholly on someone else’s pleasure before. He’d never found his own to be quite so high and inescapable before either, for that matter. Or gone on real dates or given anyone his coat in the rain or even been called lovely, the little compliment feeling so big when it came from Aziraphale’s cherry-red lips.

He may not have felt brave enough for the label, but it was right in front of him all the same.

Crowley took a deep, steadying breath, then rolled out of bed to get his hands on his chubby, beautiful angel.

Footnotes

^4. Smut begins here. To Smut - Or Not To Smut

^5. Sonnet XVIII by William Shakespeare.↩

Chapter Text

The clothes did end up getting taken care of. At least they were taken to the laundry and dropped on the machine to be taken care of the next day. And while there was no mopping, Crowley did take a towel to the spots that had seen the most water - foyer, stairs, and bedroom. He also had to yank on a pair of joggers to fetch Aziraphale’s second cufflink and his own sunglasses from the Bentley before the morning came around to make him suffer.

He left them on his head, settled atop his hair since putting on a shirt seemed thoroughly pointless and wearing them equally so, and made it into the kitchen just as Aziraphale put the finishing touches on a light dinner for them. Apparently, and thoroughly unsurprisingly, he’d felt peckish after their shower. They’d been in there until the water had run cold, Crowley very thorough in where he’d put his soapy hands only to have it turned right back on him. He could still feel the ghost of Aziraphale’s lips when he’d found his previously unseen third tattoo, a little set of wings on his left shoulder blade with a broken halo hovering above them.

The simple BLTs had been made with turkey bacon because Aziraphale was indeed a walking angel and could be extremely accommodating under certain circumstances. He took his plate and undid the belt of Aziraphale’s robe just to make him gasp and swat at him and call him a foul fiend.

“Well, this foul fiend just dried the stairs so no risk of us breaking our necks when we head back up there.”

“Oh? Why, how thoughtful of you. Still doesn’t mean I’ll let you disrobe me whenever you like.”

Crowley smiled with an innocence no one would ever believe. “Why not?”

Aziraphale got him back when they took their dishes to the sink after they'd finished by snapping the elastic waistband of his joggers, flitting away as an, “oi!” that was far too amused to be very threatening was shouted after him. Not only had he snapped his elastic, but he'd left behind his plate on the counter too. And the mayonnaise. 

Obviously, Aziraphale made it to the bedroom first, double knotting his belt for fun as he sat back on the bed. He really was out of practice at trying to appear alluring or flashing “come hither” eyes, but apparently according to Crowley he didn't have to try that hard. Reclining against the headboard, he'd just crossed his ankles and folded his hands in his lap by the time Crowley sauntered into the doorway.

“There you are, dearest. What took you?” 

“Cleaning up your mess,” he retorted, any heat in his words swallowed by the clear hunger in his gaze and he took it over Aziraphale. His lips quirked when it lingered on the double knot, hips as swingy as ever as he sauntered closer. “You’ve got some demon in you, angel.”

“Is that a promise?” he asked, a little too delighted, then patted the bedspread on the left side of the bed.

Crowley joined him with a grin, a hand snaking beneath the robe to find his thigh. “Obviously.”

Aziraphale captured his wrist, both to deter him and to brush feather-light kisses over his pulse point. “Obviously,” he echoed. “But that will have to wait, I’m afraid. There’s another promise you made to me first.”

“Ngk.” His pulse scrambled under the light touch, his body not seeming to care that he'd experienced Aziraphale's hands twice already. “I seem to recall something about sssavouring, yeah.”^[6]

Lips curving, Aziraphale gave his wrist one more kiss before releasing it so he could pluck the sunglasses off the top of his head. He folded them neatly and set them on the bedside table then smoothed his palm along his side. Fingers tapped and slipped beneath the waistband of his joggers, too shallow to feel anything but the twitch of his abdomen as he teased the skin there. He tugged Crowley closer, encouraging him to straddle his lap and his hands wandered further.

“Is there anything you aren’t necessarily amenable to? Anything you know you don’t like?” he asked, cupping his arse with a squeeze.

“Ah-” A hand slipped into Aziraphale's hair because he couldn't seem to get enough of touching it. “Nothing immediately comes to mind.” He didn’t usually let or encourage anyone to touch him more than absolutely necessary. His own boundaries, as a result, were quite the question mark, but he could hardly imagine his angel doing anything, ah, unexpected.

Aziraphale’s eyes closed, humming as he took a moment to feel the way Crowley’s long fingers carded through his curls, gently scritching against a spot behind his ear. He rubbed over his buttock before bringing his hands back out and tugged his joggers down, working together with Crowley to slide them off his legs and leave him bared to him. He looked at him then, sitting astride him all lean, toned muscles and sparse trails of dark red hair. He smelled like Aziraphale’s shampoo and when he kissed him, he could taste the Jewish rye from their sandwiches on his tongue. 

“Let me know if there’s anything you don’t like. I’d very much like to follow your lead from earlier,” he murmured, shivering as he recalled the warm wet of his mouth as he kissed down his body. “I’m still a bit peckish, you see.”

Crowley managed something like a moan, grunt, and hiss. That was it. Peckish had just been thoroughly ruined for him. “Very much would like that.”

Aziraphale kissed his way down his throat, taking his time to scrape his teeth to incite pleased shudders and wring more sounds out of him. “Good,” he exhaled, then breathed him in and nuzzled against his shoulder. It felt like too much to hope for, that he’d eventually have him in his bed, in his arms, wanting him back. It might have been fast, but Aziraphale felt like he’d been waiting for him for years.

Lifting him up, he cradled his spine and arse in his hands and rolled them so Crowley was pressed into the pillows as his kisses trailed down his chest. He could feel his heart racing beneath his lips, then his stomach hitch as he traced each of his ribs with the tip of his tongue and sweet kisses. Where his lips couldn’t reach, his hands caressed and coaxed Crowley to arch into him, to spread his legs as he dipped lower. His robe opened, half tugged off his shoulders by Crowley’s fingers as he grasped at him. Aziraphale flicked his gaze up as he kissed the crevice of his inner thigh, hiding his smile against it as he rolled his shoulders, then tugged it back up to cover him further as he teased him.

“Mm, darling, you taste divine,” he told him, paying more attention to that spot instead of moving on.

“Aziraphale.” Like it was the only word he knew, the only one that mattered. It was certainly one of the only ones in his mind, everything else being carried away by very thorough hands. More thorough than they needed to be, than he would’ve been used to even when he was in practice, and his mouth was just as dangerous. In words and in contact, he was pulling him apart and he knew it. “Bassstard,” he accused, unable to find any spare heat to push into it as his hands slipped beneath the robe to push it down again. All the heat in him was guided by Aziraphale, tangled and twisted up with a need that went deeper than anything he could remember. “Aziraphale, please.”

A hoarse moan fell from his lips as he nuzzled close to his arousal, his own pulsing in sympathy beneath the folds of his robe. That hiss would end him, all of Crowley’s sounds rippled through him, made him want to pull more out of him by parting his lips or his legs for him in kind. “Oh, Crowley. What do you want, dearest?” He trailed his kisses to his other thigh, giving it the same unwavering attention. “Tell me.”

He couldn’t, breath catching on a desperate whimper that would’ve been humiliating had he even been aware of it. His hands moved from his shoulders to his curls and back again and again as he tried to tell himself it was just sex and he shouldn’t lose himself to it so easily. This much want was impossible and it was only going to drown him, but Aziraphale’s teeth dragged against sensitive skin and chased his rationales away. Crowley’s head pressed back against the pillows, fingers tugging and tangling in Aziraphale’s hair. “You know what, pleassse.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips to the tip of Crowley’s length, so soft and sweet it was practically sinful. He pulled away, sitting up to beam down at him, hands still kneading his thighs. He waited for Crowley to look at him, golden gaze hazy and on the verge of a desperation he didn’t know how to deal with. Leaning forward, Aziraphale kissed his chest, right over his heart, and reached for a pillow. With a few taps, he got Crowley’s hips to lift and slid the pillow beneath them to cushion and elevate them.

“That’s better,” he hummed, then bowed his head to draw him into his mouth on a happy sound, the taste of him sharp and heady on his tongue. 

It was another sin, Crowley was sure, to add to a lifetime of them. Having an angel between his legs, tearing him apart with the softest tongue and the reddest, kiss plump lips couldn't be anything less. The pillow was almost as much a shock to the system because no one had ever-

Another noise sang up his spine to ring in his ears, scaring away all thoughts of no one. This one drew his attention as readily as when he did anything else. His eyes wanted to close, head wanted to press back, hips wanted to buck up - they certainly weren't still, none of him knew how to manage that - but he kept his gaze open and on him. A hand stayed buried in his hair just to have a part of him to cling to, to anchor him to reality, and the other lifted to muffle his own sounds. Keening noises and things that might've even been words were pressed against the side of his fist as he tried to listen and watch. This was probably better than watching him eat cake. 

Aziraphale kept his mouth busy between eager flicks of his tongue and hollowing his cheeks to draw him in deeper. One hand caressed Crowley’s hips as they jerked, keeping him from bucking too harshly, the other held onto the base of his cock, stroking what couldn’t fit between his lips even as he bobbed his head to get his fill of him. Aziraphale moaned around him, reluctantly letting him slip from his mouth with a little lick. He could’ve stayed there, greedily lapping up every drop that spilled from him while Crowley writhed and whined with pleasure, but he wasn’t done yet. He’d come back.

His fingers continued to pull at his length as his mouth traveled lower. Crowley’s thighs parted easily, so perfect and good even as his muscles jumped beneath his hand as he spread them just a bit more. Aziraphale's own arousal ached as his front laid flush against the mattress, rubbing against his robe and the duvet with every shift until he caught a glimpse of his puckered hole. It might have been easier to turn him over, but he’d already made him comfortable there and he didn’t want to risk giving his cock any additional friction. Not before he was ready.

“Darling, plant your feet for me. Yes, just like that. Oh, you’re so lovely. Thank you,” he praised him with words and kisses, both hands holding him open so he could dip his tongue inside, teasing the rim.

Crowley made a sound not unlike a sizzling dinner plate that came with a “careful, it's hot” warning. Everything in him coiled and he wasn't sure if he should use his planted feet to push away or into that shockingly filthy mouth. Not that it wasn't something he hadn't done himself, but nearly all of his experience was limited to what he did and not what was done to him. Apparently, he'd made a very big mistake in assuming Aziraphale would be the same. 

What about him, at all, had been the same? 

His tongue moved again, and Crowley's head fell back on a guttural groan. “Angel” felt blasphemous, so he said it again as his hand fell away to grasp the sheets as he let Aziraphale savour him in whatever ways he saw fit. He wasn't as deft or agile with his tongue as Crowley was, but he was eager and thorough, the muscle busy and hot and wet. It ripped noises from his throat that didn't seem possible, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut he could see spots, and it was terrifying in how overwhelmingly good it was. 

He couldn't look, but he needed a link. He needed something to say all the pressure building in his gut and his chest were okay, and losing his grip on everything was safe, had to be, if it was here with Aziraphale. His fingers uncurled from the sheets, blindly reaching down. “An- angel, please-” 

Aziraphale loosened his grip and reached back, capturing Crowley’s fingers with his own. He needed that link, too. Lost in the feel of him, every sense filled with Crowley and still hungry for more. Each groan echoed in his ears, making him shiver with the thought that he was doing this to Crowley. He was making him feel this good, this wanted. And oh, did Aziraphale want him. As he pressed his tongue flat against him in long, slow licks, his stomach twisted in anticipation of what it would feel like when Crowley would tease and toy with him down there. They both seemed to relish in the give and take so far, eager to bring the other pleasure, drunk off the satisfaction of it. 

But as good as it felt to indulge himself, to indulge Crowley into forgetting his own name, it was still good to check in. He lifted his head and squeezed his hand, blue eyes dark as he finally got a good look at Crowley unraveling by his hands and mouth. A kiss was pressed to the side of his knee while his thumb rubbed over his quivering rim to soothe the sudden loss of heat.

“Alright, darling?”

“Mnng.” It took him a minute to open his eyes, squinting in the low light until Aziraphale's face swam into focus. He shivered, but squeezed his hand in return. “Gonna die. Sss'worth it.”

Aziraphale laughed and kissed him again before dropping back down. “Oh, I adore you. But none of that now. I’ll take care of you, Crowley,” he promised, squeezing his hand once more before guiding him to his hair and coaxing him to hold on there. His eyes fluttered closed at the tug, humming as he lapped at him and pressed little, suckling kisses wherever he could. He needed one hand to hold him open and the other to curl around his cock again, firm strokes a direct contrast to the fluttering and flicking of his tongue.

The contrast pulled him right back in, body quivering, cock pulsing and mind emptying. Heart filling. There was definitely adoration in this bed, in every touch and lick and kiss. There was joy, the kind that made him want to find that label for all these big feelings and hold onto it. It added to the mounting pressure in him, but it was okay and it was safe.

The tension in his shoulders rolled down his spine to settle in his gut, a moan unfurling as he finally let himself feel and enjoy every sensation Aziraphale's attentions wrought. The way his tongue swept over him again and again, making him feel wet and loose. The way his hand moved so sure and firm, dampened by the pre dribbling from his tip. Every time his thumb rubbed against a particular spot, it pulled garbled pleasure from Crowley’s throat and he could feel the smile pressed against his entrance. 

He let it build, let it overwhelm him, let Aziraphale take him over until all he could do was whimper and writhe and take every bit of wicked attention. Until it stopped and his breath caught because it couldn't just stop. “Aziraphale,” came out as a plea, but some distant part of him recognized it as a trade-off. He'd stopped too, had waited to see his eyes before giving him that last push to release. 

It was Crowley's turn now to be forced to look down, to face what was happening to him head-on, and he couldn't. He had to, he did, and that look of tenderness in aroused blue eyes - glinting like diamonds, ever-changing and ethereal - and that label put even more pressure in his chest, punched out a guttural moan. That label, those four little letters surely unable to contain it all. It was so much, so big, so heavy, so ineffable. 

Crowley loved him. He loved him so much. Thick fingers moved, squeezed, cherry lips surely turned redder with another little kiss he couldn't see but could feel, and Crowley was gone. Back arching, choking on a pleasured outcry, he came. 

Aziraphale stroked him through it, unable to look away, mesmerized by the rapture rippling across his face, devastatingly gorgeous. He could feel all of him trembling, quaking from the intensity of sensation, so he gradually slowed each touch. His lips trailed along the inside of his thigh as he watched and he pet his hip until Crowley completely spent himself on his hand and collapsed against the mattress with a weak shudder. But even then Aziraphale didn’t stop touching him.

“Crowley,” he sighed, blue eyes brimming with adoration as he nuzzled his hip. He beamed up at him, lacing their fingers together with one hand, then cleaned the other with his tongue, releasing his own pleasured sound while he indulged in the taste of him. 

Boneless, limbs heavy, Crowley watched him with round, wide eyes. That was unfair when his body couldn't possibly hope to keep up with the desire that inspired. Like watching him lap at frosting, which just made him shudder again. “Aziraphale... C'mere.”

Barely able to contain a pleased wiggle, he shifted and pressed up against his side, robe slipping open and hanging off one shoulder. He was too distracted to pay it much mind this time, kissing the top of Crowley’s shoulder instead. His lips were what he really wanted, but not before he had a quick scrub with his toothbrush. That could wait though, happy to bask in Crowley’s afterglow even as his own arousal hummed gently under his skin.

“Hello, my dear,” he said as he draped his arm across his chest.

A laugh bubbled up and out, incredulous and fond. Hello. “Ridiculousss,” he hissed softly, still not quite in control of his lisp. He stroked Aziraphale's mussed curls, down his back and up his side. Lazy little movements that soon shifted into more purposeful caresses. The double-knot of the robe had come loose enough that it was easy to part and find the skin beneath. “Sssecond filthiest thing your mouth's done today.”

Aziraphale tsked and pinched his side, eyes still shining with his smile. “Perhaps I didn’t do a good enough job if you can still sass me like that.” He kissed his shoulder again, then pushed himself up. “And now I’m going to clean this filthy mouth so I can quiet you if need be.”

Crowley grinned. He'd been wondering where the line was. “You can, but I don't care if you kiss me after that. My mouth's gonna be plenty busy anyway once I remember how to move.”

“Promises, promises,” Aziraphale hummed, but leaned down to rest their foreheads together for a moment before standing from the bed. “I’ll be back in a tick.”

When he came back, he also had a warm, damp washcloth in addition to a clean mouth. He mopped up the mess that remained on Crowley’s stomach and stole a proper kiss from his lips while he did. He was still soft and pliant, though that devilish curve of his lips made anticipation coil tightly in his belly as he pressed close once again. The knot of his robe was rather cumbersome in his attempt to cuddle up beside him, so after a brief internal debate he untied it and let it fall open.

Crowley immediately took advantage, hands seeking and gaze hungry. But the sun had set, shadowing too much in his opinion. He got Aziraphale onto his back so he could reach over him, clicking on the bedside lamp and pushing the shade so he could see without being blinded. “There's my angel,” he murmured, gaze following his own hands as they began to stroke down the curves of his body. “How d'you feel about getting marked up a bit? I got distracted before I could nibble at your thighs earlier.”

“My thighs?” They rubbed together at the mere idea, Aziraphale’s heart racing as the warmth in his cheeks spread south, heat pooling low and length twitching with interest. “I suppose a bit couldn’t hurt…” His eyes darted to the lamp, briefly wondering if he could reach it without drawing too much attention, but Crowley’s hands were terribly distracting. “Are you certain that’s where you want to keep your mouth busy?”

“To start. Been thinking about it since I first saw you in this robe.” He stroked along the curve of his stomach, gaze and grin flicking back up. It was still clinging to his arms, one shoulder bare. He looked as irresistible and pink-cheeked as he had that morning but was so very reachable now. Touchable. “Don't worry, angel. My mouth's going to get plenty filthy too.”

Aziraphale bit down on his lower lip as his hips rocked up, pulse quickening. “Good Lord,” he breathed and reached up to brush the tips of his fingers over Crowley’s cheek, touching him just to make sure he was really there. “I suppose I should say, ‘do your worst?’” 

One hand splayed across a hip, the other lifting to press Aziraphale’s more firmly to his cheek. He hummed at the caress of the touch when he turned his head to kiss the palm, tongue a quick, deliberate tease. “Dunno if you could handle that, angel.”

“Crowley,” he huffed, anticipation humming in his veins, all too conscious of the heat Crowley’s hand trailed across his skin. 

He’d thought about them for so long, how dextrous and deliberate they could be with their touch and he wanted them to press and grab and caress just as much as he wanted that wicked mouth to make good on all his promises. It was terrifying and exquisite. Aziraphale didn’t want to be afraid, he wanted Crowley to make him forget again, like when he first peeled him out of his wet clothes or slid soap-slick hands over him in the shower. He wanted to forget the urge to hide from his serpentine gaze, so lost to him and how he could make him feel.

Trembling, he pressed his free hand over Crowley’s, increasing the pressure against his hip. “If you don’t get a wiggle on now, I might just take care of this myself,” he threatened, though it wasn’t much of a threat when he was thumbing over Crowley’s lower lip.

It wouldn’t have been much of a threat anyway, wicked delight flashing in golden eyes and his tongue flicking over Aziraphale’s thumb. He released his hand then, leaning down to let his teeth graze over that single bared shoulder. “One of these days, you’ll let me watch you do just that. You’re ssstunning.” He kissed his way down as he spoke, pausing at his nipples to deliver attention to the one he’d neglected earlier. Couldn’t have any part of his angel feeling neglected, he thought with that same wicked delight, hand skipping down to stroke a thigh.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s head fell back, pressing into the pillow as his back curved in a gentle arch, seeking more of the damp heat toying with him. The tip of his tongue flicked incessantly over the straining bud, making his toes curl and cock harder. “Oh, you- you ridiculous thing. Don’t tease like that,” he groaned, referring to the words and not so much the teasing touches, thighs parting eagerly for more.

“Mm... Not a tease. You beautiful, hedonistic thing. Love watching you enjoy things, would love to watch you pleasing yourself. Then I’d let you use me in whatever way you’d like and watch you take pleasure in that too.” Crowley settled between his legs, feeling Aziraphale’s arousal jump and twitch against his belly. He looked up and watched blue eyes close, a faint line creasing his brow as if he didn’t quite believe what was being said. His body didn’t seem to have a problem, but that too-busy mind...

Change of plans, then. Crowley continued along his downward path, hands slipping back up to work in tandem with his mouth to make sure that every bit of Aziraphale was covered in kiss or caress or another secret he let loose if Aziraphale could catch it. “‘I love your hills, and I love your dales, and I love your flocks a-bleating. But O, on the heather to lie together, with both our hearts a-beating.’”^[7]

A shiver wracked him as the words filled his head and dripped down his spine, the tip of his length damp with it. “Keats?” Aziraphale forced his eyes open to find him, curious and dark, wondering at that choice in particular and utterly smitten by it just the same. “Oh, Crowley,” spilled from him on a sigh, lashes fluttering when he palmed over the curve of his stomach as if it was something to treasure.

To Crowley, it was. It all was. His tongue traced along a spidery stretchmark, teeth nipping the smooth skin next to it just to feel the little wiggles of reaction. To watch his lashes flutter again. Aziraphale was beautiful to him, the pale skin he kept hidden away like porcelain or alabaster or any of the other dozens of things poets waxed lyrical about. For all Crowley’s claims to not read and for all his struggles in getting some words out, many migraines had come from reading the lilting words of poets. They could say so much with so little and it had fascinated him through his life.

And he knew how to adapt it, how to pick and choose the stanzas to get his meanings across with far more ease than his own words tended to. And his angel, with his victorian era novels and his literature degrees and his penchant for complicating things that could be said very simply, did absolutely value words. Crowley had never used poetry in bed before, but he knew his audience and it was too easy to spill some of it against his lover's skin.

When he reached his thighs - skipping over his length but for a long, slow glide of his tongue that had made Aziraphale’s back bow and a moan fill the air - he pressed more words into them between the nibbling he’d promised and the kisses he couldn’t resist. “‘Nymph of the garden where all beauties be, beauties which do in excellency pass. His who till death looked in a watery glass, or hers whom nak’d the Trojan boy did sssee; sweet garden-nymph, which keeps the cherry-tree, whose fruit doth far the Hesperian taste surpass. Most sssweet-fair, most fair-sweet, do not, alas, from coming near those cherries banish me.’”^[8]

The poetry cracked open something in Aziraphale’s chest and left him keening as it filled every crevice between his ribs. Sir Philip Sidney now, hardly something he’d expect to hear from Crowley’s lips, yet he spilled each word over his skin like he meant to bathe him in them. Baptize him in sweet sentiments and reverent kisses, reborn as Crowley’s, as something beautiful. 

He called for him, reaching for him, to touch whatever he could. His hair, his shoulder. He wiggled to get closer, chasing his mouth and his pleasure as it rolled through him. Maybe it was too much, maybe he couldn’t handle it, but he was loving every second of it.

Crowley slithered up higher, putting himself in better reach and mouthing the base of his cock before his fingers curled around it. He took his time with the strokes, wrist twisting where he’d learned Aziraphale liked, fingers kneading the places that made his words fade to pleasured sounds. One more poem, drifting away from England, stirred and he let it loose. “‘Before you came things were just what they were: the road precisely a road, the horizon fixed, the limit of what could be ssseen, a glass of wine no more than a glass of wine.”’

His lips skipped away, pressing a damp path to his hip. “‘With you the world took on the spectrum, radiating from my heart: your eyes gold as they open to me, ssslate the colour that falls each time I lost all hope.’”

To the other hip, listening to Aziraphale’s breath hitch and feeling him writhe. “‘With you advent roses burssst into flame: you were the artist of dried-up leaves, sorceress who flicked her wrist to change dussst into soot. You lacquered the night black.’”

Back up to the curve of his stomach, helpless, hopeless, needing Aziraphale to understand that every single piece of him mattered. “‘As for the sssky, the road, the cup of wine: one was my tear-drenched shirt, the other an aching nerve, the third a mirror that never reflected the same thing.’”

“My angel,” he murmured, not part of the poem but part of this, “‘Now you are here again - ssstay with me. This time things will fall into place; the road can be the road, the sky nothing but the sky; the glass of wine, as it should be, the glass of wine.’”^[9]

A sob broke on Aziraphale’s lips, another fell swiftly in its wake. Like an exposed nerve, he felt bright and raw and unraveled as Crowley took him apart piece by piece. The pleasure he stoked with his hands hurt, and the ache he fed with his words blossomed into a bliss he couldn’t begin to describe. He wanted to stay. He wanted Crowley to stay.

And Crowley wanted the same. He wanted all of him, worshiping every inch like he was the lucky one. Like he took pleasure in him just as he was.

“Crowley,” he choked out, trying to band his legs around him, to feel the slide of their skin for something to ground him. And something for his hips to grind against. “S’so much. I can’t.” It wasn’t what he’d expected from a wicked gleam and fiendish teasing, it was so much better, but he’d come while crying if he kept it up.

“Aziraphale.” He slid back up to make it easier, to let his angel band around him. Hands cupped his cheeks, thumbing away the damp spilling down them as their lips met and swallowed his sobs, let him take whatever he needed. At some point, enraptured with Aziraphale's body as he'd been, he'd gotten hard again. If they were at all ready, he would've sunk into him then. Unhurried, making love to him properly. And wasn't that a new phrase for him? One that had never held any sort of meaning before, just another overused line of poetry, and yet... And yet. “Aziraphale, you beautiful man. I’ve never wanted anyone more.”

Their mouths pressed together, teeth clashing in desperation as Aziraphale kissed and kissed him to keep from shattering. His thighs squeezed around narrow hips as he clung to him, a keening cry spilling from his lips when his arms couldn’t quite do the same around his shoulders the way he wanted, caught in his robe. Overheated and tangled in the tartan fabric. He fell back against the bed to wrench his arms out of the sleeves and pushed it away in a frenzy. It was in the way, it was keeping him from Crowley. He needed to feel every inch of him, needed to be surrounded by his skin and his smell, sharp from arousal and sweat and soap. His fingers sank into his hair, raked nails along his back, pulling as much of him in as he could. Aziraphale dropped his kisses to his throat, mouthing over his Adam’s apple and where his pulse sang for him and skin hummed with his own pleasured groans.

“I want you,” he sobbed, hips bucking into Crowley’s, rutting against the smooth stretch of his belly. He could feel his answering hardness pressing back to prove his point, that Crowley wanted him and thought him beautiful. “Crowley, please, you exquisite creature, I want you. So much. You’re so much.”

If he could've done more than just groan “angel,” he could've said the same. So much, yes, and he wanted more. He wanted everything. A hand worked between them, long fingers wrapped around their lengths to keep sensitive flesh against sensitive flesh as they moved. His other hand slid down too, though only to squeeze and caress one of the thighs pressed against him. The poetry between them was physical now, in their push and pull of one another, the brilliant sting of the nails scraping skin, the sensation born sounds they both made as they pleased and took pleasure in each other. “My angel,” Crowley shuddered, “that's it. You've got me. Jussst keep moving for me.”

“Crowley- there! That’s- yes, oh, oh! Crowley,” Aziraphale babbled, squeezing his eyes shut as tears still wet his lashes.

Plush thighs clamped around him tighter, the pressure maddeningly perfect the closer they got. It was dizzying, the overwhelming bliss of being held so close, chasing the same peak. Aziraphale didn’t stop moving. He couldn’t. Too eager, too needy, too close to stop. He could feel himself dripping onto his own stomach, Crowley just as hot and slick and twitching against him. He couldn’t think about anything else, just perfect Crowley and his poetry and his hand and his cock and coming, oh he was coming…

He came hard on a cry of Crowley’s name. Greedy for how good it felt, Aziraphale still didn’t stop even as he seized up and spilled into Crowley’s hand. Pure ecstasy painted his expression as he rode the sensation, mindlessly rocking his hips for more. 

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, gazing down at him, lost in him. There couldn't possibly be a more gorgeous sight than this, Aziraphale steeped in and chasing pleasure. Then it was suddenly better. His eyes opened, just a little, dark and damp and half-lidded, Aziraphale found him in this heady haze. In this world that was only for the two of them. 

Crowley's fingers dug into velvet skin, brow dropping to Aziraphale's when those thick thighs squeezed. He wanted them around him forever, trapping him close; wanted those hands drawing him in for an eternity; wanted those eyes on him, just him, and filled with all the desire and need and more that was in his own golden gaze when he looked back.

His hips didn't need to move much longer in that slick space between them, Aziraphale’s name like a prayer as he let go. His seed spilled, mingled with Aziraphale's on his round stomach, on his own hand. He moved through it, they both moved together until they were equally spent. Crowley all-but collapsed atop him, bringing their lips together on a soft sound of satisfaction. 

It's echo slipped out from Aziraphale's eager mouth, all decadence and delight in his kisses, lax beneath him. Crowley's name was whispered back to him as he stroked and soothed him through the trembling that wracked his frame as they both came down from the heights of pleasure, his legs still wrapped around him as if they could hold him together. Keep him there atop him, lips to lips, chest to chest, keeping each other warm as their sweat cooled and the heat in their bellies simmered to something sweet and sleepy.

Crowley shifted only to rest his cheek against Aziraphale's and his messy hand against his hip to be cleaned soon enough, sigh content and easy. Even if he could move, he wouldn't have tried. “Alright, angel?” 

“Oh, yes, dearest,” he purred, stretching luxuriously beneath him as he lowered his legs, stroking along Crowley’s calf with the arch of his foot to keep contact between them from head to toe. “Positively tickety-boo. And you? I can't believe you managed twice.” Blue eyes were sparkling, far too thrilled by the sensation of feeling them reach release together like that.

Crowley huffed, pressed a kiss to the base of his ear. “You sound rather proud of yourself for that.”

Aziraphale laughed, hardly trying to hide his mirth. “Wouldn't you be?” he teased, playing with his hair at the nape of his neck. “No, I'm simply… Surprised. And very happy.” He kissed his temple when he was in reach. 

“Really?” he asked, something like wonder in his tone. Their brows nuzzled together so he could see the sparkle in blue eyes wasn't from tears. “Oh.”

“You’re quite the romantic, dear.” Aziraphale cupped his cheek, rubbing over the angle of his cheek bone with his thumb. “And possess a dangerous silver tongue. I have to wonder what other poems you have up your sleeve.”

Crowley tipped into the touch. No one had ever mistaken him for a romantic before. “One or two. It wasn't what I said I'd do to you, though. Not disappointed?”

“I believe the mess you made of me speaks for itself.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, then tutted as he kissed Crowley quite firmly on the mouth and gave his arse a teasing swat. “I'm far from disappointed, dearest. You'll just have to mark me up another day.” 

Those hands were so surprisingly wicked, but none of Crowley was complaining. He sat up and stretched. “Another day,” he echoed, as if the entire concept was novel to him, and smirked down at him. “S'pose I should clean up the mess I made of you.”

Letting his arms fall above his head, Aziraphale wiggled contentedly. “Mm, yes. That would be appreciated. Then right back into bed with you.” 

^[6.5]Crowley cupped his cheek, gaze too fond as he memorized all the lovely happy he'd put there. It wasn't what he knew in bed with someone, but he very much liked knowing it with this someone. “Back in a minute, then.” He picked up the same washcloth Aziraphale had used on him and took it to the bathroom for a quick rinse and to wipe himself clean before returning. He slid into bed beside him, quick but thorough so he could discard the cloth and get his hands back on that soft, warm skin. 

Aziraphale tucked the sheets around them both once he was clean, then turned off the light so he could tangle himself up in Crowley. He’d thought about what it’d be like, to have Crowley in his bed, luscious limbs enfolded around him, chest to chest beneath the thick cover of the duvet. No idle imaginings could compare to how it really felt as he nuzzled the hollow of his throat and slipped a leg between Crowley’s thighs.

“Comfortable?” he hummed. “Let me know if you need another blanket. Or less blankets. Or another pillow.”

Or lessons, maybe, on what exactly he was supposed to do. He hadn't expected to be thoroughly entangled in Aziraphale like this, unsure of where to put his hands. Could he move his hands? He made a sizzling, quickly aborted attempt at a question, unsure how to put it into words without embarrassing himself or giving Aziraphale entirely the wrong impression. Because while he hadn't expected to have him snuggling so close under the blankets in the dark, he very much wanted it to continue. “M'alright.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale was still for a tick, then he searched for and caught one of Crowley’s hands. He then proceeded to drape Crowley’s arm across him where he wanted it, then mirrored the embrace. “Like this,” he murmured, tracing where he believed the third tattoo was on Crowley’s shoulder blade. “Just hold me, dear.”

His heart thudded almost painfully against his ribs, chin nestling in Aziraphale's curls. To be understood so simply was something to be cherished. Holding him was easy, feeling the way Aziraphale's skin brushed against his, pressed against his was such a unique intimacy when he was much more used to outright avoiding past... He couldn't think of a word for the people in his past. They hadn't been people he'd wanted more than once and, if he was being completely honest with himself, many he hadn't wanted at all and had just gone along with things. There hadn't been any exaggeration in telling Aziraphale that he'd never wanted anyone more. 

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, fingers finding themselves moving as the outline of Aziraphale became visible. The outline of them, cuddled close in the aftermath. The gentle strokes were almost reverent, Crowley quietly awed by the chance to have this, by his own enjoyment of it and of the soft sound of approval coming from Aziraphale. His lover? Partner? Both suited him in ways he'd never experienced. In ways he never wanted to lose even though part of him, a part of him that continued to grow the longer this peace between them remained, didn't know that he deserved this. 

“I was twenty-eight the last time I was in someone's bed,” he heard himself whisper, fingers stroking down Aziraphale's side. “Rang in the new millennium with some woman. I don't remember her name, but I met her on the street and we were both a little drunk. It was fine, I think? But I slunk back to the hovel I was staying at and found an eviction notice on my door and Lucifer inside. Found me again, but that's... S’not the point.

“I was always in someone else's bed. I've never- I always left before dawn, always escaped. It never mattered who the person was or why I was in bed with them.” If it was a bed. Linoleum bathroom floors, sticky from things best left unknown, had known his knees more than once. “Arousal's always been something I could just... turn on. Like that.” He lifted his hand with a snap, not even sure why he was saying this, but continued on anyway. “I... had to. A lot.” More than he wanted to admit, even in this quiet moment.

“Ah. When Luci wanted to entice and flirt with blokes in clubs or pubs, he'd pawn them off on me. He liked to think being queer was just some evil choice I'd made since I never seemed to have a preference one way or another, but he's incurably straight and couldn't go beyond the flirtation. So he'd string them along, then point them out to me, and off I'd go. I'd fuck drug dealers if we didn't have enough cash to burn and they were in need of a fix. If whoever it was took me to some motel, I'd steal from them. Empty their wallets and abandon them with the room fees. I was technically, er, a whore, but I didn't want to be treated like one.” Shame seeped into his tone, aimed at the ceiling as he continued to carefully touch Aziraphale. As if handling something he shouldn't be, something he expected to be jerked away at any moment. He had to be ready to let go.

“And sometimes when I really didn't want to sleep in my car, I'd slither into someone's bed just so I could zone out on an actual mattress for a few hours. Had to earn it first, but it didn't matter. I didn't care who they were so long as I was in control and I could leave before they woke up.”

He made an uncomfortable, unhappy sound in the back of his throat, but continued on. If he could get out poetry, he could get out some honesty. “I've only bottomed twice? The first time, I was sixteen and he was ten years older. Too drunk and too scared to say no, and I really should've said no. The second time was a few years later and he was too drunk, so it didn't... Well, he got what he wanted. People usually got what they wanted from me because I didn't... I didn't really want anyone to touch me back? They were just bodies to satisfy. Nothing- nothing anybody would ever call romantic and none of this after. I never looked at anyone and thought I'd like to hold their hand or take them to a meal or a film or on a drive. Nobody's ever been in the passenger seat of the Bentley while I've had it, Aziraphale.”

He finally looked at Aziraphale instead of the ceiling, found him watching, listening, processing. “No one's ever made me think of next time. No one's ever made me want to stay.” He cupped his cheek. “I look at you and there's so much... I've seen enough movies to know I shouldn't say it's never been like this, but... You have to know it hasn't. You make me want-” That's where the words dried up. He wanted too much, everything, didn't even know what all he wanted when there was so much newness to experience.

Abruptly, it was too much. He'd said too much, wanted too much, felt too much. He didn't know what to do with it all or how to contain it, so he started to recoil, eyes closing, heart suddenly beating too fast. It was too much and he was just a demon in an angel's bed, and surely he'd see-

Aziraphale leaned in after him, brushing his lips with a kiss softer and sugar spun. Sweet and gentle to ease away the senseless sounds scratching their way out of Crowley’s throat. Nothing like hard bathroom floors or dingy hotel rooms. Not smelling of stale booze or tasting of too many cigarettes. 

Not a hopeless, endless cycle.

It almost didn’t feel real, but it quelled the rush of panic and drew Crowley back into now. His hands settled back into gentle strokes, soft caresses as if Aziraphale might break under more. “What are you doing with the likes of me, angel? Don’t you know better?”

“Apparently not.” Aziraphale reached up, thumbing over his brow in a touch meant to be just as soothing. “Otherwise I could have been in the arms of someone with a soul as beautiful as yours weeks ago. It breaks my heart that you've been conditioned to see yourself as anything less than the wonderful creature you are.” 

“Aziraphale...” Crowley shifted closer, sheets rustling softly, legs tangling in a way he never would've found comfortable with anyone else. “You're too sweet, angel.”

“I'm only speaking the truth. Crowley, after everything you've been through, you deserve for someone to look at you as though you hung the stars.” Aziraphale snuggled closer and captured one of Crowley’s hands between his own. He pressed kisses over each knuckle, then along his life and love lines, nuzzling the center of his palm. “My nights were dark and still before you scattered them throughout my sky.”

“You romantic,” he murmured, unable to sum up any of his usual teasing as he watched. As he let the warmth of his kiss, the breath against his skin, tingle through him. “I'd rather hold you than stardust.”

“Oh, Crowley…” He pressed his palm against his cheek and held it there as he looked at him. “You can hold me for as long as you wish. You don't have to leave me in the morning. You can stay. I want you to stay.”

Crowley rubbed his thumb in small circles, lips curving. Soft, sweet, and maybe even his. Now you are here again - stay with me. This time things will fall into place. “I want to stay. I like having you in the passenger seat and everywhere else. It matters that it's your bed, Aziraphale, and that it's you.”

Aziraphale grip tightened on his hand, eyes closing as he nuzzled into it, heart quivering and full. “And you said I’m too sweet,” he sniffled, shifting closer until he could tuck his head under Crowley’s chin and nestle against his chest.

“You are.” He kissed the top of his head and took another chance in this safe space with this soft angel. “You're the one getting teary, love.”

There was only the sound of their quiet breathing and the fluttering of Crowley’s pulse beneath Aziraphale’s ear as he let that sink in. Love. Like “angel,” but with the weight of knowing him rather than the first impression the other carried, not that it made it any less endearing. But “love” coming from Crowley…

“Well, what do you expect when you say such sweet things?” Aziraphale huffed, letting the word have a home between them while his own heart skipped a beat.

“M'not sweet,” he protested, but it was like a reflex, soft and as meaningless as the little patterns his fingers drew over Aziraphale's skin. Maybe it was part of that conditioning, but a few weeks weren't going to break a decades old safety net. Well, not all of them. He'd broken several already, replacing them with better ones, stronger ones. It was terrifying, but not nearly enough to make Crowley back away. Very much the opposite. 

Aziraphale tilted his head back so he could press another tender kiss to his lips. “Pardon me. I meant to say you’re not at all sweet. You’re very wicked, saying such things.” He smiled at him, saying without words that he understood and it was alright. “Absolutely demonic.”

Crowley returned the smile, message received and adoration somehow increased. It couldn’t really be possible to feel so much for one person, could it? Pretty blue eyes were still a little damp, but they shone brighter than they had any right to in the dim light. They sparkled with his amusement and such simple, uncomplicated happiness. “I know when I’m being condescended to, angel.”

He feigned a put-upon sigh and tried to roll his eyes, but it was rather challenging when he didn’t want to stop looking at Crowley. “You know, you were much more agreeable when I was having my way with you. Perhaps we should go back to that,” he teased.

Crowley wiggled down enough for his lips to find Aziraphale’s throat, pressing a laughing kiss to the column. The scent of his cologne was long gone, washed away by rain and their shower and replaced with the headier, more intimate scent of mutual satisfaction. “It sounds to me like you’re just looking for an excuse to get your hands on me again.”

“You wily serpent,” Aziraphale laughed, tangling his fingers in Crowley’s hair to tug him away from his neck, distracting his mouth with his own in a smiling kiss. “Tomorrow, maybe. Right now I want this.” He nudged their foreheads together, fingernails raking along the nape of his neck. “Just this.”

He was tempted to scoot back down, not to tempt and entice exactly, but just to enjoy the part normally hidden by a high collar and a tartan bowtie, to feel his pulse under his tongue and know he was real. But this worked just as well, the little scrape shivering down his spine and those beautiful eyes so close and so full of joyful fondness. “Tomorrow, definitely. But I do- I like just this.”

Smile soft as anything, Aziraphale continued to pet him, watching that golden gaze go half-lidded. “I was thirty-six,” he whispered, carefully laying his words between them as an offering. Their situations were hardly comparable, but... “It was a hotel bed, in London. We’d been dating for quite some time, but we were both drunk that night. Nothing more than sloppy fumbling in the dark. He… found other options, at a bar the next night, and I took the bus home. There were two others before him, but… he was the longest. The last person I shared a bed with.” Aziraphale held Crowley’s stare, so intent and focused on him, drinking in all of him. “He never looked at me the way you do.”

Crowley didn’t really know how he looked at him besides constantly. There was just so much to see, so many little things worth remembering, moments that couldn’t be lost. Even this vulnerable one, another hurt uncovered, another person who’d been foolish enough to let this angel slip away. “Then he was an idiot, love, and he didn’t deserve you.”

Oh, he was so incredibly fond of this creature. Murmuring poetry against his thighs one moment and brutally blunt the next. “Obviously,” Aziraphale chuckled, a low rumble in his throat. “So I made certain to wait for someone who did.” 

Capturing one of his hands, Crowley brought the knuckles to his lips. He wouldn’t say he deserved him, but he wanted to try. Whether it was selfish or hopeful, both or something else entirely, he wanted to be worth something. And if Aziraphale thought he was now, he’d take it. “Lucky me.”

“That makes two of us.” Aziraphale kissed the hand that held his, then left them intertwined as he closed his eyes. “‘Before you came things were just what they were,’” he echoed the poem from earlier, stroking gently with his thumb. “I must say, I rather like how they are now.”

They were terrifying, overwhelming, exciting, and new. Crowley kissed his brow. “So do I, angel.” So very much.

Footnotes

^6. Smut begins here. To Smut - Or Not To Smut

^7. “The Devon Maid” by John Keats↩

^8. “Astrophil and Stella Sonnet 82” by Sir Philip Sidney↩

^9. “Before You Came” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz↩

Chapter Text

Wanting him to stay seemed as if it could possibly become a nightly thing as October continued on, though Crowley wasn't quite sure if it was a thing he was allowed to get used to. Monday was easy, mostly decadent around Aziraphale's hunger for actual meals and bursts of practicality, and Crowley had awoken Tuesday to Aziraphale freshly showered and buttoning into all of his layers for the workday. 

Tuesday night, though, meant another date. The St. James was having their Psycho screening and he had Aziraphale bunched up beside him in the Bentley after dinner to watch Hitchcock's very exploratory take on a teaser trailer.^[10] It was an odd sort of thrill to know that Aziraphale really didn't know what to expect, his brow furrowed as he glanced up at Crowley. “He's giving everything away.”

“Is he?” The light, suspicious response directed Aziraphale's attention back to the trailer, which seemed more like a behind the scenes tour. An increasingly... unsettling tour. 

Crowley tucked an arm around him just to feel the way he tensed as Hitchcock's almost cheerful chatter about things that sounded increasingly horrible created clever dissonance. The way he didn't chatter about certain things to heighten curiosity. When he opened the door of the mother's wardrobe and looked quietly at the camera before closing it made Aziraphale tuck a little bit closer to Crowley’s side, though he had no real idea why it unsettled him so. 

As the director explored the motel room bathroom and reached for the curtain, even Crowley tensed just before a scream filled the car. 

Aziraphale legitimately jumped, his hand clamping down on Crowley’s thigh as he gasped. “Good Lord!” His heart hurt as if it had banged itself right into his sternum, but even that didn’t stop it from pounding fiercely in his chest. “Oh, I don’t think this will be at all like North by Northwest,” he breathed, once he actually could, that is, but he didn’t sound disappointed. Wide blue eyes sought Crowley’s gaze, knowing he had it even behind his sunglasses, excited to find out what this film had in store. “That’s very clever, surprising us at the end like that.” 

“Yeah. The bit about not being let in after the film started is true, too. All the marketing revolved around that one actress and if you miss the beginning, you miss everything.” Crowley kissed him as he leaned over him, opening the passenger door. “So let's go.”

Watching this was different from watching The Maltese Falcon. There wasn't any of the uncertainty of was or was this not a date. The theatre was more full for this one, but they were still able to tuck in together two rows from the back, a bucket of popcorn and wine gums ready to be shared as the film began. The armrest between them was pushed up and out of the way by the time Marion screamed in the shower, the linking of their hands deliberate and easy throughout the runtime, if too tight now and then when tensions were high on screen. 

As the killer's true nature was revealed, Crowley found his gaze more on Aziraphale than the frantic scene. He could lie and say it was to give his eyes a break from the intensity of the bright white moments, the film shot in a way to mimic the human eye and create an almost voyeuristic feel, but that wasn't why. He wanted to watch Aziraphale. He wanted to study the angle when he leaned forward in his seat as if to see the action better, Crowley taking advantage of the movement to slip an arm around him. He wanted to watch his hand move to Crowley’s thigh, fingers felt as well as seen when they squeezed in time with the shocked gasp that spilled from him. Several more followed through the course of the scene, and Crowley smiled when his free hand went to his heart. 

He only gave Aziraphale a fond squeeze when he was caught looking, deciding to be unashamed by it. 

Aziraphale gave him a look, but leaned in close, his breath tickling the little snake tattoo near his ear. “This isn’t at all how I thought it would play out,” he whispered. “He’s really quite good at all the suspense, isn’t he? Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Mmhm.” The hum caught a little, Aziraphale’s warm breath a pleasant surprise. Another little fantasy come alive. “This one's based on a book,” he admitted just as softly, not having wanted Aziraphale to go looking for it and spoiling the surprise. 

“It is?” he gasped, only to get shushed by someone in the row in front of them, then hunkered down with an affronted look, but ultimately quieted until the screen faded to black and the house lights came back on.

While he didn’t necessarily gravitate towards horror, he could appreciate the occasional chilling tale by means of Agatha Christie, Mary Shelley, or Edgar Allen Poe. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Haunting of Hill House. He never shied away from a compelling work of literature, and certainly didn’t discriminate against the genre. While the camera angles and music and wonderful acting had done its best to leave him unnerved, he was interested enough in the premise to seek out this book at his next trip to the library.

As soon as they stood from their seats, Aziraphale slipped his arm through Crowley’s to walk with him. “I must say, I don’t believe I would have ever ventured to see this film on my own, so thank you for introducing it to me, my dear.”

He ignored the thanks. “I just liked that you didn’t know the twist. Book sort of cheats in the way they keep the secret, so they had to get creative with the screenplay. Sam and Lila get a bit more time in the book too.”

“Oh? You’ve read it?” Aziraphale lit up, picturing Crowley curled up in his armchair with a book and sunglasses pushed up into his hair as he soaked up the words on the page. It was adorable in his head, so much different than seeing him with his phone or lounging as he watched the telly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised though, not since the discovery of just how well-read you are.” He traced his finger along the inside of his arm, blush tinting his cheeks even as he teased.

He only barely held back the embarrassed spluttering, a single “mngeh” slipping out and hips giving an extra sway. “Poetry’s different from actual books.”

“How so?”

That was a complicated answer. Poetry was one of the few things that had always been just Crowley’s. No outside influences, no grief attached, no deep questions, just a personal enjoyment he’d stumbled upon all on his own. Worth the migraines he’d get from overreading because they were able to capture his attention so much easier than books. That was a good enough answer, he supposed, and accidentally said something entirely different. “They have less space to exist and make their impact, and I admire the ability to put a lot in a little because words are so - ngh, muh, eh - difficult.”

His usual stumbling had Aziraphale look at him with almost too much of an indulgent fondness. “I take it you haven’t read Beowulf, then. Or the Mahābhārata or Keats’ ‘Endymion’ or Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl.’”

Wrong on all counts, though his favorite of them was “Howl.” There was a raw passion in it, a desperation he recognized. He'd read “Howl” too many times to count and it never failed to make his heart beat a little faster. The epics, too, he'd read. Beowulf held more enjoyment than the Mahābhārata, but he'd taken something from them both. “Endymion” was his least favorite of the bunch, that desperate pursuit of some perfect love lost on him. 

He glanced at Aziraphale. Maybe he'd reread it. “‘He is a fool that practices truth without knowing the difference between truth and falsehood.’”

Hardly appearing unhappy about being proved wrong, Aziraphale leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Yes, well, I’d say in those cases they put a lot in a lot,” he teased. “And certainly use whatever words they can.”

Pink briefly touched his cheeks before he shook his head. “It's still poetry, still ultimately free from rules. I know there are some, but they don't have to be followed. And the epics are how they are because they laid foundations. Put oral traditions to a page and started something. I like just the-” He waved a hand. “I like the history in that.”

“Human experience in artistic form.” Aziraphale nodded in agreement, releasing Crowley’s arm as they reached the Bentley. “I’m not criticizing your enjoyment of it, my dear. It’s merely a nice surprise that you’re so passionate about it.” He batted his lashes, then placed a hand against Crowley’s chest, partly to tease and partly to brace himself as he bobbed up to kiss his cheek. “I’d very much like to read your favorites one of these days.”

“You probably already have, but maybe I'll make a list.” Crowley looped an arm around his waist, cupped his cheek to claim his lips. “Let's get you home, angel.”

Though that's when the tension began to build up for Crowley, the thoughts of what would be expected when they got back. He found himself not wanting to go to his own room but Aziraphale’s, yet not at all knowing how to say so, how to ask. Part of him still felt as if he needed to earn the privilege, would be in the way otherwise, but it wasn't the mood and it wasn't what he wanted that night.

It was annoying to know that he would anyway if asked. Old habits did indeed die hard and this one was still kicking and clogging his throat, silencing him under the sound of the radio and the rumble of the Bentley's engine. 

Getting to the farm and inside, neither of them headed straight upstairs anyway. Aziraphale went to the living room to find a book and Crowley followed him and collapsed on the couch, watching him peruse shelves. He knew what he wanted and Aziraphale had told him to just ask, but he couldn't get it out. It seemed more intimate than asking for sex, anxiety bubbling up and turning a simple question into wordless sounds twice before he gave up and pushed himself further into the corner of the couch as if he could disappear into the very fabric. 

What went unspoken did not go unnoticed. Though Aziraphale’s gaze remained fixed to the book he’d sat down with, he tracked Crowley’s movement. His fidgeting and restlessness heightened Aziraphale’s own anxiety, wondering what had possibly gone wrong between their date and now. It took a bit of quiet contemplation and half a cup of cocoa to come to the conclusion that nothing was necessarily wrong. He, too, had something he wanted and didn’t quite know how to ask.

Since Crowley had started this with his noises and slouching, he waited to see if he’d figure it out first. Aziraphale gave him until his cocoa grew cold to find his words. When no progress had been made, he closed his book and stretched before standing from the couch. He took his mug into the kitchen to wash it, giving Crowley’s knee a squeeze on his way. Perhaps it didn’t matter so much how it was asked when it was something they both wanted. He let that sit for a moment and didn’t say anything until the mug was set aside to dry, then he returned to lean against the doorway.

“Time for bed, dearest?” he asked, then - as if already knowing the answer - nodded at the coffee table where his book still sat. “Could you grab that for me?”

Crowley unfurled from the couch, picking up the book and trying to contain the hope beating in his heart. “It'sss... Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he replied, keeping his voice light, ignoring the way it wanted to waver in case he was reading the room wrong. “It’s rather nice to read in bed before turning in, don’t you think?” He motioned for him to follow as he headed for the stairs, not moving to take the book just yet.

“S'pose.” Crowley's shoulders relaxed, recognizing the words for the invitation they were. The permission that saved him from himself. It made it easier to form the question, finding it still felt right to pose it. At least some of it. “Can I...? I want- ngk. For fuck's sake,” he muttered, annoyed with himself and tensing right back up. “Can I ssstay tonight? In your bed?” 

Oh. Aziraphale’s heart clenched as he doubled back and bridged the gap between them, taking Crowley’s hand in his. “I’d like you to,” he told him, giving a gentle tug so he’d follow him. “If you don’t think my reading will keep you up.”

No pressure, then. He could stay just to sleep, just to be close. He adjusted his hand, entwining their fingers. “Nah. I can sleep with the light on.”

Relieved by his easy agreement, Aziraphale grinned at him and couldn’t resist giving his cheek a small peck. “It will only be a small light,” he assured him, turning off the ones downstairs on the way.

In the end, the lamp didn’t stay on long anyway, Aziraphale much more content to mark his place a bit earlier than usual to press against Crowley’s back and band his arm around his waist. He could use the sleep anyway, he told Crowley, hiding his blush against the nape of his neck as he thought back to their weekend dalliance. It was also quite nice to cuddle up in bed in their pyjamas, even after being teased about the tartan.

It was the next night too, though Crowley couldn't fully settle until Aziraphale did. It was odd - wonderful and welcome, yes, but odd - to sleep beside someone, to share a bed that smelled so completely like another person and be happy about it. Any discomfort wasn't from a lack of joy, but from the sheer newness of feeling safe and of not trusting himself enough to sink into the safety. Burnt too many times. 

But he awoke to Aziraphale and his buttons on Wednesday and again on Thursday - content, well-rested, and still very safe - and it got a little easier to relax to the sound of Aziraphale's breathing and quiet reactions to whatever was on the rustling pages of his book. Thursday night, he didn't keep his back to the lamp and, by default, Aziraphale. He started to, gave it a few minutes, then rolled and shifted to pillow his cheek against Aziraphale's thigh. 

“What're you reading, angel?” 

“Lady Audley’s Secret,” he replied in a hushed tone, as if it was a secret that he was reading it at all, yet bursting at the seams to share it. “It’s quite the sensational mystery. You see, our protagonist has some vague forebodings about his uncle’s new wife-”

He quieted suddenly, finally moving his book out of the way to look down at Crowley. His heart swelled, cutting off his response with the fondness that filled his chest as golden eyes glanced up at him. Oh, he looked terribly comfortable and right. Like he was meant to lie in his bed all along, filling the space with his presence even as he chose to rest against him. 

Aziraphale lowered a hand to card his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, there’s plenty of deception and intrigue. You might even like it, my dear.”

Eyes closing on a sigh, Crowley relaxed under the soft attention. He let himself trust the safety in being close to his angel. “Read some of it aloud?” 

There was the slight rustle of the page as Aziraphale turned back to the start of the chapter, a better place to invite Crowley to listen than in the middle of a dialogue. “‘The dreary London January dragged its dull length slowly out. The last slender records of Christmas time were swept away, and Robert Audley still lingered in town—’” His lips curved as he read, his gentle cadence lilting as he breathed life into the words he’d been consuming and lulling Crowley into a deeper sense of peace and security. “Would you like me to start from the beginning?” he asked two pages in.

“Mmhm.” Though he didn't make it through the first chapter, only vaguely aware of Aziraphale adjusting to lay down sometime later. Though Aziraphale was quite aware of Crowley's mumbling protest at being moved and sprawling limbs coiling around him like a clinging serpent to prevent any further jostling. As his cheek found a new pillow on Aziraphale's shoulder, a petulant little “mine” was huffed out and he was right back to sleep. 

 Aziraphale’s breath hitched, turning his head to hide his adoring smile against his pillow. “Yours,” he tried out, no more than a whisper, taking hold of Crowley’s hand to lace their fingers together, marveling at the way they fit. “I could get used to that.”

One day, perhaps Crowley would say it aloud consciously so he could too. As it was, the next thing he became aware of was soft lips moving over his own and reaching up to get a good grip and pull him closer. He was already dressed when Crowley's eyes blinked open, his hum soft when he realized he'd missed watching him button up. It had still been a very pleasant way to wake up, mind swimming in a liquid pool of Aziraphale, but quick fingers still undid two buttons. “Morning, angel.”

“Good morning, my dear- oh. Stop that.” Aziraphale batted his hand away and stepped just out of reach so he could fasten them up again, shooting him a look. “I suppose that was my mistake for thinking you looked so peaceful and harmless.”

He covered a yawn with the back of his hand, entirely too pleased with himself under the lingering sleepiness. He could very easily curl back up and spend a few more hours there, but he'd never been one to enjoy waking. “You like it.”

“Hardly. It makes me want to get back in bed with you something terrible.” He pursed his lips, making a reluctant moue before risking another kiss to his brow. “You’re quite irresistible, you know.”

“I'm not seeing how that means you don't like it.” But he only tipped up into the little kiss, taking what he was given with a smile instead of grabbing for more. He'd take more later if offered. “I like how tempting you are with all your ridiculous buttons.”

A pleased flush coloured Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Well, perhaps I’ll let you undo one or two later. If you behave.” He squeezed his hip, then fully drew back to fetch his cologne from the dresser. 

“I always behave,” was a very lofty, grinning lie and they both knew he certainly wouldn't that day either. “Pinnacle of good behavior, me.”

“Is that what you call it?” Aziraphale glanced back at him over his shoulder, rolling his eyes when that grin didn’t go anywhere. “I’d hate to see what your bad behavior is like, then,” he teased, dabbing a bit of the cologne to his neck, then purposely strode near the bed so Crowley could catch the scent. “I’ll see you down for breakfast?”

“Yeah.” Appreciating him - the nearness, the scent, the teasing, the everything - Crowley sat up and stretched comfortably. “Y’know, I wouldn’t mind showing you some very good bad behavior if you’ve got the supplies.”

His eyebrows drew together in a bemused sort of expression. “Oh?” he said, as if he were following, though it was plainly clear he hadn’t quite connected the dots. What supplies? What good bad behavior? Did he mean, perhaps, acquiring cans of spray paint to vandalize public property with good messages meant to inspire people? Or something a little more Robin Hood-esque? 

“Supplies?” Crowley repeated, trying to get him on the right track. For someone so slow, his mind could go in some very odd and sudden places. “Protection?” garnered a sort of aborted nod that was just as confused, and he gave up on subtlety. “I’m saying we could fuck.”

His eyes widened, finally understanding as he tried to ignore the sudden pulse of want pumping through him. “Oh,” he said again, hands fluttering over his middle to try and contain that giddy rush. “Well, I- I- I believe I do. Have the- er… supplies? But we couldn’t possibly,” he backtracked quickly. “I just showered and dressed. I’ll have to open the shop in an hour.”

An hour, in Crowley's experience, was more than enough time. In his experiences with Aziraphale, however, it wasn't nearly enough. “Not now, obviously.”

“No not ‘obviously.’ I didn’t even know what you were going on about at first.”

“That is obvious. You're too clever to be that oblivious, angel.”

“I beg your pardon, but I wasn’t aware we’d jumped from canoodling to… well. Sex. You have to admit it was out of the blue. Not to mention it was an odd way to be propositioned. ‘Supplies.’ You could’ve just asked if I have condoms, my dear.”

He wasn't going to dignify the word canoodling with an acknowledgment. “We were talking about me undoing buttons, and condoms are only half of what we need. It seemed pretty logical to me.”

“I can think of several separate occasions where you undressed me without additional supplies,” he huffed, but waved it off. “But regardless, I have both condoms and lubricant. What do you take me for?”

Someone who really didn’t update anything without serious prompting. Only one of those two items was still remotely usable. Aziraphale fetched both from a box in his closet, the lube at least purchased within the last five years, but the condoms… The expiry date was for eleven years prior.

Crowley barely, just barely held back his snort of laughter. “Angel, I know you deal in antiques, but even by your standards this is a little... ridiculous.”

He hadn’t realized it had been quite that long, though he supposed it made sense. His last time had been in 2006. “Oh, come now, Crowley,” he huffed, pink-cheeked as he opened the box and took out one of the little packages just to check.

He grinned, entirely wicked and entirely unable to help himself. Not that he tried very hard, mind. “Love to, truly, but I want more than an hour, and there's still the issue of your collection of fossils here.”

With a tsk, Aziraphale cast him a sidelong glance. “Really, now.” But he was fighting the way his lips wanted to twitch up. “You are a demon sometimes.”

“Oh, well, only sometimes.” Crowley flicked a hand dismissively. “But you do know these things aren’t exactly increasing in value the-”

Aziraphale tugged him forward by his t-shirt to kiss the sass right off of his lips. Oh, but he was a delight. Terrible, but a terrible delight. When he released him, he flicked the wrapped condom at him on his way out.

“I’ll buy some more. For now you’ll have to be content with other ways of making mischief.”

He would be so long as Aziraphale kept existing, throwing him off balance like that, kissing him like that. He’d very happily make mischief with him in every way they could think of until he made good on that promise.

It and the teasing kept him in a good mood through the morning, though he wasn’t quite able to get lost in his work as he tended to do. He was a little too aware of Aziraphale, stared at him a little too much and a little too long. At lunch, he was going to satisfy a little bit of this hunger and kiss him senseless.

Or so he thought. A motorcycle squeaked through the gate as it closed behind Newt’s Reliant Robin, and Crowley’s brows lifted as he stepped out ahead of Aziraphale. “Don’t have an appointment lined up, do you?”

“No.” Aziraphale smoothed out the crease in his brow as the black-clothed figure drew closer, the sleek, black chopper purring to a stop and fairly recognizable. With a sigh, he pocketed his keys and nudged the barn door back open. “Go on to lunch, dear, I’ll be just a tick.” His growling stomach certainly hoped so, at least.

“I can wait. Curious to see what he's got.”

Aziraphale sighed, but didn’t argue. Not when the engine was cut off and the man rose from the low slung seat. He tipped his visor back and smiled sharply.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fell,” he greeted, voice smooth as silk. Or a liquid diet. 

“Hello, Dr. Sable,” Aziraphale returned just as politely. “What brings you all the way out here to our little corner of Tadfield?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to talk business.” He walked around to the back of his bike and removed a box from the luggage rack. “Well, not my business. I’ve heard it on the grape vine that your services might just be what I need for this family heirloom.”

“Bring it in and I’ll take a look. We’ll take a look,” he corrected, gesturing to Crowley. “This is Crowley, my new clockman. I don’t believe you’ve met yet.”

“No, I can’t say that we have.” He smiled again, much like a shark who smelled blood in the water. “I’m Dr. Raven Sable. Town physician.”

“He runs the clinic in the next village over.” Aziraphale pointed vaguely to the north of them, then ushered the man inside before his stomach decided to continue its complaints. 

Crowley followed, thumbs hooked in his pockets as the box found a home on part of Aziraphale’s workstation, glad he’d decided to stay. He was starting to really understand the different nuances of Aziraphale’s politeness and this seemed to lean towards polite for politeness sake. The sort reserved for people he wasn’t particularly fond of. He almost reminded Crowley of Ms. Zuigiber and her battle sword, though Dr. Sable’s superiority complex hadn’t come with her sense of humour. More predator, he thought, than impish instigator.

He probably had a wretched bedside manner.

He had a fascinating heirloom, though, the two-tray hanging scale seeming unbalanced and definitely in need of a good cleaning. Surprisingly unadorned for something so clearly showing its age. He’d expected something more... pompous, somehow, but the simple bronze stood strong in its simplicity. “Well, that’s a proud little classic.”

“Found it in a box of my grandparents’ old things,” he replied, pleased that its quality could be appreciated. “I think it’ll look nice in the clinic once it’s been polished and fixed up. Add a bit of class to the place. Perhaps remind people to weigh their options, between healthy and unhealthy choices,” he said, amused by his own play on words.

“Clever.” Aziraphale smiled a little too tightly. “Well, I believe we can take care of the corrosion, doctor. And readjust the counter-balances.”

Crowley had to swallow his grin, lest either of them think it was in Dr. Sable’s favour and not Aziraphale’s. Really, he was wondering if this was the same Dr. Sable who’d written a rather... extreme intermittent fasting book a handful of years earlier. News was one of the easier things to come by on a prison computer, particularly legal news.

If Crowley remembered correctly, the doctor had been absolved of all wrongdoings as technically, the book did not advise that anyone actually follow the suggested diet and it was still on the shelves. The book’s author returned to his medical practice, no harm done. He’d have to look it up later, he decided. “Newt just got in that bedroom set to work on, so I can handle this. I’ll work up a quote.”

This time Aziraphale's smile softened as he looked to Crowley. “Thank you, my dear. I trust it will be in good hands with you.”

Dr. Raven Sable wrote a cheque for the full amount, including postage as he arranged the details with Aziraphale. “Don't know if I'll have much of a chance to make it out here again. We're coming up on winter, after all. I like the winter. Get some of my best business then. Cold and flu season,” he tacked on, possibly unnecessarily, though they couldn't quite tell if that was the only reason the doctor was fond of the chill in the air. “You should stop by the clinic for your flu shots, gentlemen. We can get Mr. Crowley in our system and an annual exam in for you, Mr. Fell.”

“I'll have to take a look at my schedule.”

Crowley grinned, wondering if making an inane anti-vacc statement would get rid of him faster or keep him there longer to argue the point. “Same.”

All but ushering him out with hollow promises to call the clinic, Aziraphale locked up just as Dr. Sable revved up his motorcycle. Though it might have been more of a conspiracy theory up Anathema's alley, Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder if the good doctor had shown up to purposefully deprive him of his full lunch hour. He certainly wouldn't put it past him.

“Make any physician appointments on Friday afternoons,” Aziraphale advised as the motorcycle kicked up a cloud of dust like a stallion pawing at the dirt. “There are two doctors who work out of the clinic and Dr. Sable leaves early on Fridays.”

“Rather go to literally any other clinic, actually.” He was already plugging the name into his phone, waving it when it pulled up just the book he’d suspected. “I knew I knew that name. Who the fuck wants to be literal skin and bones on a virtual starvation diet?”

“Plenty of people, apparently,” Aziraphale tutted, patting his own waistcoat. “He’s one of those who’s of the opinion that every single health problem could be fixed if you lost five stones. He’d probably suggest it would cure you of your migraines.” He rolled his eyes, definitely irritable now from a lack of lunch and lack of kissing. “I do appreciate you waiting with me, my dear. Please make sure you get your full lunch hour. If not for me, then to spite him.”

Crowley took his hand, phone disappearing into his back pocket as they started across to the house. “I can have multiple reasons for doing something. Like I have several for wanting to get my fill of you under the table, love. One of them currently being just how you look when you’re being precisely polite to someone you can’t stand.”

“Don’t tempt me, Crowley. You know there isn’t enough time. Though I suppose that’s good to know for the future.” His smile turned a bit smug as he teased him. “For now you’ll simply have to tide yourself over with the occasional kiss.” 

“Angel, I’m a little offended that you don’t think my mouth is good enough to get you off quickly.” Don’t tempt him. Tch. Aziraphale had been tempting him since he’d woken up. “I think there’s plenty of time, love, especially since I’m not asking for reciprocation. You need time to eat first.”

They hadn’t done anything since Monday night, when Crowley made good on his promise to bury his face between his thighs and nibble to his heart’s content. The marks were fading, but the memory of how much his mouth could work him up still smoldered. Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat as he glanced at him, all Crowley needed to know he was considering it. 

“It’s the middle of the day,” he said, not quite an argument.

Crowley’s smile tipped towards a smirk. “I’m sorry that wanting you isn’t keeping a convenient schedule.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale huffed, taking an unnecessary glance at his pocket watch before tugging Crowley into the house. “Get in here, you wily thing.”

He’d barely been able to make it through lunch. Honestly, it was worth it. Crowley’s mouth was sinful even at the most chaste of times, just a slight quirk was all he needed to make Aziraphale’s stomach flip like a Scotch pancake. Certainly not like a crêpe, no there was nothing light and airy about the way he wanted Crowley at all. His desire wasn’t delicate, though it could very well be described as decadent. Every argument and fussy comment melted along with every bone in his body as Crowley sucked him under the table, just as he’d said he would.

It was also quick, just as he’d said, something that had Aziraphale pouting once the sumptuous haze of orgasm faded. “You’re too good at that,” he complained, though it hardly counted when he looked as debauched as he did, hair mussed and eyes still wanting. “Come up here and kiss me properly.”

Crowley barked out a laugh as he straddled him and let Aziraphale kiss the taste of himself out of his mouth before he had to go back and reopen the shop. Well, first he had to make himself look presentable, which he wasn’t even remotely successful at. Even though he’d wanted more, wanted it to last, Aziraphale still glowed far brighter than any human really had a right to. He was incandescent.

Which was how Anathema found him during his cocoa break, a little earlier than normal since he was feeling peckish, the other half of his lunch wrapped up in the fridge for another time. He didn’t even jump when he turned around and saw her, happily humming a Queen song of all things.

“Hello, my dear girl. Cocoa?”

“No, thanks.” She leaned against the counter, lips curved despite herself. Even not looking at auras, she could see the glow around him. The one around Crowley was just as bad, honestly, and she was tempted to ask him if she could borrow a pair of sunglasses just to see if that would dim it. And she’d thought the gray and the black were intense. “Just wanted to give you yours and Crowley’s invite to my Samhain thing tomorrow night.” She set the homemade card (because she was as old-fashioned as Aziraphale in many ways) next to the kettle. “And, yes, I’m going to have enough candy for you guys to take some home.”

“I would have still attended regardless,” he tutted, but was wiggling as he put on his reading glasses to inspect the card. “As for Crowley-” He cut himself off on a choked sound, suddenly realizing what she was implying, his throat going tight. She didn’t know, did she? None of them knew Crowley was living with him, though he supposed they weren’t exactly going to great lengths to keep it a secret. They just didn’t talk about it. “Ah- my dear, why not give Crowley his- his own invitation? I mean, I suppose you are saving paper this way, which is admirable, jolly good, keep it up, but er- I- I- I’m sure it would be most appropriate if he were to receive his own.”

“Aziraphale, that'd be like giving Madame Tracy and Shadwell their own invites each. It's going to the same place.” She tipped her head to the side, amusement tugging at her lips. “Don't tell me you two think you're being subtle.”

He didn’t tell her that, but the way he paled said enough without his commentary. “Oh… oh, dear. Well. I suppose that looks quite unprofessional…”

Anathema just stared at him for a few seconds. “Are- are you serious? Shadwell and Tracy are married, and you said it was just fine for Newt to move in with me when I asked if you thought it was okay. What about this place says ‘co-workers can’t date?’”

“Nothing,” he hastily replied. “It’s simply that- well, I am your employer.” He trailed off rather meekly, his own argument fading. “It doesn’t trouble you?”

She laid a hand on his arm. “He makes you happy. I'll save being troubled for if he stops.”

“Oh…” There was a slight tremor in his voice, one he tried to clear as he gave her hand a pat, then a squeeze. “Well, that’s… hopefully it won’t come to that,” he chuckled softly, lips quirking up. “Does- er… when you said we weren’t being subtle, does that mean…?” 

His eyes wandered to the rest of the shop, to Newt cutting down wooden blocks to Shadwell’s exact specifications while the man hovered over him like he was actually his superior officer, to Madame Tracy as she gossiped about Dr. Sable while taking a break at Crowley’s workstation. If they all knew and hadn’t said anything - even Shadwell - well, had all his fretting about power dynamics and how they’d be perceived been for naught? Honestly, it would be nice if they had. It would be nice to actually look at Crowley and not feel as though he needed his own pair of sunglasses to hide how enamoured he was by him.

“Does everyone know?”

Half the town knew, or at least suspected, but she didn't want to overwhelm him with that. “Who knows about Shadwell, but everyone else does. Deirdre thinks it's very sweet, and Tracy keeps saying it's about time you get some good taste.”

His cheeks turned pink. “Well, I- hmph.” He took a pointed sip of his cocoa. “I’ve had good taste. If I didn’t, I would have settled for something else a long time ago.” But his embarrassment and indignation couldn’t quite quell the warmth that inspired. That Crowley was considered good taste. He obviously knew that. Crowley was entirely unlike anyone else he’d ever attempted dating, something almost otherworldly about him. Ineffable. It was still nice for someone else to recognize that though. Nice that the entire shop knew about them together and that it was accepted. “It’s still a relatively new development. It hasn’t been like this from the start,” he felt he needed to explain still. “But things… progressed, as it were.” 

“I know. Everyone else thinks it started on your birthday, but you’ve only been extra... shiny for a couple of weeks. He is too, for the record. You’re like a pair of light bulbs.”

“Ah.” He supposed light bulbs did suit them, though he rather thought of Crowley as more of a candle, flame growing brighter when the right attention was fed to it, catching fire in Aziraphale’s heart when he got too close. But light bulbs were still better than they had been. “Not mud then? Or American pudding?” 

Anathema laughed. “No, not recently. Not gray or like black sludge over there either. And he doesn’t seem the type to get weirded out by me doing Samhain instead of Halloween.” She said the name as if talking about gum on the bottom of her shoe. “Though Newt’s mom sent me a recipe for Soul Cakes, so I’m making them. Oh, Deirdre promised to drop off Barmbrack when she comes around with the Them for trick-or-treating, but she’s leaving out the unlucky charms. I forgot to ask sooner, but you haven’t started your cider by any chance, have you?”

“Of course, my dear girl! Can’t have a proper cakes and ale without some spiced cider.” He gave a delighted wiggle. “Ah, were you considering whipping up your great-grandmother’s Guinness stout stew? There’s quite a lot of dicing and chopping of hearty root vegetables involved, a lovely old tradition for Samhain. Only if you’re interested, that is. I wouldn’t want to overstep. It is your celebration, after all.”

She nodded. “I still have the recipe tucked away somewhere, and it was good last year.”

He was certain Crowley wouldn’t mind, though he did ask him if he'd like to go that evening while they were making dinner, trying to ignore the way he wanted to skip the whole thing entirely and drag him straight up to bed. He handed him the handwritten invite as he seasoned the salmon, potatoes and carrots already in the oven since they took longer to cook. It was a good enough distraction as any, with the way Crowley had been brushing kisses to the back of his neck in a fiendish attempt for attention.

“Would you like to attend? She very much adheres to the traditional ideas of Samhain, rather than the fad of Halloween,” he explained while Crowley read it. 

“That doesn't surprise me. Bet the resident witch gets plenty of trick-or-treaters,” he mused. Though he blinked and fell quiet when he realized the card was addressed to both of them, unsure what to do with the sudden tangle of emotions something as simple as his name next to Aziraphale's on a card made him feel. An invitation, for that matter. 

“Yes, well, she still picks up candy for them, so I don't suppose she minds all that much.” Aziraphale glanced back at him when he didn't say much else. “Everything alright, darling?” 

He rubbed his jaw, flicking his gaze up and back down and only making three incomprehensible sounds before explaining. “She included me. Just thought... Wasn't expecting that.”

Aziraphale watched him, wiping off his hands with a towel before reaching for him. Cupping his jaw. “Apparently they all know we're something of an item. Makes sense for us to be invited together. Is that alright?” 

“Well, of course they know. Have you even met Tracy?” It just wasn't something that was said. It hadn't seemed like something that needed saying when it was so clear. “I just wasn't expecting to, y'know, see our names on something. I like it, though.”

It was sweet and deserving of a kiss. “I do too. Yours looks good next to mine. So will you come with me? Attend our first gathering as a proper couple?” 

He made an aborted noise somewhere in the back of his throat that Aziraphale knew was a yes, and Crowley knew he knew. He budged up behind him when he put the salmon in the pan, arms wrapped around that wonderfully soft middle, and eventually - eventually - he said, “Yeah, alright,” as if it was the easiest, most casual thing he’d ever done, and it made Aziraphale giggle.

Footnotes

^10. Check out the trailer in question if you haven't seen it. Hitchcock really was a clever bastard, lol.↩

Chapter Text

Crowley had helped him start the cider the previous Saturday. It had involved fifteen pounds of apples, brown sugar, cinnamon, knives, and a juicer that was older than either of them. He didn’t quite know how the thing still functioned, nor did he know why Aziraphale bothered to go through so much trouble for a single gallon of cider every year. Multiple times in autumn, if he thought he could get away with it.

Although, he could admit to himself that watching his arms flex every single time he’d pumped that juicer had gone a long way to getting him in bed the next night. He’d happily watch that show again. But that was the benefit to his hormones. He didn’t know why cider would be worth so much effort without some friskier reward.

Until it was time to rack the cider after work on Halloween. Crowley boosted himself onto the counter, watching Aziraphale carefully remove the rubber stopper and airlock off their original demijohn. He listened to the explanation with half an ear, only vaguely interested in the bubbled away foam from cider separating into two layers during the brewing process and the yeasty sediment left behind after siphoning the cider into a clean demijohn. It was a pretty golden colour, certainly still smelling of apples and sugar but with a sharper promise of alcohol. Aziraphale poured just a touch into two shot glasses, looking quite proud of himself and only a little nonplussed about Crowley’s childish perch.

“What’s the Gaelic toast, love?” Crowley wondered, very intrigued by the sample. “Sláinte?” 

“Precisely.” He handed Crowley one of the shots, then tapped it lightly with his own. “Sláinte.”

It was fairly dry going down, with a hint of lingering sweetness and spice from the sugar and cinnamon. A few more weeks would ensure a crisper flavor and make it stronger, but as it was, it certainly tasted like autumn and was perfectly appropriate to share with Anathema and Newt. They didn’t have the same constitution for alcohol as he did, so it was better to play it safe. Especially when it was Agnes’s recipe.

“What do you think?” he asked Crowley, expectant as he took another taste and the apple really came through.

“S’not bad.” And it genuinely wasn’t. He didn’t mind a decent sweet cider, and this one was classic. It would probably be too easy to drink the full gallon at this point and not even realise its potency until it was far too late. “Probably gets some more punch if it-” he waved a hand towards the demijohn, the word briefly slipping away- “ferments longer, yeah?”

“Yes. Typically I leave it for about two and a half weeks, but when sharing it with others, I tend to find a week does the trick. I’ll save half to continue the fermentation process for us to enjoy later. See how it compares.”

“It’s pretty dangerous like this. Be too easy to drink too much, I think. I’d rather know I’m getting battered than have it sneak up on me.”

Aziraphale’s lips quirked up in what could almost be called a smug smirk. “You are rather darling when it sneaks up on you though.” He gave his knee a pat, then parted his legs so he could stand between them. “But I’ll keep an eye on you tonight, seeing as you are my ride home.” He also had plans for the next day that very much involved neither of them being too hungover to properly enjoy it. Plans that made his heart feel drunk on anticipation and coaxed him into stealing a kiss to settle himself. Plans could wait. 

Crowley’s fingers stole into his hair to fluff his curls, happy to have all that soft warmth between his legs. “I know my limits, angel. I’ll get you home safe.”

“I trust you, dearest. It’s my great-aunt’s cider recipe I don’t trust,” he chuckled, kissing him again before he had to muster up the strength to step away from him. “Now, I’m going to freshen up a bit and dress for the occasion. You’re fine as is, seeing as black is already your colour.” He dusted off the shoulder of Crowley’s henley as his gaze roved over him. “And I don’t believe there’s any particular dress code. She didn’t say and it’s not on the invite.”

“It’s Tadfield on Samhain. Casual seems like it’d be a safe wager.” Crowley wanted to draw him back in, wind long legs around him to keep him close. He only cocked his head a bit, brow arching. “What are you planning on wearing?”

“Oh, just something with a little more…” He made a vague hand gesture, grinning at him. “Panache, one might say. Ah, but first, let’s get this in the refrigerator, yes.”

After tidying up the kitchen, he disappeared into the bedroom and didn’t resurface until about twenty minutes before they planned on leaving. His curls had been fluffed and feathered, a different cologne applied that spoke of autumn nights and full moons, patchouli and lavender and musk. The biggest change, however, was the black as night blazer fitted over a ruffle front dress shirt in a crisp white. There were even some frills poking out of the cuffs of his sleeves, looking every bit the gothic Victorian he was aiming for. Though he couldn’t help himself and was sporting a black bowtie at his throat.

The bowtie probably should’ve ruined the look, but it was the only thing that kept Crowley from combusting at first glance. It didn’t help as much with the second, but there was a lot to take in. He’d had too many weeks to get used to creams, tans, tartans - soft shades that clashed gently. Black and white was a sharp contrast and on Aziraphale, it was sharp enough to cut his IQ in half. Or maybe it was the ruffles or, vitally important, the lack of a waistcoat or vest. A whole layer short. “Ngk.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Too much?”

More like not enough. “You’re misssing layers.”

“Yes, well, I figured a waistcoat would distract from this lovely top. A bit too much going on, one might say.” He looked rather pleased nonetheless at the slip of Crowley’s lisp. “Do you like it, dear?”

He walked closer to him, circling him to get a look from all angles and breathe in the new cologne. It didn’t suit him for every day anymore than the black did, but for special occasions? “Mmnn, yeah. I like it.”

Aziraphale caught his wrist as he swung back around, then drew him in so he could loop his arms about his waist. “You serpent,” he murmured fondly, kissing the tip of his nose. “Are you ready to go?” he asked, getting a bit of a thrill from asking that. Like a proper couple, like he'd said.

“I was, but now I’m considering hauling you upstairs and being fashionably late.”

“Gosh. And I didn't think black was in my colour wheel,” he laughed. “But here you are, proving me wrong. Still, I hardly got dressed up for you to take it all apart. This time,” he added as he let him go and went to fetch the cider. 

“Oh, it'll get taken apart later. I can promise you that.” Though Crowley was a little tempted to leave the shirt on him with all those frills. Thoughts for later, he decided, beating him to the fridge and pulling him close again. “But you're definitely not getting out of here before getting yourself properly kissed.”

Aziraphale tipped his chin up and raised his brows expectantly, a pleased sound escaping when Crowley sealed their lips together. His hip bumped into the counter as he was caged in by Crowley’s arms, ruffles getting mussed when their chests pressed together. A shiver tickled his spine, delighted at being caught entirely in his grasp. Good Lord, it was tempting to be hauled upstairs, he thought as he eagerly parted his lips and tasted the hint of cider still on Crowley’s tongue.

But the look on his face when he’d realised he’d been invited to Anathema’s, included and wanted, had been precious in its heartbreaking honesty, and Aziraphale would hardly be the one to make him miss out just for a little tumble in bed. Not when they had plenty of opportunity for much bigger tumbles later. 

“Alright,” he gasped, tipping his head back. “You’ve had your proper kiss.”

Crowley grinned, giving him another lighter peck and squeezing his hips before backing up. “As if you weren't interested,” he teased, opening the fridge to get the cider. 

Aziraphale adjusted his bowtie and fluffed out his ruffles with a scoff. “Don't you sound pleased with yourself.”

Sometimes loving him was a terrifying, overwhelming thing. Other times, it was a bright, bubbling happy thing. He let his gaze rove over him, all his ruffles and curls, and it was definitely the latter. “Probably because I am.” 

“Of course you are.” But there was little heat in it, even as Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took his arm, an echo of that bright, happy thing reflected in his own gaze. “Come along, you foul fiend.”

The trees surrounding Jasmine Cottage were golden in colour, fallen leaves neatly swept into a pile at the corner of the front garden, a risky temptation for the Them and other children who would happen upon the cottage that night. The autumn evening was idyllic for the last of October, a chill in the air, but clear skies and a light breeze were all the trick-or-treaters and party-goers would have to contend with. According to Aziraphale, it never really ever rained on October the 31st, or November the 5th, for that matter. Their autumns were nearly always perfect. 

A few decorations had been set out for Samhain, adding to the cottage’s cosy ambience. A pair of hollowed out gourds stood guard at the front gate while black and orange candles winked in the windows to welcome and honor spirits. Two besoms were propped up by the front door, one far older than the other and missing much of its bristles. It had belonged to Agnes, of course, and Aziraphale had happily passed it on to Anathema seeing as she would find more use in the old broom than he. Much of Agnes’s more witch-related heirlooms had been offered to his cousin, her appreciation for classic and antique items as well as the connection to her family making her a more than suitable home for them.

As they arrived in the Bentley, pulled up alongside those gourds at the gate, Aziraphale hefted up the cider and led Crowley up to the front door with a cheerful beckon. Before they were halfway up the walk, Newt had opened the door to let them in.

“Anathema saw you from the window,” he explained in his nervous way. “She’s in the kitchen.”

“Why, thank you, my dear boy. I’ll just set this in there then?” Aziraphale held up the demijohn with a pleasant smile, then strode off towards it when Newt nodded vigorously.

“Oh, and um. You can hang your coats in the closet, if you like,” he added, shifting his gaze between Aziraphale’s retreating form and Crowley - and exactly what Crowley was wearing. “I- er… I like your jacket.”

He grinned, quick and wicked. There had been quite a bit of head-shaking and fond sighs trying to sound disapproving when he'd taken his fuck shit up jacket out of the Bentley, but Crowley was thrilled by the opportunity to wear it and put the blame squarely on Aziraphale's shoulders. “Well, I figured if Aziraphale was going to dress up a touch, I may as well.”

Newt nodded. “Makes sense. I just stuck with something simple…” He glanced down at his feet, sporting a pair of mismatched Halloween-inspired socks. “But Anathema’s dressed up, too, so you’ll fit right in.” Even if it was more of her usual vintage, gothic witch look just dialed up a notch. “You going as a road worker?”

It was almost depressing that the uniform had changed so little in twenty years, but his amusement was far from gone. “If you ask Aziraphale, I'm going as a troublemaker.”

“What was that about causing trouble?” Aziraphale called out. 

Crowley chuckled. “He's asking what I'm wearing, angel. Haven't done anything yet.”

“Yet?” Newt squeaked. 

Crowley sent him an amused smile, hands slipping into his pockets as he walked towards the kitchen. The cottage wasn't as open as the farmhouse, but Crowley recognised the same quaint, cluttered feel. There were just added elements of technology, Anathema’s iPad connected to a Bluetooth speaker on the windowsill and pumping out something with actual lyrics, and of her occultism, bundled herbs drying and, well, just her. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, glancing up from the pot of stew she was stirring. “Is that a security jacket?” 

“Sometimes.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tsked as he poured the cider into four glasses, then directed his attention back to Anathema. “Any news yet on whether or not the owners are selling?” 

Though she was still curious about the jacket - there was no way Crowley had ever been in security, come on - the question diverted her easily enough. “Not completely concrete, but they asked if I'd be interested if they did sell and I said yes. My rental agreement with them is through March, so we'll talk more details then. I think it's looking good, though.”

“Oh, how lovely! That's certainly worth a celebratory toast. You've really made this place your own, dear girl.” Aziraphale was beaming as he capped the demijohn. “And Newton's, of course.”

“I think we have.” She took the glass he offered her, smile confidently hopeful. “They like that I've got a good, stable family connection in town too, so it's a really good thing you're you.”

That seemed to catch him off-guard for a moment as he hesitated in handing Crowley and Newt their glasses. “Well, I- I’m certain they would’ve come to the conclusion that you’re quite dependable and an asset to the town regardless. Without any influence from me. Which I can assure you, I have not done. Er. Or, well, I suppose I should say that while I do like to offer my assistance where I can, any connections you’ve made aside from me have been accomplished on your own merit, my dear.”

“I’ll say,” Newt chimed in to save Aziraphale from his own rambling. “I don’t know if anyone else would’ve been able to change Adam and his friends’ minds about the occult and witchcraft. Sergeant Shadwell might be a lost cause though.” He shrugged, shooting her an apologetic grin. “But I think he… doesn’t mind you? In his own… way.”

The majority of his outright antagonizing had certainly stopped, him not minding her likely the best she could hope for. He probably didn't - or wouldn't admit to - liking anyone, really. None of them had even heard him outright admitting to liking Tracy and he tended to puddle at her feet. “Shadwell's... unique,” Anathema offered, and Crowley laughed. 

“S'a word for him. As much as he'd protest the idea, he'd defend you if it came down to it. Be a hell of a show, really, listening to him dance around protecting a witch.”

“He's probably beside himself now because he lives with one. Sort of. Tracy holds a seance every year.” Anathema smiled at the flicker, the flash of thrill that cut across Crowley's aura. Aziraphale’s gave a gentle pulsation of the sort of fondness that gently disapproved, but would always tolerate. 

“Woman's an artist,” Crowley praised, ready to ask her about it when he next saw her. Preferably right in front of Shadwell just to work him up into the sort of snit that always made Aziraphale sigh and threaten him with employee behaviour manuals. “Now are we toasting to you being clever enough to stick around Tadfield indefinitely or not?” 

Anathema looked at Aziraphale, seeing a different kind of fondness entirely as his gaze lingered on Crowley. “Do the honors? You poured.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I should do.” Aziraphale took up his glass, one arm folded behind him as he raised it and looked to the other three to do the same. “Er, ahem. Well, Anathema, here’s to you, for all the progress you’ve made in the past year and a half, how much you’ve grown as an accomplished ceramics restorer and independent young woman. And most recently as an expert in photography and internet design. You’ve become such an indispensable part of our shop, as well as our town, and I’m sure I speak for many when I say we hope that will only continue for the years to come. Though, perhaps we’ll continue to work on a little warning when you come up behind me while I’m making my cocoa.” He couldn’t help his smile, lines around his eyes crinkling as they twinkled with a hint of playfulness. “Thank you for hosting us this Samhain night. Sláinte.”

None of them were surprised by the length of the toast or how genuine it was, not from Aziraphale when his mood was already high. It still warmed Anathema from the inside out. Appreciation from someone in the family besides her always supportive mother never failed to boost her spirits or her confidence. The cider, nearly all of the alcohol flavour drowned by cinnamon sugar and apples, kept her buoyed up too. “Oh, this is good.”

Newt nodded in agreement, taking another thoughtful sip and Aziraphale preened from the praise. “Yes, well, Agnes certainly had quite the knack for fermenting her own cider and brewing her own ale. Never got the hang of the ale, myself, but I personally find the cider to be well-worth the effort. Now, is there anything I can assist you with, dear girl?”

“Yes. Can you try the stew? Newt says it's fine, but he says that about everything I make.” She sent him a look that could only be called annoyed if one squinted. 

“But I like everything you cook. You’re more experimental with spices and things.” Though he’d never think his mother’s cooking - and by extension his own, since she’d taught him - bland, it certainly didn’t have as diversity of flavours as some of the dishes Anathema had introduced him to.

Aziraphale waved him out of the way so he could come around to the stove. “I’m more than happy to try it. It certainly smells scrummy.” He accepted the clean spoon offered to him and dipped it in the strew, getting a chunk of turnip or potato along with the broth. Turnip, he quickly deduced as he hummed around his spoonful. “Mm. Very good. If I were to add anything at this stage, perhaps another dash of ginger. It’s very flavourful already though, so it’s really up to your taste.”

“No, I thought it needed something, but I wasn't sure what.”

While she added more ground ginger and stirred, Crowley took another sip of cider. There wasn't really a way for him to get in a subtle peek at the pot with how cramped the kitchen was. “What's in it?” 

Aziraphale fetched him a spoon, cupping his hand beneath it to catch any stray droplets as he carried it to him. “Have a taste, my dear. It’s beef, thickened with flour and Guinness, then some autumnal vegetables and herbs. Smidge of garlic, ginger. Potatoes, turnips, carrots, and onion.” And absolutely no cream or bacon of any kind. 

His great-aunt’s recipe had never called for cream, but she had always put bacon in it. Aziraphale had quietly requested that Anathema cut the bacon out of the stew entirely. It was optional at any rate. He didn’t say it was for Crowley, but he wouldn’t put it past her that she’d figure it out.

He held the spoon steadily to Crowley’s lips, heart pounding as dared to try something so brazen in front of Newt and Anathema. But it was exciting to know that someone knew they were something of an item. That it was alright for them to be there together. Together together. 

Crowley hummed over the sample, letting the broth linger on his tongue like he might with a taste of wine. It was rich, certainly hot enough to warm a body on a brisk autumn night, and safe - respectful of his choices - if Aziraphale was feeding it to him. The simple trust in him was getting easier to feel by the day. “S'good.”

Heart fluttering, Aziraphale beamed at him, then shooed him off to help Newt set the table. More candles were clustered in the center, surrounded by a natural garland composed of leaves and smaller gourds. Black, orange, and purple were pulled together with the same artistic eye Anathema used for the shop’s aesthetic. There was also an altar close to the table, draped in a black cloth and decorated with an offering of soul cakes for the ancestors who might come by while the veil was thin.

Aziraphale also placed a shot glass of the cider on the altar before they sat down to eat. The auras in the cottage were warm and light as they indulged in comforting food and crisp cider. Newt confessed he’d never thought about celebrating it before he met Anathema, while she shared her own sabbat traditions she’d grown up with. They were fairly similar to how Agnes celebrated, Virtue passing down the traditions through her line.

“Grandma used to tell me this, but I’m not sure if I believe it,” Anathema directed at Aziraphale. “But did grandma Agnes actually sacrifice wild geese and sprinkle their blood on her doorstep?”

Aziraphale said nothing as he took a long drink of his cider, and Crowley cackled at the image of an old witch trying to wrangle a wild goose. “She tried once,” Aziraphale finally answered. “We had to replace three windows.”

“Good Lord.” Newt adjusted his glasses, eyes wide. “How did she catch it?”

“Oh, she didn’t. A passing lorry did.”

Newt’s face fell. “Poor thing.”

“Yes, I insisted on a proper funeral for it instead. I was possibly ten at the time.”

“Wait, didn’t she know that would happen?” Newt’s brow furrowed. “If she could see the future?”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and tilted his head consideringly. “She saw a dead goose in her future, so she assumed she’d be successful at completing the ritual.” There was a knock at the cottage door, so he dabbed at his lips with his napkin to make himself presentable while Anathema stood to answer it. “Unfortunately the damage it wrought escaped her.”

When Anathema passed him, Newt leaned back to tell her, “I don’t think Adam and them should ever find out there’s a ritual about sacrificing a goose.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not the kind of tradition we should be passing down. I think they’d miss the point.”

“Trick-or-treat!” A chorus of youthful voices rang out as the door opened. “Happy Halloween, Anathema,” Adam greeted, grinning as Dog yipped at his heels.

“Blessed Samhain, everyone.” She beamed at the four children, the Them frequent visitors to Jasmine Cottage in search of the sweets she doled out freely beyond the holiday, stories about America to help fuel some of their games, and the uniqueness of having an adult seriously listen to them. Two adults, considering that Newt gave them just as much attention. “Hi, Deirdre.”

“Hi. Evening, all. I've brought some traditional brack, as promised.” Deirdre smiled and let Anathema take the covered tray of Irish sweet bread, a ring and a coin tucked amongst the raisins and sultanas. “Arthur dropped us off, so you're our first stop tonight.”

“We're going through the whole town on our way back,” Pepper announced with confident relish. 

“Actually, not the whole town because Mr. Fell’s here and not at his house, so he wouldn’t answer the door if we went there,” Wensleydale put in, adjusting his glasses as they slid down his nose.

Newt tilted his head as he looked over the little group. “Wensleydale, didn’t you want to dress up?”

“I did dress up. I’m Clark Kent.”

Pepper rolled her eyes, swatting him with her candy bag. “I told you no one would know.”

“Sort of the point of a secret identity, isn’t it?” Crowley put in, amusement tugging at his lips. “Not being known.”

“Yes, actually.” Wensleydale latched onto it immediately, sticking his tongue out at Pepper. She retaliated in kind.

“What are you supposed to be, Mr. Crowley?” Adam asked, a gleam in his eye. “Undercover?”

The amusement unfurled in a grin. “Yes.”

“Wicked. I’m a robot alien.” And he was decked out in quite the homemade costume, all cardboard and shining silver spraypaint. At the end of his leash, Dog was patiently wearing half a shoebox in the same shining shade. And a foil-wrapped party hat. They’d certainly stand out if they inevitably went off on a tear, something Deirdre was well-prepared for. “Dog here’s an alien robot.”

Brian, his hockey mask more attached by tape than elastic already, waved a fake knife in Aziraphale’s direction. “Mr. Fell, are you a vampire?”

“He can’t be,” Pepper huffed. “He doesn’t have fangs.”

“Could so.” Brian pushed the mask up and poked his own canines for emphasis. “He might be hiding them. To blend in with all the people. Dracula did that and all.”

“He did.” Aziraphale nodded, something like pride glowing in his smile as he looked to Brian. Perhaps he only knew that from the film, but it was still based on a fine work of literature. “He also needed to be undercover, as it were. An esteemed, charismatic count by day, whilst menacing his unsuspecting victims in the night all the while. Though I can’t say that’s where I found my inspiration. I was simply drawn to something… different. More in line with the Victorian era. Perhaps a bit like Dorian Gray,” he added with a hint of mischief in his tone.

Of course it would be a Wilde reference. Crowley shook his head minutely, terribly fond of him. “Should we be worried about your portrait, love?”

“Oh, I don't believe I've done anything too terribly wicked. I should think we'd be fine, dearest.” He gave Crowley's hand a pat, as if to console him.

Crowley was tempted to suggest an implication that Aziraphale had indeed done a few wicked things, but he didn't want to outright ruin future chances of more. Had they been alone, it would've been fine. As it was, he only captured his hand mid-pat and lifted Aziraphale's knuckles to his lips. 

It only occurred to him after, tongue tripping over whatever he'd been about to say, that it was the most romantic thing he'd ever done in front of people. For Aziraphale, it had been the domesticity of feeding him that made his heart thump and for Crowley, it was this. A simple little thing he'd been doing since the day they'd met, but this time in front of people. And not just people, but people they knew. A piece of Aziraphale's family, two of their co-workers, and four nosy, chatterbox children. 

But the world continued to turn, no one reacted as if it was anything out of the ordinary or even teased them for it. Crowley liked it, this being a couple business. Or at least he liked it in Tadfield with Aziraphale. 

----

It had been almost impossible to leave the comfort of his bed the next morning, and Aziraphale regretted it instantly. He only had to look back at Crowley’s hair fanned out against the pillow, eyes closed and face smooth in slumber. A bruise was just starting to purple on the exposed skin of his neck, leftover from when they were quite tipsy and giggling over Aziraphale’s terrible impersonation of a vampire before Crowley fully divested him of his frills and ruffles. There were more kiss marks across his chest, and he couldn’t help but trace the shape of one just beneath his collarbone as he tucked the duvet around him so he wouldn’t miss his warmth and awaken. They’d stayed out rather late after all, good company and good cider making it difficult to part, then stayed up even later to make love with the light of the full moon spilling into the bedroom.

Aziraphale shivered, both from the memory of Crowley’s touch and the chill of the November morning air against his bare skin. It would be nothing to lift the duvet and burrow into cotton and Crowley, let heavy lids close and doze off with the sound of his beloved’s heartbeat against his ear. Aziraphale’s own heart quivered next as Crowley sighed and shifted in his sleep, coiling into the space where the sheets still held Aziraphale’s scent and traces of his warmth. He rubbed his cheek against the pillow, then settled with a small smile, and Aziraphale’s chest cracked open with the agonizing wonder of how much he loved him.

Gosh. Love. Wasn’t it a bit soon for all that? 

He bowed his head, brushing his lips to the soft down of Crowley’s hair, then finally wrenched himself away. He had plans, after all, as the box of expired condoms reminded him from the wastebasket in the bathroom. Plans that would be well-worth it.

Crowley was awake once he returned from his shower, blinking blearily and accusingly at the open window permitting daylight to filter in. Aziraphale chuckled as he buttoned up his shirt and drew the curtains closed after a peek at the clouds converging overhead. No rain clouds today, everything dove grey and wispy in a way that reminded Aziraphale of watercolour paintings, brush strokes muddling the horizon. Knotting his bowtie at his throat, he gave Crowley another kiss and ignored the way he grabbed at him and untucked a corner of his shirt on his way out. Wily thing.

Valiant attempts were made to keep his plan out of mind while he greeted the church-goers that morning. Sitting primly in his pew made him grateful that he’d had the presence of mind to not take the next step before having to spend an hour sitting on wood that was rather unforgiving, in great contrast to the Lord. He sent a quick prayer of forgiveness up to Her, but could She really blame him for being excited? Not that kind of excited, of course, it was still church.

Quite honestly, he was looking forward to the look on Crowley’s face and sounds he’d surely make when he realised his angel had purchased condoms on a Sunday.

Well, to be fair he’d also sworn on a Sunday and had sex on a Sunday, doing the responsible thing and purchasing protection on a Sunday was hardly as scandalous as all that. At least that was what he thought until he was actually stood in the chemist’s shop, two boxes and another bottle of silicone lubricant just to be on the safe side tucked in his little basket. He couldn’t dilly-dally for long, though he’d passed on mingling after the service, he was still due to meet Crowley for brunch and he’d already spent far too long perusing the different labels to find what had been his preferred brand back in the day. 

But it was one thing to plan to buy condoms and lube and another thing to face the chemist who knew for a fact that Aziraphale had not purchased a single sex-related item from him in fourteen years. Good Lord. His cheeks were red as he checked out, the blush not fading once even though it was all very professional. Here he was, fifty years old, buying condoms and blushing about it like he was caught doing something shameful. There was absolutely nothing shameful about the matter, none whatsoever.

It was easier to convince himself of this as he stepped out of the shop, reality settling in. They were going to do it. Tonight- today, even. They’d gotten quite good at touching and kissing one another into orgasmic oblivion, but ever since Crowley had teasingly asked if he was a bottom, Aziraphale ached to feel him inside. The stretch, the burn, moving together as close as they could get. With a pleased wiggle, anticipation already pooling low in his belly, he hurried to the Discerning Duck to beat Crowley to it. To keep his bag out of the sight of a curious and wily serpent.

Curious, wily, and thankfully running a little behind that morning. He'd gotten caught up in his plants, the faint smell of potting soil still clinging to him when he sent Mr. Waller an absent wave in response to the innkeeper's greeting. He hardly realised it, but he was being folded into this town as easily as he had the repair shop and Aziraphale's home. He dropped into the seat across from Aziraphale, legs brushing when he stretched his long ones out. “Had to trim the monstera,” he said by way of apology. “Waiting long, angel?” 

“Oh, no, my dear. Only just arrived myself.” He shifted his own leg so their ankles were touching under the table and fought the shiver that traced his spine. “How is the lovely thing doing?”

“Don't go around giving it compliments. It'll hear you eventually and start doing something ridiculous like dying.” Maybe some psychiatrist somewhere would tell Crowley the ability to keep plants from doing so was why he liked them, but it wasn't any use dwelling. “Clipped the last of the burned bits, though, so it can focus its energy on growing instead of healing.”

“Oh, well, that’s terribly thoughtful of you.” Aziraphale smiled at him over the top of the menu, a warm chuckle making itself known when Crowley tilted his head and glared at him rather glarefully. His heart fluttered as he thought of riling him up enough that he’d be unable to do anything other than kiss him to get him to stop saying such things. Kiss him senseless and press him against the nearest flat surface and take him. He fluttered the menu like a fan, gaze dropping back down to pretend to peruse it like he didn’t already know what he wanted.

Well, aside from the obvious. Though he was starting to wonder how on earth he was going to get through the meal without squirming right out of his seat. Perhaps he should’ve waited to make his purchase, sent Crowley off to the florist to complain about more plants. Knowing the bag was there, squeezed between his chair and the wall, only made the heat inside him flare brighter with Crowley just within reach. Oh, but he needed to calm down, what if Crowley wanted to wait a bit? It was hardly appropriate to jump the man as soon as they got home, wasn’t it? Without fair warning. He’d show him his spoils when they got home and they’d have a reasonable discussion about next steps, like the seasoned adults they were.

He managed to get through brunch, though treated - or tortured - Crowley to a few extra sounds of pleasure. Crowley considered them to be both, gaze locked on Aziraphale’s mouth through most of it and suspicious after the third unnecessary dab to his lips in as many minutes. Like Aziraphale was trying to catch his attention. And then by shooing him ahead whilst he got his things together after they ate. 

Like he was hiding something, though Crowly couldn’t imagine what. His suspicions were only heightened when they didn’t veer down every single aisle and only stuck to Aziraphale’s neatly written list. They never stuck exactly to the list. Something wild always caught his angel’s eye, but they were in and out in record time and Aziraphale still hadn’t stopped fidgeting or occasionally looking at him for seconds too long or flushing as pretty as it was random.

Bugger whatever the secret was, honestly, he knew how to recognise when someone felt randy. By the time he parked under the overhang by the barn - Aziraphale only giving a few token protests to his speed - he was ready to say bugger to the groceries too, but there were some cold things that needed putting away. And the fallout from that would probably not be worth the brief satisfaction of pinning him to the door as soon as they stepped inside.

Not that it stopped him from taking Aziraphale’s coat off before he could do it himself, sneaking up behind him to do it and deliberately brushing his fingers just above his collar. “Feeling a little... pent up, angel?”

“Crowley.” It was a touch too breathless to be a proper reprimand, the undercurrent of need throbbing in time with his pulse. “We have things to put away. The milk for a start.”

Definitely pent up and Crowley wasn’t above making it worse. Or seeing if the suggestion would make it worse. “Angel, that’s one of the very few reasons why you’re not up against the nearest wall right now.”

Aziraphale leaned back into him, tempted to reach back and enfold himself in Crowley’s arms and let him- “You can’t just say things like that, Crowley,” he huffed, coat falling the rest of the way off as he wrenched himself away and reached for their bags. “But if you’re going to be a beast about it, might as well at least start. Come along, you can try tempting me in the kitchen.”

“I don’t think I have to try very hard. You’ve been itching all afternoon, you absolute tease.” Crowley pinched him through the trousers and disappeared into the kitchen with half the bags.

“Tease?” he echoed incredulously, but a pleased smile tugged at his lips that lingered as he followed him. “Well, I suppose that’s not far from the truth.”

He kept a close eye on the bag from the chemist, making sure it was behind other bags so Crowley wouldn’t try to empty it. Yet. He waited until every chilled thing made it into the fridge or freezer, stocking the cupboards and watching until Crowley had emptied his bags and folded them up. He waited until he asked if there was anything else, then he placed the chemist’s bag on the counter in front of him and returned to setting the last of the tea on the shelf.

And Aziraphale got just what he wanted for the effort, Crowley blinking twice at the contents before his gaze snapped to Aziraphale and the sounds started. An incomprehensible mix of stutters and hisses drenched in utter want. Until he gave up on forming any words at all and just grabbed him. Tea bags scattered across the counter, but he really couldn’t be bothered to care when he was focused on backing Aziraphale into it. Want made a sharp turn into need when their lips crashed together. They hadn’t talked about this beyond his teasing question about fantasies and more teasing on his fossil collection, so he’d tucked it into an eventual category and had been more than happy to explore him in every other way.

But now? “Upssstairs,” he managed, and there were his words. “Right now. Before I completely lose my head.”

Fingers were already tangled in red hair as Aziraphale tried to hold him in place, follow his lips. “You mean you haven’t already?” Breathless despite the quip, he rocked forward to feel the unforgiving, solid presence caging him in and the answering hardness firm against him. His head tipped back on a groan, supported only by the upper cabinet when his heart couldn’t stop racing. “Crowley.”

“If I had, I'd boost you onto the counter and have you right here.” Which wouldn't be a bad idea at all, Crowley taking advantage of his tipped head to nip at his throat. “Not for the first time, though.”

“Mm. No, you’re right,” he agreed, even as he arched into him once again, body naturally pulled to Crowley’s. “Upstairs, yes. Don’t forget the bag.”

“Not fucking likely,” he muttered, making himself step back to grab it. Then Aziraphale's hand. “You're going to be the death of me, angel. I hope you know that.”

“Only a little death, dearest.” Aziraphale grinned at him, squeezing his hand as he tugged him along. “Perhaps several, if the mood strikes us.”

Crowley laughed, unable to help it. “You did buy two boxes.”

“One to store and one to use. Pardon me for planning ahead.” He didn’t release Crowley’s hand until they were in the bedroom.^[11] “Speaking of planning,” he continued, toying with his bowtie, “is it fair of me to presume that our fantasies are still in alignment?”

“Currently mine is getting you on your back so I can watch your face when I sink into you, so you tell me.”

His answer was a hungry kiss, mouth opening to share greedy little sounds as he tugged him to the bed. His fingers fumbled to undo the buttons of Crowley’s black waistcoat and pushed it off his shoulders. He wanted him, he’d wanted him all morning and he wanted him now. “Yes,” he exhaled, taking his turn to trail nipping kisses down his neck. “Yes, please. That’s what I want.”

Crowley groaned, shuddering when his teeth found the mark he'd left on him the night before. He'd have given him anything, but thank Somebody he wanted this. “When's the last time you had anything-?” Over a decade since there'd been an actual person, but there were other ways and he had to clamp down on his too-busy imagination very fast or he wasn't going to make it. But he had to know how much prep Aziraphale would need, how he liked it, questions tumbling in his mind even while Aziraphale's mouth tried to empty it. 

He placed another suckling kiss over the mark before answering. “Mm. Anything? More than fingers or…?” Aziraphale’s cheeks still managed to turn pink even as he tugged on the hem of Crowley’s shirt to get it off.

Crowley helpfully leaned back to help him remove it, then busied himself with Aziraphale's bowtie. “Well, now I don’t remember the point of the question. Just thinking about you fingering yourself open.”

“Oh, you wily serpent.” Aziraphale pinched his nipple in retaliation, enjoying the sound he made in response, then did his part to unfasten his waistcoat to ease the full burden of unwrapping him from Crowley’s shoulders. “In the bath, a few weeks before we kissed. I don’t usually- what I mean to say is, I don’t have any… accessories. So that’s really all I’ve done since having a partner.”

Crowley was absolutely not going to laugh at the word accessories but he did grin, pushing the waistcoat apart and working down the row of his shirt buttons. More questions, ideas for the future, had to be tucked away. “Right. So I get to take my time with you.”

“We do have the entire day ahead of us,” Aziraphale hummed, removing his cufflinks next, placing them on the bedside table alongside his bowtie. “But not too much time, I hope. I want you, darling. It’s been driving me spare all morning.”

Catching them both up in another kiss, Crowley grasped his waist to pull him closer. It had been very obvious, and though he hadn’t expected this much, he wasn’t going to disappoint. “Long enough not to hurt you, angel.”

“I know you won’t hurt me,” he assured him, clinging to his shoulders while their lips found one another again and again. “It’s the teasing that concerns me. You can be a bit of a demon.”

“Only a bit?” Crowley hiked him up enough to grind against him. “M’offended.”

A moan slipped free as he eagerly bucked his hips, chasing the delicious friction between them. “Oh- oh, you’re positively fiendish,” he corrected. “A right devil.”

“Better,” Crowley hummed, doing his best to ignore the way heat flared in his own gut. It was far too easy to get lost in every single thing they did together. Waistcoat and shirt were pushed from his shoulders to the floor so he could gather Aziraphale up and deposit him on the edge of the bed. “How many fingers?” he wondered wickedly, sinking to his knees to start undoing the laces of those brogues.

Aziraphale's gaze went hazy as he watched him, carding his fingers through his hair to muss him up, to tug just so when devilish fingers deviated beneath the cuff of his trousers. “Mm, well, I wasn't actually trying to open myself up,” he tried to huff, using Crowley's vernacular. “I'm not a masochist. There's no point in stretching if nothing's going to come of it. Usually just two. Sometimes three,” he added after a long beat, glancing away, well-aware he just added fuel to Crowley's fire. Several litres worth, surely.

Oh. Yes, Crowley had to tie his imagination to a post and walk away fast before it could burn him alive. Aziraphale’s thick fingers at three would be a wider stretch than three of Crowley's, so perhaps this wouldn't take all afternoon. “Not a masochist, a hedonist.” Shoes and socks set aside, Crowley parted Aziraphale’s legs to shuffle between them and undo his trousers. “I should get you an accessory just to watch you sometime.”

He tsked, gaze flitting back to his face and away again while his hips rolled into the touch. “I'd rather have you, but I might be open to considering the possibility…” He lifted up to help slide his trousers down his legs, then shifted further onto the bed, into the middle of it. “Up here now, darling.”

Open to considering was further than Crowley had expected the suggestion to go, a pleasant shiver working down his spine at the very thought of it. But he waved a hand. “In a mo’,” he promised, his own boots and socks pulled away quickly. Then one of the boxes of condoms got tossed onto the bed beside Aziraphale, and he had to grab the open lube because he wasn’t getting out of that bed once he got in it.

His snakelike belt clattered to the floor before he finally joined him, fingers skimming up Aziraphale’s sides, pushing up the thin undershirt. “Y’know if you didn’t always have so many layers, we’d be a little further along by now.”

“So you've said before.” Aziraphale bent his knees on either side of Crowley, his own touch tracing along his arms before he gently laid his hands over Crowley's to help him lift the shirt up and over his head. “Though you've still got your trousers on,” he pointed out, purposefully rubbing his bare calf against the denim. 

He let out a garbled sound. “Yup, deliberate. Tryin’ to focusss.”

The slip of his hiss coupled with his familiar noises managed to calm Aziraphale’s racing heart and brought a soft smile to his lips. “Am I distracting you?” 

“Always.” Crowley leaned down and kissed him, would be happy to drown in just that for the rest of his life. Though a hand slipped down, cupping him through the soft cotton of his pants. “Constantly. It’s impossible not to be caught up in you.” 

Aziraphale pressed his head back into the pillows on a low whine. Those clever fingers were quickly learning all the perfect ways to touch him, to coax him into hardness. “You’re one to talk,” he managed, hooking a leg over his hip, seeking more contact, then raked his nails over Crowley’s chest. “You’ve thoroughly ensnared me. Consumed every thought with your dashing swagger.” 

The bite of his nails made him squirm as much as the words. Definitely going to be the death of him. “‘The world, for me, and all the world can hold is circled by your arms; for me there lies, within the lights and shadows of your eyes, the only beauty that is never old.’”^[12] He popped the buttons of his pants. “Let me or do you want mine off first?”

Aziraphale searched his gaze, heart swollen with love for the man above him. It wasn’t just the dashing swagger that captivated him, no, it was the tenderness despite his turmoils, his poetry, his thoughtfulness. His touch softened to stroke over where Crowley’s heart was beating, eyes shining as he nodded.

“You can, it’s alright.”

Crowley nabbed a pillow, tucking it under the small of his back when he arched to let the cotton get dragged down his thighs, off and cast away. His gaze roved over him with the same fascinated awe, the same raw hunger, as he had the first time he’d seen Aziraphale laid bare like this. It wasn’t unlike the way the angel would study a basket of bread rolls, choosing what exactly would be picked first. Crowley’s mouth settled just above Aziraphale’s heart. “My angel, how wet do you like it?”

“Wet,” he breathed, melting under that molten stare and the sweet heat of his mouth. Though anticipation coiled tighter in his belly, his thighs quivering as they squeezed Crowley’s sides. “Very- ah, very slick, yes. But what about you? How do you want me?”

“Well-pleasured, preferably.” The cap popped open and Crowley kissed his way down until he could get one of Aziraphale’s legs over his shoulder. There were several little marks littering his thighs from just the night before, so Crowley mouthed over one to make it a little worse. The pad of a wet index finger rubbed over his puckered hole, encouraging it to give way. “Clenching, love. Relax for me.”

“Ah… right. Trying,” he said through a shudder, breathless and twitching under his touch. His head was suddenly spinning with visions of what it would look like to have his long fingers buried inside him, precise and patient when working on something he cared about, and oh, he was about to start working on him just like that. Aziraphale groaned and tightened up again in anticipation before he opened up under his gentle prodding, muscles relaxing to experience the feel of him somewhere new. “Oh, Crowley…”

“There we are,” he murmured, nearly groaning himself as his finger sank in, felt the greedy clench around the digit. He pressed another kiss to his thigh, starting up a careful rhythm of thrusts. A shiver trickled down his spine when Aziraphale's hips caught on, chasing each time he drew back and Crowley couldn't decide if he wanted to watch that more or if he wanted to linger on the pleasure rippling over his face. “You're ssso beautiful like this. You've no idea.” Soon, following the push and pull of his body, a second finger worked in and Crowley shifted up just enough to let his tongue slide, warm and wet, up the length of his shaft. 

“Oh! Oh, yes, that…” Aziraphale gasped, eyes closing under the barrage of opposing pleasures. The slow simmer of being stretched was easy to bask in, steady as he rode it higher and higher, but the sudden attention to his cock was like lightning, lighting up every nerve as quick as a snap of the fingers. “Oh, you beast, that’s wonderful.”

As his tongue flicked just beneath the head, a bead of pre dribbled down for Crowley to taste and Aziraphale arched his hips to follow the damp heat of his mouth before he pulled away. With a whine he’d later deny, he bore down on Crowley’s fingers and choked on his next sound as they slid deeper. So close, but not quite there, Aziraphale rocked down again, hands grasping for Crowley in an attempt to reign him in.

Crowley wondered if and was pretty certain he could get him off just like this, fingers and a teasing tongue. He let him cling and pull, shivering at every tug of his hair and pleased that Aziraphale's heel was digging a bruise into his back, very pleased that he could drag out punchy moans and the whines Aziraphale could deny all he wanted. Crowley wasn’t going to forget them anytime soon. He wasn't going to forget a single second of him writhing and keening and wanting. 

Still, he avoided just what was being asked. His fingers scissored and stretched, continued to thrust even though they never quite went as deep as they could, nor did they hit right where Aziraphale’s mobile hips seemed to want. Until, eventually, when he was open enough, a third finger slipped in and curled just so to find the bundle of nerves. For this, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s thigh to hide a smile that was too smug, he definitely wanted to watch his lover's face. 

Caught up in the delicious stretch, Aziraphale didn’t catch on to Crowley’s intention until it was too late. Pleasure cracked open at his touch, digging into him to drown him in the luscious sensations, sharp and thick and decadent. He stilled, savouring the feeling with every inch of him, fingers clenched and toes curled, lips parted on a satisfied moan.

But all too quickly, the pressure was gone and Aziraphale clung closer as he chased the sensation. “Crowley, there. There, please.”

Crowley hummed against the plush warmth of his thigh. It was difficult to hold onto smug when the reaction had gone straight to his own cock, almost painfully hard in his trousers. His free hand left Aziraphale’s waist to undo the button and zip to give himself some relief, and he nipped Aziraphale’s thigh instead of whimpering against it. “Yeah, yesss,” he agreed and crooked his finger again just to watch, just to feel the way walls closed tightly around the digits over and over again in involuntary spasms. “Gorgeousss,” he hissed when he eased off the spot again. “You beautiful thing, please tell me you’re nearly ready for me.”

“Yes, yes, darling, please.” His pleading dissolved into eager babbling as he bore down again, filling himself with Crowley's clever fingers. It was nearly everything he'd wanted, the sound of his zip only serving to remind him that they could be closer, that he could bring Crowley just as much pleasure and draw him into his own warmth where he could keep him safe and surrounded with love. Aziraphale blinked down at him through his blissful haze, overwhelmed by the way Crowley nuzzled his thigh, eyes smouldering with an identical need as he breathed him in and watched him indulge again and again. “Crowley, now. Now, please, I want you inside, all of you. You're so good to me, dearest.”

Yes, now, yes. Crowley shifted to his knees, losing the leg over his shoulder. His fingers slowly drew out, letting out a ragged moan at the way Aziraphale’s body immediately clenched around nothing. “Condom, angel.” He listened to him fumble with the packaging whilst wiggling out of tight denim with the speed only daily wear wrought, and took the condom from him. “If you touch me right now,” he said before the protest in Aziraphale’s eyes could reach his mouth, “I’ll pop like a bloody teenager.”

“Oh.” His eyes sparkled and he couldn't hide the giggles that inspired when buoyed on the high of lovemaking. “Oh, dear. You really are enjoying the show, aren't you?” 

“Christ,” he complained, but it was far too breathless as he rolled the condom down and tried to ignore the way those sparkling eyes followed the move. “If anybody had asked me in - mnng - in August if I was a voyeur, I’d’ve said nah. And now you.”

“Good Lord.” Aziraphale nudged him firmly in the side with his knee. “I wouldn’t call you a voyeur. I am very much aware of your undivided attention, and quite enjoying it.” He wiggled beneath him, canting his hips up. “A voyeur takes pleasure in watching unsuspecting persons.” 

“Not necessarily, but I'm not bickering with you about definitions.” Though the distraction kept him from bucking into his own fist as he slicked lube over his length. “The point is, I like looking at you. Whatever you're doing, whatever you're wearing or not wearing, you've definitely got undivided attention.”

Aziraphale groped for his free hand, drawing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to the back of it. He didn’t know how it was possible to be filled with so much fondness for a single creature, but Crowley managed to surprise him every time. Even when arousal swam hot and heavy in their veins, both eager and wanting more of the other.

“Oh, my dearest,” he purred, rubbing his lips over his knuckles and the veins of his hand. “I like when you look at me. But at the moment I’d appreciate a little less looking and more doing.”

“Luckily for us, I can multitask.” Crowley caught Aziraphale’s hand in turn and gave it a squeeze before gliding it down his side to cup a hip. The other stayed between his own legs as he shifted closer and finally guided the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscles. “Fuck,” he breathed, grasping the other hip just to make sure Aziraphale couldn't move just yet. Just that much, and he was already clenching. Crowley was fairly sure that his brain was going to leak out of his ears before he made it halfway if that kept that up. “Ssstill need you to relax a bit, angel.”

Oh, it had been so long since he’d had more than fingers. Aziraphale’s head fell back on an indulgent moan, legs falling open as his thighs tensed and relaxed in pulsing waves. Crowley filled him more, the slow slide of him both torturous and intoxicating, but it wasn’t enough. It was so much, but still not nearly enough. The flush that painted Crowley’s cheeks and the way he struggled to keep hold of his sanity only made Aziraphale want him more. The initial shock of being stretched open dulled into a pleasant throbbing that coaxed him into unclenching and replaced the burn with the pulsing heat of his lover. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, lashes fluttering as a satisfied smile spread. “Oh, perfect, dear. Just like that.”

Anything so long as it kept that blissful, pink-cheeked look on his face. All that dark, pleased arousal in his eyes. Crowley carefully rocked forward, letting Aziraphale’s body do most of the work for this first slide. The pace was nearly lethal, inch by inch disappearing into welcoming heat until they couldn’t get any closer. He shuddered, they both did, and Crowley leaned down to nuzzle their brows together. “Aziraphale,” he whispered, a prayer or benediction. Certainly it was soaked in his own pleasure, his own wonder. “My angel.”

Aziraphale hooked his ankles together at the base of Crowley’s spine, shivering as it shifted them - as it shifted Aziraphale’s entire world, like every living thing held its breath, frozen in time while they laid with one another, seconds like centuries and eternity like sand slipping too fast through his fingers. They flexed and curled helplessly, then clutched at dark red hair to stay tethered to him from head to toe. His other hand pressed between them, against Crowley’s chest, the soft pad of his index finger mindlessly rubbing over a blushing nipple.

“Crowley…” His name was spoken against his lips as Aziraphale nudged them together. “I’m yours, dearest. Yours entirely. And you… oh, how I’d like to keep you. May I? Will you stay mine?” Will you stay always?

Crowley had been his from the first moment, it seemed like. A simple kindness, shelter in the rain, had spiraled into so much more and there was still so much more left to share. “Yoursss,” he whispered, a sample that tasted incredibly right on his tongue. As right as Aziraphale when he kissed him again. “M’all yours,” felt scarier but was no less true. Saying it again, chasing it with another kiss, was less so. So of course he said it one more time. “I’m yours, love.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him tighter, still cradling the back of his head with one hand and clinging as he kissed him fiercely. It may have been fast, they might not have known each other long, but he didn’t think anyone knew him better. A thought as terrifying as it was thrilling. He didn’t want anyone to know him better.

“Move,” he gasped, then sucked on Crowley’s lower lip as he rocked down on his length. “Please, darling, move with me. I want to feel you.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned, hips rolling forward. Beautiful, demanding, perfect - he couldn't be better. “Anything, angel.” Absolutely anything. Crowley started with shallow thrusts, slow to savour all the tight heat surrounding him and trading hungry sounds and spilling praise between kisses. “Beautiful, love, angel, take me so well.” A hand left his hip to trail to one of the plush thighs wrapped around him, shifting between clinging and caressing as the thrusts steadily lengthened. 

“Yes.” His eyes rolled back as the pleasure consumed him, mind and body. For a long moment, all he knew were the rolling tides of Crowley’s thrusts rocking him into the mattress. The catch of his cock against his rim with each perfect slide, Crowley’s own choked sounds of pleasure - taking his pleasure in Aziraphale’s body just as eagerly as he gave it. And oh, was he giving. Indulging him completely even as he ached for more. 

Oh, he was too good to him. Forcing his eyes open, dazed and deliriously giddy at the sight of Crowley’s face, Aziraphale brought one hand down to cup his cheek with reverence. He thumbed over his lips as he panted and shivered at the hint of tongue when Crowley kissed it. “Crowley, you magnificent thing, you feel sublime. You’re so good- aah! Mmmgh, mmhmm- yes, so good to me, dearest.” 

His praises spilled endlessly from kiss-swollen lips, expressive and radiant in his pleasure. Aziraphale held Crowley’s gaze even as the rhythmic pounding made his eyes hazy with bliss, a smug glint to them when he rolled his hips to meet him. He purposefully clenched around him just to watch golden eyes darken, slitted pupils blown, and Crowley’s well-kissed mouth broke open on a needy sound. He sank deeper into him, desperately and greedy, so close to grazing his prostate it wrung a whimper from Aziraphale’s throat as his head pressed back into the pillows. He whined again when Crowley mouthed at the exposed skin of his neck and Aziraphale’s cock twitched between them, just as needy and smearing pre on their stomachs, warm and wet. The thought of touching himself was a fleeting one, hands greedy as he stroked and grappled at Crowley’s shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck. Touching him was more important, reminding him that the person whose bed he was in cared for him as well as desired him.

“You’re perfect. So perfect, Crowley. Mmm- more. Oh, just a little more, please, dearest. It’s so- oh- Crowley!” Aziraphale’s back bowed sharply as his nerves sang and hips bucked, chasing his pleasure as it soaked through every thought in his syrupy haze.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley's skin tingled and warmed under every touch, his own mind focused on him, on this. The rest of the world didn't exist beyond this bed, the way they rocked and rubbed and moved together, the way Aziraphale's words sizzled over him as powerfully as his busy hands. 

The way he looked, the blue nearly swallowed by blown pupils, the pretty blush spreading down his chest. Rose-tinted porcelain. Sweat-damp and wonderful. “Beautiful,” he gasped, losing track of how many times he said it, how many times he pressed it into Aziraphale's skin with open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips fell. Throat, shoulders, chest, cheeks, lips - cherry red, plump, wet from how sloppy the kisses between them got as they chased the high together. 

“Yesss, love, wonderful, jussst right.” His praise was peppered with sounds, keening and desperate as he shifted his knees and focused his thrusts. Harder and faster now, intent on giving Aziraphale everything and clinging to the edge himself when he took Aziraphale's cock in hand and started to stroke. 

“Crowley-” he sobbed, all his clever words lost to him as his pleasure peaked - so many sensations converging too quickly; Crowley’s calloused, careful hand on him, his cock inside him. His lips on his skin, the tickle of his hair, the way he grabbed one of his hands to lace their fingers together and pinned it to the bed-

Aziraphale’s hips jerked once, then again twice more before he came on a wail, spilling over Crowley’s hand as his walls clenched and spasmed around the cock still pounding into him and prolonging his rapture.

“Oh, angel.” Squeezing his hand, Crowley greedily looked his fill. Aziraphale was a vision beneath him, head tossed back, eyes closed, lips parted to allow that well-pleasured noise freedom. Crowley could hardly breathe, hardly handle it, but he moved - hand and hips - through Aziraphale’s release. Mouth falling to his throat, teeth grazing over his Adam's apple, it only took a few more thrusts into that velvet vice for him to reach his own peak. He muffled a shout of Aziraphale’s name against his skin, stilling deep as the waves of release crested over him. 

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, the other shaking ever so slightly as he stroked the back of Crowley's neck, keeping him close as they both came down. Heart still pounding and head still pleasantly hazy, he basked in the immediate afterglow of their lovemaking, savouring each twitch and tremble shared between them. He made a soft sound, voice wrecked and hoarse, as he kissed Crowley's temple. 

“That's it, my dear,” he cooed, thighs still clamped around him to maximize contact between them. “Lovely thing.”

“Ngk.” Crowley’s grip slowly gentled, fingers unfurling to stroke one of those clinging thighs. Moving his head took a little longer, lips gliding over skin until they found Aziraphale’s. Light and sweet. “Think I'm starting to like Sundays.”

Aziraphale kissed him back through a fit of giggles, grinning though it made his muscles ache and his legs relinquish their grip on him, falling open to relieve the strain. “You wily old serpent. It just works out that it's the start of our weekend.”

“Good a reason as any to like them.” He returned the grin, too pleased and delighted with him to hit smug. “Ready for me to move?” 

“Mm, yes, my dear. I do feel like a proper cuddle is in order.” He stilled as Crowley slipped out of him, then stretched luxuriously against the bed. ^[11.5]“Oh, that was certainly worth all the anticipation this morning,” he sighed happily. 

There was the smug, grin and gaze bright with it as he removed and tied off the condom. “Yeah?” 

Aziraphale tsked, but he was beaming too brightly to mean it much. “Yes, darling. You were scrumptious. You quite thoroughly fucked me senseless, I must say.”

His vocabulary was the most fascinating jumble of things sometimes. Hearing him swear was probably never going to be something Crowley was used to, but he didn't mind. It wouldn't be dull, that was for sure. He captured him in another kiss, lingering and sinking atop him until the catch of sweaty skin and drying release made it end. “Now that I have, I'll grab a cloth, clean you up.”

“Oh, thank you, sweet,” Aziraphale hummed, batting his lashes before allowing his gaze to rove over Crowley as he rose and grinned when he was caught looking. “You know I like to appreciate good craftsmanship, Crowley.”

“Shut up,” he protested, turning away to hide the way his face wanted to blush at the incredibly, absolutely untrue endearment. He was quick to return with a damp cloth, though, thoroughly cleaning Aziraphale’s stomach and gently between his cheeks before setting it, box, and bottle onto the nightstand, then settled beside him for that “proper cuddle.” He banded around him, lips curved and fond. “Better?”

“Much,” he confirmed, nudging their foreheads together as their bodies pressed together, skin to skin. “Was it- did it live up to those fantasies you’d mentioned, my dear?”

“Surpassed them, love.” Crowley stroked along his curves with a pleased hum. “You seem to do that a lot, though. I should be used to it.”

Out of everything he’d said since they’d made love, that was what had Aziraphale blushing and hiding his face, though he couldn’t hide the pleased wiggle. “Oh, Crowley,” he tutted, pressing a smile into the hollow of his throat. “Well, I suppose you deserve to have your expectations exceeded. In only the best of ways, of course.”

Crowley kissed the top of his head. “That was definitely what I'd call the best of ways. I love having you under me, those gorgeous thighs wrapped around me. You're clingy and perfect. You're ssstunning, angel.”

One of those thighs slipped between Crowley’s, twining their legs together. “Lovely.” Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s adam’s apple. “Though I suppose we ought to try other positions as well, just to be certain that is what you like best,” he couldn’t resist teasing.

Crowley hummed, head tipping to give him whatever access he wanted. “Oh, I've already got an idea of what I'd like to do next. Been thinking about you in my lap since that first time.”

“Mm… Marvelous.” He nibbled gently, savouring the taste of him and the pleasured sighs he was able to wring from him. “We’ll add that to the top of the list, then. Just let me know when you’ve recovered, my dear,” he said, patting Crowley’s hip, teasingly close to his arse.

“Ngk.” It was part protest, part interest. “You really only bought two boxes?” 

“You can buy the next two,” he told him, leaning back to meet his gaze once again, a delighted gleam to his eyes. “I dare say, we should do our best to make them last. I don’t know that I could bear to face the chemist again so soon.”

Crowley laughed, so very, ridiculously in love with this equally ridiculous angel. “What, you don't want those subtle bragging rights?” 

“Believe me, my dear, I get enough opportunity for bragging rights from you.” Aziraphale kissed the tip of his nose. “You wily old serpent.”

“You gorgeous angel.” Crowley's hand found a thigh, squeezed. “My gorgeous angel. I'll gladly make the next supply run for us.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re so good to me.” Aziraphale joined in his laughter, arms winding around his lover to keep him close for a little while longer, altogether pleased with the promise of a lazy Sunday afternoon stretched ahead of them. The best laid plans of men - and mice, of course - may often go awry, but this was one plan that Aziraphale couldn’t find a single complaint about.

At least, not until he had to move.

Footnotes

^11. Smut begins here. To Smut - Or Not To Smut

^12. “Beauty That is Never Old” by James Weldon Johnson↩

Chapter Text

On Thursday morning, Crowley didn’t shave so much as sculpt. There was just enough stubble as he hadn’t shaved the day before either, and he knew from experience that he’d reach just the right look by lunch. He’d gone through quite the George Michael phase in the 80s - not for his music, no, but the aesthetic - so knew how to shape his facial hair. The style nowadays leaned more towards lumberjack beards or being clean-shaven, and only one of those looks suited him. At least a good 5 o’clock shadow was never completely out of style, but the upkeep wasn’t usually worth it beyond a few days. He’d decided it could be worth it for Guy Fawkes Night this year.

While, being more Jewish than not, he didn’t support Catholic-based terrorism and was admittedly glad the would-be murderers had been apprehended before damage could be done, he appreciated a good rebellious tale. Maybe it was silly that some stubble made him feel a little cool and rebellious himself, but Crowley wasn’t going to be embarrassed by it. So long as he didn’t have to admit to anyone aloud, anyway.

He made sure it was off his neck, shaped right for his cheekbones, and rinsed the sink out before dressing for the day. The extra time spent grooming made him start down the stairs later than normal, and Aziraphale was stepping into the foyer to head over by the time he reached the bottom. “Tea?” he asked, making sure his cuppa had at least been started. It normally was, but he was still trying not to get used to things. It was getting harder, but something in him refused to give in. 

Aziraphale started to answer, then froze with his hand on the doorknob. His gaze darted up and down his person, each time drawn back to his face. Specifically his jaw. Expression bemused, like he’d missed the punchline of a joke, he slowly nodded and pointed towards the kitchen without looking away. It wasn’t an obscene amount of facial hair, obviously, but the dark red was striking against his pale complexion. 

Eventually he realised he was still staring and cleared his throat. “What the Devil are you playing at, Crowley?”

He tipped his head to the side, more amused than offended by the staring. “Dunno what you mean, angel.”

“Your face. You haven’t shaved- well, you’ve groomed, obviously, but you’ve still got some bristles.” He gestured to his own, impeccably clean-shaven face. “Are you growing it out?”

“Mm... Not much more than this. S'been a while since I bothered.” Crowley rubbed his jaw idly, watching Aziraphale follow the move. Interesting. “Might keep it for a couple of days.”

“Oh… oh I don’t know if I’d like that.” Aziraphale twisted his ring, the thought not quite unsettling, but certainly had him feeling some kind of way. “It’s different.”

Crowley grinned. There was nothing wrong, in his opinion, with different. His appearance was rarely static, following whims and trends as he liked. “Different's the point, angel. Wanna touch?” 

“No,” he lied, sounding rather put upon by the idea. “I’m running late. I have to open the shop. There’s a lot to do today before we close early for the holiday.” Aziraphale tugged pointedly on his waistcoat, then adjusted the rest of his clothes as if he’d been disheveled in some way by the mere sight of him. “I’ll see you over there.”

The fussing only made Crowley want to dishevel him, fascinated by the petulant reaction to a bit of scruff. It was probably a good thing they were closing early. “Right,” he agreed cheerfully. “I’ll just bring my tea over.” Make Aziraphale deal with seeing the stubble as long as possible. 

“Fine.”

It was a long morning. Even with the work Aziraphale insisted he had to finish before closing at two o’clock, his gaze and attention was continuously drawn to Crowley as the minutes dragged by. Not that he was a stranger to being distracted by Crowley, but usually it was all aspects of the man that captivated him. Never had he been so fixated on the presence of a bit of scruff.

It was at the stage where it highlighted the cut of his jaw, rather than hid it away behind the cover of thick whiskers. He knew for a fact that would be a criminal act in and of itself. Crowley had the most lovely of angles and his mouth was as emotionally evocative as the Mona Lisa’s supple smile, expressive beyond words with hardly a second thought. A work of art ever-moving, ever-changing.

He supposed this was only another facet of Crowley’s fluidity, not nearly as stuck in his ways as Aziraphale and open to possibilities. It was part of why he loved him so desperately, and oh… there was that word again. That terrifying feeling battering against the cage fashioned from his ribs and his own uncertainty, ready to burst free at the first opportunity. It thrummed beneath his skin, hands trembling as he tried to focus on conditioning the leather of the old book he’d finished tipping torn pages into. He’d borrowed some of Madame Tracy’s high quality blend to restore the suppleness to the cover, the entire interaction awkward as she’d been riveted by Crowley’s experimental grooming.

“Oh, dear, if I was twenty years younger,” she’d flirted with a pointed flutter of false lashes, taking full advantage of the offer to give him a pat on the cheek and feel that scruff.

Crowley had grinned at her, eyes likely twinkling behind his lenses while Shadwell huffed and fumed in the corner. “Nah, Tracy. Couldn’t date a minor.” And his grin only grew when she tittered with delight and swatted at him.

“Has Mr. Aziraphale reaped the benefits yet?” She cast him a knowing look that had him grow hot under the collar.

“At the present, I’d rather reap the benefits of your leather conditioner, if you’d please.”

Well, maybe it was only awkward for him. Tracy and Crowley both looked entirely too amused by him. The cover of Folktales from All Nations certainly deserved more care and a steadier hand than he was giving it, but it was simply a lot to deal with and he hadn’t been prepared for it when he’d woken up that day.

Further proof of how stuck in his ways he was.

By the time he closed up shop for the day, everyone heading home to relax before convening in the middle of town for the annual bonfire and fireworks that night, he felt positively wrung out and quite ready to lose himself in a book for the next several hours. He needed something to temper the racket of his love and the spring-coiled tension he didn’t have words for. If he didn’t already know he’d be babbling his love within seconds of being filled, he would’ve been amenable to tugging Crowley down by his silver chain and sampling more of the condoms he’d purchased to alleviate some of this agitation.

“Will we see you both tonight?” Newt asked as Aziraphale clamped the padlock on the door. “At the bonfire.”

Tracy overheard and clapped her hands together in approval. “Oh, wouldn’t that be a sight to see. You should do the gentlemanly thing and escort our Crowley.”

Aziraphale cast her a look. “I’ll consider it.”

“Will you?” she teased, then gave Crowley a wink and a wave. “Make sure he treats you right, dear.”

Crowley's hands dipped into his pockets, lips quirking. “He normally does, so I'm not worried about it.”

Nor was Aziraphale, for that matter. No, the only thing that truly worried him was going too fast. It was too soon to say I love you, too soon to fantasize about forever. Too soon for Crowley to change his appearance and grow facial hair; he hadn’t had nearly enough time to savour his face without it. Crowley wanted different, but weren’t things just fine as they were? He was already devilishly handsome, so what reason did he have for changing things up? Was he bored? He did say that he detested boredom, that it was at the bottom of his scale. While Aziraphale hadn’t felt any sense of ennui in the past few days, he had to admit he wasn’t exactly the best judge when it came to something like that. He rarely felt the need to change anything. The state of boredom didn’t come easy to him, but that didn’t mean that he himself wasn’t boring.

Not that Crowley had given him any indication that he found him boring. Quite the opposite, in fact, he could still feel the pressure where his need stretched him open and filled him with every ounce of want a single person could muster. No, Crowley clearly didn’t find him boring. Yet. 

As the Reliant Robin puttered away and it was just the two of them once more, Aziraphale started back for the house. “Was there anything you had on for the rest of the day?” he asked, striving for a conversational tone. 

“Nah. Might go for a drive if you'd like to come, but nothing specific planned. Is there just a bonfire or does Tadfield do it right with fireworks and all?” 

“They have a small fireworks display, yes. A few rockets in the air. Sparklers for the children and such. Or so I’ve heard. It’s been a while since I’ve attended.”

It had been a while since Crowley had seen fireworks, but he automatically tamped down the desire to head into town that night. He made a noncommittal hum, letting Aziraphale reach the front door first and hold it open. A little routine he'd gotten used to. “You can still see them from here, fireworks. You're near enough. Why haven't you gone?” 

“Well, I suppose I never quite felt as a part of it as others. And while I know it’s no longer as extreme as it once was, I’m a bit wary of the idea of burning effigies in the bonfires. Not that Tadfield does that, of course, modern times and all, but it’s the history of the thing,” he explained, watching the set of Crowley’s shoulders carefully, the tell-tale twitches of his jaw. “Though, I must admit, part of why I’ve stayed away is that it’s not as fun without someone to go with...”

Crowley had fond memories of throwing Guys onto bonfires with not one shred of context for why everyone cheerfully burnt straw men until he'd gotten older. “I'd think a whole celebration about thwarting evil plots would be right up your alley, so if you wanted to go, I'm a someone.”

Aziraphale’s lips quirked up, unable to help it even under duress by his own emotions. Something in Crowley settled him. Even when he had to look at that scruff. “I’m all for thwarting evil, yes, but not so much for furthering the divide between groups of people by setting things on fire,” he told him, more amused than actively critical. “But you are indeed a someone. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to pop by.” 

Crowley smiled, arms looping around Aziraphale's waist to draw him in close. One crisis averted, then. “Good. Now tell me what's gone wrong in that head of yours.” It had been fun to start, fun most of the morning, to be the center of Aziraphale's distraction over something he saw as being so small. But there was actual stress in that attention now, and it was a lot less fun. 

With a huff, Aziraphale allowed himself to be drawn in, but didn’t fall for the bait. He could hardly tell Crowley the big thing - the loving him thing, good Lord, no - and bringing up any concerns regarding Crowley’s inevitable boredom with him would either offend him, and rightly so, or create a conversation surrounding his own self-image that he was not interested in having. They had the entire afternoon ahead of them and a bonfire to attend, a proper town gathering Crowley could take part in, so bringing down the mood was the last thing he wanted to do. Especially when it was over something so utterly ridiculous

“There isn’t anything to tell,” he replied. “Perhaps a drive would be a nice way to while away the afternoon.” Crowley didn’t buy it, brows drawing closer to the tops of his sunglasses as he frowned, which Aziraphale should have thought as much. “And perhaps…” he continued in an embarrassed mumble. “I would, actually, like to touch.”

It wasn't everything, but it was a start and Crowley could accept that much. “Probably only going to be around a few days. Too lazy for the constant upkeep, so touch while you can.”

Aziraphale lifted both hands to cup his jaw, letting the stubble tickle the tips of his fingers and palms. “Not too lazy to shave every day?”

“Mm-mm.” Crowley very contentedly nuzzled into the contact. “This is a look, angel. It takes some actual paying attention. Besides, I look awful with a full beard.”

Awash with fondness for him, Aziraphale continued to stroke and scritch the shape he’d carved out. “I don’t think you could look awful if you tried,” he told him honestly. “Though I must say, I’m not entirely in favour of anything that would hide any part of your face. Aside from the sunglasses, but that’s a horse of a different colour. Not the same thing at all.”

Behind them, his eyes were closed in contentment. It was hard to feel less when his angel was tucked close. “They're useful and suit my style. Can't imagine you in a pair.”

“You haven’t seen me in the summer yet. Or on the coast.”

“Yet,” Crowley echoed, a hand lifting. He flipped off his sunglasses and pushed them onto Aziraphale's nose instead. “Those don't suit, though. Look a little... mad professor-ish.”

With a chuckle, Aziraphale adjusted them. “And yet they look so fashionable on you. No, I suppose mine are a bit more traditional. I simply forget them more often than not, and I usually only have room to bring my reading glasses with me when I go out.”

Crowley knew where his priorities were in that regard. “I can see you under an umbrella on some lounge seat at the coast. A book in your lap.” He tipped his head, studying him consideringly. “D’you have one of those ridiculous wide-brimmed hats?”

He pushed the sunglasses up into his hair, very quickly dissatisfied with the way they dulled the red of Crowley’s hair and the gold flecks shining in his eyes. “Yes.” He grinned shamelessly. “One has to find some way of keeping the sun out of one’s eyes if sunglasses aren’t accessible. And I imagine you hold onto your all black aesthetic even in your swimwear.”

“‘Course,” he replied, just as shameless. He liked seeing his sunglasses amongst those curls, something entirely him tangled up in all the softness. The little zing of possessiveness was yet another new in this new beginning he’d found in Tadfield, but he liked it. He liked being able to swoop down and taste that grin. “I’ll have to take you to the coast when it gets warm again.”

“Oh.” 

Aziraphale’s lips were tingling, his fingers now touching where Crowley’s jaw had scraped against his own. They kissed sometimes in the morning before shaving, but little good morning pecks normally initiated by Aziraphale when Crowley was still cuddled up in bed. That, coupled with the idea of going on holiday with him to the beach - perhaps Devon would be nice, a long weekend on the English Riviera in Torquay, or over to the South Downs instead - sent his stomach swooping in a dizzying sensation. There was still so much to do, to experience together, Crowley couldn’t possibly be bored. 

His smile brightened, blue eyes sparkling like sun-kissed waters. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Then we’ll go.” Crowley still didn’t know where the stress in him had come from, but it definitely didn’t seem to be there anymore. Two crises avoided, then, and they were still in the foyer. “Still willing to go on a drive with me in our now, angel?”

“So long as you don’t drive too fast. I’d rather not rush through our now, if it’s all the same to you. I’m enjoying it quite a lot.” Aziraphale rocked up on the balls of his feet to kiss him again, shivering pleasantly as his stubble scraped his cheek once more. Oh, he was going to have to thoroughly moisturize before an opportunity to get carried away with kissing presented itself. He could only imagine how too much of this could make it look like he’d rubbed himself raw with sandpaper.

Crowley tightened his hold to keep him up, nuzzling into and scraping his neck with scruff and just a hint of teeth. He did love being the thing Aziraphale enjoyed. “I never drive too fast.”

“Foul fiend,” he giggled, pushing him away. “Let's get a wiggle on then, the bonfire starts at five-thirty. We don't want to be rushing to get back.”

“Nah.” The loving him thing was bright and bubbly, so he was smiling as he stole his sunglasses back from Aziraphale’s hair. “How much bebop d’you think you can tolerate? Anathema burned me that CD she and I were talking about over Samhain and I’ve been wanting to give it a listen.”

“I suppose I can tolerate a bit of bebop. For you, my dear.” He gave his cheek another pat and stroke, then went to collect his scarf from the coat rack in case they stopped anywhere. 

Which got him thinking. Knowing it took some time for him to come around to new things, perhaps it was time to actually engage in some hands-on research. “Crowley, I've also been thinking- it doesn't have to be today, of course, but perhaps sometime in the next few weeks or so we could go to an electronics shop? I believe I'm ready to see what exactly is out there in terms of a new computer. Or laptop, potentially.”

It took Crowley a moment to even recall the suggestion he’d made when he was still a homeless, jobless acquaintance. Had they been dear acquaintances yet? Maybe. But he did remember watching the old computer slowly, painfully boot and the way Aziraphale’s lips had twisted as he’d skimmed the email, the way his brows had drawn together, the way frustration and irritation had pumped off him in waves when he’d read a message from his supposedly well-meaning cousin. Crowley had thought then that only a useless tosser would ever earn themselves rain clouds instead of the sunshine, and he’d been right.

But the suggestion of him getting something for himself had been flippant - maybe secretly earnest, but flippant - and he hadn’t known what “I’ll consider it” meant coming from Aziraphale. Apparently it meant two full months and a few weeks of research besides.

He smiled. “Sure. We can poke about in a few places, see if you gravitate towards anything.”

Aziraphale smiled back, posture relaxing. “Wonderful. Yes, that’s precisely what I’m looking to do. I’m not ready to make such an investment yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to look at what my options are. And if they come in white.” His eyes lit up with a playful gleam. “Do you think they make computers that come in tartan now?”

“You’re the absolute worst,” Crowley complained, holding the door for him for once again. “And I’m going to regret this, but I guarantee Anathema would know how to get you tartan stickers to deface any laptop with.”

Oh, he most certainly was going to regret it, because Aziraphale had never looked more delighted by the prospect of modern technology, practically glowing. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner, dear boy? If I’d known such a thing was possible, I’d have been more accommodating in securing an updated system.”

Crowley highly doubted that, current vibrance aside. Aziraphale took to change as well as water mixed with... whatever it was that didn't mix with water. “I just know how to tempt you better than I used to.”

“Well, to be fair, you made quite the convincing argument back then as well,” he replied as he gave Crowley’s chain necklace a tug on his way out the door, heading for the Bentley. “You did get me to consider, after all, which is more than most can say.”

Smiling, Crowley locked up and followed. “Well, I'm a pretty quick study. And you've made plenty of changes for me that I don't think anybody can say. Could go to my head if you start making too many, y'know.”

Aziraphale paused mid-stride and waited for him, casting him a considering look. “You think so?” he wondered. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. I don’t believe you need more things to be smug about.”

“Me, smug? Nah.” Though his grin was nothing but, catching up easily. 

He'd somehow gotten an angel all to himself, a very particular, resistant to change one. Maybe Aziraphale's life hadn't changed in dramatic ways, but adding a second person to one's home and routine couldn't be discounted. And it was so incredibly sweet to know that Aziraphale had made concessions for him as easily and quickly as he had, compared to the two month wait before he'd made a single step towards a new computer when he detested the old one so much. So maybe, yes, he was a bit smug about it, but he'd never been... special to someone before. He liked it. 

“Nah,” Aziraphale echoed huffily, but his fingers brushed against Crowley’s as he took his hand. “You are a ridiculous thing.”

“Think I like smug better.”

“Just drive the car, please.”

Laughing, Crowley gave his hand a squeeze before they parted to get to their own sides of the Bentley, and Aziraphale learned that listening to Queen with Crowley behind the wheel was vastly different from listening to new music with Crowley behind the wheel. He drove with the tempo of the songs, at least the ones he liked, and those seemed incredibly arbitrary.

He’d listen to the first few seconds, get bored or sucked in by the first notes, and then it was up to the lyrics to keep his attention or lose it. Sometimes, they'd make it to the chorus before he skipped to the next song, most of the time they didn't. His judgments were quick, but they weren't final. The first go-through was just a quest for his favourites, discovering he had leanings towards Hozier and Bif Naked but deciding DeVotchKa leaned too close to polka and Sleigh Bells just didn't have the right tone. Opinions were muttered more to himself than Aziraphale, and there was certainly an impression that he'd be muttering if he was alone too.

On the second listen, he focused only on the songs he liked and listened to them with the volume cranked. The ability to enjoy them loud had a few songs drop off his favourite list and just became the tolerable ones. 

It wasn't until the third restart of the CD and their destination home that he actually listened to all the songs all the way through at a reasonable volume and drove at an unreasonable but at least stable speed. Anathema, unsurprisingly, tended towards female vocalists, and he'd have to ask her about some of them. The tones hit right, but not the lyrics. There had to be better songs by Amanda Palmer and Gin Wigmore, names that went over Aziraphale's head and that was fine. He was still talking more to himself anyway, though knew the choruses of his favourites and sang them under his breath just to make sure he really liked them. 

He was, in some inescapable ways, just as particular as Aziraphale and his Bentley was one of the few places “different” required a process. A ridiculous, overthought, and specific process. 

It was a remarkable thing to bear witness to.

Though Aziraphale didn’t lean towards most of the songs - honestly, he was missing the Queen’s Greatest Hits album; some of the songs had started to grow on him, like the ones about old-fashioned lover boys and finding someone to love - Crowley’s reactions to the songs fully captivated him throughout the drive. Of course, much of that was because he was keeping a wary eye on the speedometer, hands braced against his thighs, but some of it was spent watching the way his hips wiggled in his seat. Or the way his lips moved when he muttered and sang along. It was rather quite darling, the cadence of his voice nearly making the bebop worthwhile.

It did get him thinking though, that perhaps a new computer wasn’t the only thing his house was in need of as far as technological updates went. While Crowley enjoyed his record collection well-enough, the Bentley was the only place for him to listen to his CDs. That didn’t seem very sporting of him, to not have other options. Another thing to consider. Another change.

Perhaps it didn’t have to be so frightening of a thought.

As a song by a female vocalist ended and skipped to the next, Aziraphale looked pointedly at the stereo and spoke up. “Could you play that one again?”

“Wot?”

“The last song, my dear boy. I don’t quite mind it.” And he didn’t, not when Crowley sang it so sweetly. Not that he could ever get away with telling him that. “I’d like to hear it again, if you don’t mind.”

The moment he drew attention to Crowley’s singing, Aziraphale was certain it would stop. Would embarrass him. If he wanted to hear it, he needed to not mention it at all until hopefully, at some point, he’d know Aziraphale liked it and wouldn’t try to hide it. So he looked out the window when Crowley pressed the back button and Alice Smith’s song restarted.

Then when Crowley’s soft voice joined in again, Aziraphale took a break from praying that they’d make it back to the house in one piece and worrying about boring Crowley when he was very clearly leaps and bounds from bored. He simply looked out the window, smiled, and listened.

----

“Mr. Fell, you made it!” Adam’s bright voice cut through the crowd gathered in the center of the village, followed by the enthusiastic yipping of Dog as he bolted straight for them. Specifically straight for Crowley. “Dog, stop that!”

“Oh, my.” Aziraphale backed away as the scrappy little thing rose onto his hind legs and pawed at Crowley’s trousers. “It appears he’s rather fond of you.” 

“Hoping it's fondness.” Crowley crouched down, hands leaving the warmth of his pockets to let Dog sniff and accept a scratch behind the ears. “Little hellhound,” he said with some fondness of his own. 

“Don’t worry, he knows better than to bite,” Adam assured him, then his tone firmed up as he ordered, “Dog, come here!”

With another happy bark, the dog scampered back to his master’s side and that of the other three children accompanying him. Their arms were laden with straw man effigies, cupcakes decorated with edible ball bearings, and unlit sparklers. Aziraphale was relieved to see that Wensleydale also carried a bucket of water with him.

“Glad t’see Mr. Fell brought you, Crowley,” Adam continued. “Bonfire night’s one of the best.”

Chuckling, Crowley rose. “Is it?” 

Pepper nodded. “There are fireworks and we get to vanquish evil.”

“And there's a lot of food,” Brian announced with some excitement, frosting clinging to his cheek. 

“So it would seem.” Aziraphale smiled tightly, careful to keep his distance from the sticky child. “I see you’ve all got your supplies.”

“Yeah. After we burn our dolls, we’re gonna watch the fireworks from R.P. Tyler’s garden. S’got the best views in the whole village,” Adam told them, grinning.

“Does Mr. Tyler know you plan to watch from his garden?”

“No. Wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”

Crowley laughed, hardly prepared to rat them out. “S'pose he should keep a better eye on it if he doesn't want anyone to use it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted. “I don’t believe we should be encouraging trespassing.”

“Nah, I'd never. Just a passing thought.” Crowley grinned. “But if, say, Dog goes into the garden, somebody'd have to go get him. Might require a team effort.”

Adam lit up, looking every bit like the devil their neighborhood watch claimed him to be. “Might do. Dog is awful fond of his begonias.”

“My dear boy, weren’t you just released from your grounding sentence from planting cooked spaghetti noodles in Mr. Tyler’s apple trees?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, Deirdre having regaled the lot of them with the tale while attempting to appear properly stern. It was rather difficult to manage when picturing the children going to the trouble of cooking the spaghetti and then artfully draping it on the tree branches.

“We won’t touch anything this time,” he promised earnestly.

They were such troublemakers, but it was harmless at the heart of it. Some mischief to punish a man who only expected mischief, but no real malice in any of them. “Sounds alright to me, then.” Crowley looped an impulsive arm around Aziraphale's waist and squeezed. “They just want a good spot to watch some fireworks, love.”

“Yeah, Mr. Fell. We're not going to do anything bad,” Brian promised. 

Pepper nodded firmly. “And if Mr. Tyler isn't going to use it, someone should. It would be wasted otherwise, I think.”

“Actually, it would be a waste,” Wensleydale agreed.

“So it’s settled,” Adam said, grin growing when Aziraphale sighed and shrugged. “Don’t tell mum you saw us though, yeah?”

“Well, I won’t lie if she asks. But I suppose I could refrain from actively seeking her out,” he mused, rolling his eyes when he felt Crowley’s amused stare.

“Thanks, Mr. Fell. Here.” Adam handed them each a sparkler. “We’ve got tons already. It’s both of your first times, so you should do it right. Have the full experience.”

“Er… thank you, dear boy.”

Crowley twirled his idly, trying to remember the last time he'd had a sparkler. He'd probably been about their age. “Go on, you lot. Don't make too much trouble.”

“We'll just make the right amount,” Adam replied without a trace of sarcasm. 

It made Crowley laugh. They were definitely full of mischief. “Right.”

Aziraphale inspected his, looking at either end of the sparkler like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “How does one light it?”

“I'll do it for you. We should find a spot and get you a cupcake first.”

“Oh. They did look rather scrummy. Perhaps one of the benches near the church would be a good spot?” Aziraphale glanced around, waving at a few of the townspeople when they noticed him and said hello.

“Yeah, we'll check.” Crowley's lips quirked, but he otherwise didn't really acknowledge the town residents. He knew he was noticed, but didn't know the first thing about anything to do with small town interactions. Still. There was only so much he could stand outside the comfortable little plot of land Aziraphale had welcomed him into, and he was unendingly grateful that he seemed just as content. There were Sundays and lunches now and again during the week in town, and their dates outside of Tadfield. That was enough. 

But he couldn't deny that this was nice, too, everyone roaming the streets as the sun disappeared. Anticipation hung in the air, noticeable in every glance skyward. More intimate than anything he could recall in London, more fun and festive and shared. “When I was small, we'd drive to the coast and we'd fit ourselves into whatever was happening on whatever stretch of beach we ended up on. This has a lot of that feel to it. Like a tucked away secret.”

“Yes, it does rather.” Aziraphale was smiling when he glanced his way. “I don’t have much experience with this sort of celebration. Great-aunt Agnes was never fond of bonfires, so we always kept to ourselves, but I must say, there is a sort of… communal feel to this whole area. I’m rather looking forward to the whole spectacle.”

Communal feel. That seemed right. Crowley nodded, looking around. The main road had been blocked off from vehicles, the town filling it with foot traffic instead. Shuttered businesses were only backdrops to a celebration he could only think of as quaint. Folding tables of mismatched heights were covered in equally mismatched tablecloths and littered with what seemed to be a potluck of sorts. “Yeah. S'not the sort of thing you find in London.”

“No, I imagine not.” Tucking his sparkler in his coat pocket, Aziraphale beckoned for Crowley to follow him as they approached the folding tables and clasped his hands behind him. 

His gaze was immediately drawn to the table which held carafes of hot water and mulled wine. Insulated cups were stacked up beside them, with an assortment of tea, cider and cocoa to mix in with the water. There were also biscuits baked by some of the nuns of their small church, Sisters Theresa, Grace, and Katherine, the cupcakes which had Deirdre Young’s name written all over them, and a lemon drizzle cake which was sure to be as sour as the expression on Brenda Ormerod’s face. As fond as Aziraphale was of lemon, he’d avoid that particular bundt cake. He guessed the reason for her ire this time was that her granddaughter’s husband had brought kimchi to serve alongside the scotch eggs and Yorkshire puddings. 

Aziraphale made a mental note to help himself to a nice portion of the kimchi, but first things first. “Would you like any cocoa, dearest? Or tea?” he asked, selecting a cup for himself and some cocoa powder.

“Tea.” It'd keep him up a little later than normal, but he didn't mind. There were things to see, his own anticipation nearly turning his gaze skyward until he caught himself and took the cup of steaming water Aziraphale handed him. “Ta,” was absent and then he looked up anyway. “If this is just open, should bring something next year. Maybe we'll figure out scones by then.”

Next year. Aziraphale’s full effervescence radiated in his smile, then he cleared his throat as he tamped down on it a bit and stirred his cocoa with a little wooden stick. “Oh? You think so?” 

“Depends how early in the process you open a bottle,” he teased. “Might need a backup just in case.”

“Perhaps we’ll save the bottle for after we’ve finished the scones.” A bit of Crowley’s hair was stuck up from where the breeze had ruffled it, so Aziraphale reached out to smooth it down, keeping his touch light and gentle. “You just had a little… well, it’s better now.” 

Pink dusted his cheeks as he felt Brenda’s narrowed stare turn to him and certainly Julia Petley’s own nosy interest, but he puffed up his chest and offered Crowley his arm before gesturing towards the rest of the table, seeking to guide him away naturally. Madame Tracy would undoubtedly be by to distract them and steer the conversation wherever she saw fit soon enough, but for now Aziraphale would gladly walk with Crowley on his arm. Leave no room for assumptions on the nature of their relationship. 

“Is it kosher to kiss someone who’s had a scotch egg?” he asked quietly, nodding at the platter of them, then glanced at him with a hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “Or will I need to brush my teeth first?”

“Ngk.” Crowley's heart fluttered. He wasn't unaware of the audience either, but hadn't expected... It made the unspoken, open secret of their relationship a lot more spoken and a lot less secret around town. “Even if it wasn't kosher, I'd do it anyway. Have what you like, angel.”

“Come now, Crowley, I’m attempting to be considerate,” he tsked, only releasing him to take up a little paper plate. He did place a scotch egg on it, the lines around his eyes crinkling warmly as he greeted the butcher’s wife and their young daughters. When the smallest one had trouble reaching the eggs, he assisted her with a cheerful, “There you are, dear girl. Careful now. Ah, now let’s see… the kimchi and the chicken kebabs… Dear Mrs. Henderson, these are yours and your husband's, yes? Tell me, what sort of marinade did you use?”

His interest in ingredients, quality of food, and flavours did not go unnoticed by the town, a query like that hardly something to question when it came from Aziraphale Fell. The honey and soy sauce glaze with red pepper flakes sounded scrummy to him, and he said as much as he plucked up two skewers, handing one of them to Crowley. And of course made certain the proper introductions were made.

Most of the town knew of Crowley by now, and quite a few had interacted with him at some point, but they knew him as the clockman. The newest employee of Divine Restorations & Repairs. Aziraphale’s friend, surely, but not as… well, his. If they were looking forward to next year - to a future together - then it was probably time to start putting rumours to rest. If no one in his shop was upset or bothered by their relationship, well, then surely the rest of the town could deal with it as well.

Of course, Gabriel and the rest of his family knowing was a different situation altogether, but they’d take it one step at a time. 

“Ah, hello. Good evening, yes. I know, quite the surprise me being here this year. Have you had the pleasure of meeting my partner, Mr. Crowley, yet? No? Oh, well, let me make your acquaintance!” was said a handful of times to a handful of people as the bonfire was set up and nibbles had.

As dusk settled over the town, music started up near the Discerning Duck, the bartender, one of the waiters, and the girl from the florist all quite adept at the violin and flute. The crowd began to gather around the bonfire, ready to throw in their effigies, so Aziraphale took the opportunity to snag several cupcakes and finally make his way towards the church benches.

“I don’t have anything I want to throw into the fire, do you?” he asked Crowley, just to be certain.

“Not this year.” He was feeling too good to go about throwing effigies into the flames even if he had something. His partner. The first time Aziraphale had made that introduction, it had been like a cupid's arrow straight through the heart. And every subsequent use of the word had given that arrow a tug from a line tied around the end and wrapped right around Aziraphale's finger. He'd never liked feeling tied down to anything before, but his angel could pull him about as long as he wanted. 

He liked loving him. He liked the varied pressures in his chest, the way his heart would tighten or flutter or skip. He liked the way his mind filled with him, the way things could get soft and hazy and rose-tinted. He liked feeling the things he'd always believed poets exaggerated. On the contrary, poetry and music and films only scratched the surface. They tended to leave out the odd and awful bits - the most annoying quirks involved in meshing two lives and two personalities and all the baggage that came along with those lives and personalities - but Crowley didn't think he ever wanted to be without this again. 

Saying it, though... Well, the idea of saying it out loud made the butterflies in his stomach more like stinging wasps, so saying it was right out. But he was enjoying the feel nonetheless and the knowledge that he could feel it at all. 

He dropped down onto the bench, arm tossed over the back and his comfortable sprawl tipped towards Aziraphale's more prim posture. “So when is the last time you played with a sparkler?” 

“Not ever, actually.” Aziraphale hummed around a bite of cupcake, then set his plate down so he could retrieve the sparkler from his coat. “My parents never took me out on Guy Fawkes Night, and as I said, Aunt Agnes stayed clear of anything fire-related aside from her ritual candles or incense. At uni there would be parties, of course, but I was either reading or… er… well, using the distraction of the other students to my advantage.” He twirled the sparkler between his fingers, coy as he glanced at Crowley. “One of those instances where I shouldn’t be caught leaving another boy’s dormitory.”

That little possessive thing worked through him, but not because he was jealous of something thirty years gone. It was more the thrill that he had him now. He'd had to sneak out of some bloke's bed, but he'd announced again and again that he and Crowley were partners. In public. It was a very welcome sign of changing times. 

Crowley grinned and leaned in, tasting the cake on his tongue and maybe scratching him a little deliberately with the scruff on his jaw. “You'll get public and private fireworks this year. No choosing between or sneaking about necessary.”

“Oh.” He matched his grin, skin and anticipation tingling. “Well, that does sound rather promising. And you as well. I imagine it's been quite some time for you since you've seen a proper fireworks display. Not so long since the private.”

He tipped his head in easy agreement to both points, and retrieved his sparkler and lighter from his coat pocket before pushing off the bench. “Looking forward to both. Now come on. You can't sit and play with one of these.” And he couldn't keep his sunglasses on, pushing them into his hair. Not far so as to hide quickly again if anyone came near them. 

Aziraphale rose, plate and cocoa left behind as he straightened himself out with a few sharp tugs, expression dubious as he joined Crowley. “Aren’t we a smidge too old to ‘play’ with them?”

“Bugger that. I’ll be old when I’m dead, and I’m not lighting yours just so you can stare at it for a minute.”

“Well, what exactly does one do with a sparkler?”

“You wave them about and write words or draw shapes in the smoke.” He flicked his lighter, grinning. “And if you’re an absolute troublemaker, you throw a couple fistfuls of them into a bonfire behind your grandad’s back and watch them sparkle. Probably won’t tell the Them about that one. I was twelve.”

“Oh, you were a devil.” But Aziraphale looked as fond of him as ever, then held out his sparkler. “I’m certain Deirdre and Arthur will appreciate your restraint.”

“Someone ought to.” It had been quite the sight until his hand had been grabbed and he’d been dragged away from the extra colourful flames before someone besides his grandad could identify the culprit. He lit his own first, pleased by the red sparks jutting out, then pressed it against Aziraphale’s to set it off too. “Now you just-” He dashed angel in the air, the smoke trails hanging messily. 

He gasped as he held it out away from him, the gold sparks raining down from the tip. Gaze torn between watching the letters Crowley scrawled fade away and his own explosive, Aziraphale gave a few test swishes. Wily serpent, he wrote back, grinning when Crowley scribbled what was supposed to look like an actual snake in response, but had far too many coils by the time it turned to smoke. 

“Nearly there, darling,” he chuckled, then wrote darling in the air.

“There, see? Knew you’d play.” He was too into his magic tricks to not have it in him, magic followed by a couple of stars and a heart simply because he could. “I’ll get us a box. Something has to be done for New Years.”

“Aside from a good bottle of champagne?” Aziraphale tried writing out his own name, but its length prevented him from seeing the entire thing all the way through, the first letters faded beyond smoke as he gave the e a bit of a flourish, so he wrote Crowley’s name next.

“Aside from that, yeah. I'm gonna go completely cliché and kiss you at midnight, by the way.” Crowley smiled at both the attempt and at his own name. “We can probably get your whole name if we do it together. You start with the P, and I'll do the front? Before they run out.”

“I suppose we could try, though at this point I would think you use ‘angel’ just as often, if not more so, as my name,” he chuckled, but raised his sparkler and attempted to gauge how much space Crowley would need for the Azira. The letters overlapped in the middle regardless, but it was all there.

Crowley's sparkler fizzled out, but he was satisfied. “I started with 'angel.' Seems right to get your actual name in later.”

Aziraphale watched as the gold glitter of his started to fade, taking a moment to watch the way it illuminated Crowley’s face like he was caught in a storm of starlight. His heart clenched tightly at the pleased pull of his lips, which he could still see clearly once the sparkler was out, just from the simple privilege of knowing that mouth so well. He placed his hand over Crowley’s heart, pressing in gently as he leaned in to kiss him, and the tingling shiver that traveled through him had him wondering if he wasn’t kissing someone made of star stuff himself.

It was also rather chilly now that the sun had set, but the former was certainly more romantic.

“I must say, I do like being your angel,” he told him, handing Crowley the remains of his sparkler and ignoring his confused, inarticulate noises so he could unbutton the man’s coat and slide his arms inside it as he wound them around his slender frame. He pulled him close, nosing against the wool of his lapel as he laid his cheek against his collarbone. “But there is something… ineffable about the way you say my name. I rather like that, too.”

“I like your name, Aziraphale.” Crowley tucked his hands - spent sparklers and all - in the coat pockets and wrapped around his angel in return. He doubted he'd ever be used to sudden sweet gestures and didn't particularly want to be. “It's like someone spilled Scrabble pieces and came out with something unique and interesting. All the angelic pomp but none of the unapproachable high and mighty.”

“Oh, now there’s an idea. We should play Scrabble sometime.” Aziraphale grinned as he teased - well, half-teased maybe, after all he did like Scrabble - also warmed through with fondness. “Though I’d hardly think Gabriel or Michael are unapproachable names in this day and age. Sandalphon, perhaps,” he said, just to hear Crowley roll his eyes, because he did roll them very audibly.

“Sandals definitely. But if I called Gabriel Gabe sometime, I guarantee he'd have a fit about it.” Crowley kissed the top of his head, nose nestled in his curls. “But before we ever play Scrabble, I'm going to need to borrow one of those dictionaries before you lay down something like ballyhoo and give me a stroke.”

“Crowley! You shouldn’t joke of such things,” Aziraphale chided and gave him a firm squeeze about his middle. “Cheeky devil.”

“You like it.” Crowley squeezed him in return, content to have him close while that bright and bubbly love simmered into something warm and cosy in his chest. It was really little wonder why poets and musicians couldn't get enough of the topic. There weren't enough words for it. “I like being called your partner. If you were wondering at all.”

“I had a feeling,” he hummed, watching the bonfire as it blazed brightly over the angle of Crowley’s shoulder, flames shooting up towards the sky in a pillar of heat and smoke. They couldn’t quite feel the warmth of it from their distance, but one could imagine. “But I’m glad you’ve told me. I thought it better suited than ‘boyfriend.’ And ‘lover’ is simply a bit too intimate to share.”

Crowley laughed, the vibration of it shaking through them both. Of course he'd thought it through. “Kiss me before the fireworks start. I'd hate to get interrupted.”

Aziraphale tutted, a smiling kiss pressed to the column of his throat, lips tingling as he brushed them over his jaw and up to find Crowley’s mouth, warm and waiting. He could still taste his laugh, feel the hum of it against his tongue. It was better than cocoa, scotch eggs, or edible ball bearings on vanilla icing. It was something he was fairly certain he’d never have his fill of.

A ways behind them, the crowd began to cheer, warning them as the first firework whistled its way into the air and crackled overhead. It was Aziraphale’s turn to laugh as he broke the kiss, tilting his head back to watch the burst of colors pop. He gave Crowley a squeeze, eyes shining as they found gold.

“Well, we gave it a good try, dearest,” he chuckled.

“S'alright. We'll have plenty of time after, won't we?” Another whistling captured his gaze. Lifting it skyward to watch another bold burst of color, the firework sizzling before a backdrop of stars. He'd missed them. Simple, quick sparkles in the sky, but beautiful and attention-grabbing. They could hear oohs and ahhs, cheers and gasps from some of the town's kids. Crowley hoped the Them had settled in the Tyler garden. 

Withdrawing, he tugged Aziraphale back to the bench so he could have his cocoa before it grew cold. Tucked close, an arm tossed across Aziraphale's shoulders, Crowley was very simply happy. And, possibly, starting to get used to it. 

Chapter Text

Crowley kept the scruff through the weekend and was clean-shaven by Tuesday morning, not a single trace of stubble left on his face. Not to say there weren’t traces of its existence elsewhere. 

Aziraphale woke that morning, thighs burning, and not only because he’d gotten a good workout the night before when he’d been sat atop Crowley’s lap, and he’d had to endure the most humiliating shuffle to the bathroom while the culprit behind his discomfort snickered from his bed. His inner thighs had been rubbed raw, inflamed and irritated in the aftermath of being thoroughly loved on by a scruffy demon of a man. Oh, but the sight of it did bring back the ghost of that delightful sensation. Of the rough drag of Crowley’s cheek somewhere so sensitive, teeth nibbling at his softness and laving suckling kisses wherever he could reach.

He had to take a cold shower to calm his libido, as well as soothe the angry red of his skin. He then slathered his thighs in an excessive amount of shea butter lotion for good measure, moisturizing the way one might baste and marinate an uncooked chicken. It stung, but helped with some of the chafing. It at least allowed him to wear his trousers without wincing with every step, though Crowley still watched him a little too closely, enjoying it a little too much.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale hissed and swatted at him when they passed one another in the kitchen.

“Wot?”

“Behave yourself, foul fiend. I know that look on your face.” Especially now that it was smooth and Aziraphale wanted even more to cup his cheeks and feel the difference.

His brows rose. “I think I did behave. You were the one yelling 'like that' and 'more.'” 

Aziraphale gasped, handkerchief flicked at him three more times. “That is not what I meant! We are about to go to work!”

Crowley couldn't fight the grin, riddled with mirthful mischief. “Does that mean I can't tell Tracy you reaped the benefits?” 

Cheeks cherry-red, Aziraphale turned on his heel and did his very best to stride out of the kitchen with as little limping as possible. He had to leave the house entirely lest he do something shameless like drag Crowley back upstairs. In that moment, all he wanted was to lie back on a pile of pillows, legs comfortably spread and cool, with Crowley in his mouth as he watched him writhe above him, knuckles white as he clenched the wooden post of his headboard and sang a symphony of sounds for him.

Bugger that it was Tuesday.

Well, they’d just have to see about indulging in that sort of thing later. That is, if Aziraphale lived that long. Not five minutes into opening, Madame Tracy not-so-sneakily sidled up to him and pressed a note into his hand. Confounded, he unfolded the paper, eyeing the way she looked about the shop beneath her lashes, making sure they weren’t being spied on. It was a list, with the name of a brand of organic skin balm and essential oils like lavender, patchouli, wintergreen, and sandalwood.

“Chemist in town carries it all. I find that works wonders when it comes to having a touch of stubble trouble, love,” she told him gently, sotto voce. 

It didn’t stop his face from heating up or from choking on his morning cuppa. Stubble trouble, good Lord. Aziraphale cleared his throat, mustering up his most offended look when she glanced down pointedly, then shooed her away. He did, however, tuck the note into his pocket and made plans to ask Crowley to drive him into town on their lunch break. It was worth a shot.

A fresh cup of tea found its way to his desk, courtesy of Crowley. A sweet gesture to make up for the teasing. It had Aziraphale wanting to wiggle with delight, only just managing to refrain lest he instantly regret it. He captured Crowley’s hand instead before he could draw back and stroked over his knuckles in thanks. Casting a quick glance at the rest of the shop - everyone busy with their own projects - Aziraphale tugged him down and pressed a kiss to his smooth cheek before shooing him away.

Crowley couldn’t resist running a hand through his curls to playfully fluff them before going, pulling the curtain behind his workstation shut so he could work without his sunglasses for a bit. His current project was from a German client Anathema’s internet prowess had snagged. At barely thirty centimetres, its gears were small enough for him to need magnifiers to clean thoroughly. The cuckoo clock was early twentieth century, the start of its life spent in a train station right up until the second world war. Now its cuckoo bird, battered and chipped, was in Newt’s capable hands. He’d make it pretty again, and Crowley would make it sing again.

He did have a special fondness for cuckoo clocks, after all, and for sweet angels. He sent him a smile in the space between his sunglasses coming off and the magnifiers going on, open and easy and with a cheeky wink before getting to work.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but cradled the new, hot mug in both hands as he breathed in the comforting, full-bodied aroma from his freshly brewed tea. Oh, but he did love that man. Wicked as he was. 

A sharp spike of terror chased the warm feeling right out of his chest though. Too much, too fast. Slow down, you old silly. You can’t love him yet. 

He distracted himself with drinking his tea and scraping the old mull off the spine of his newest project, only to be reminded when he’d give an excited wiggle just why he was so fond of the wily serpent. Never had someone so easily captured all of his attention the way Crowley had, making him wonder if it wasn’t actually so far-fetched that he felt so strongly for him. It was dangerous, constantly reminding himself to keep himself in check. But then again, they both had that taste for danger, didn’t they?

He just needed to hold it in, save it for when they were ready. 

It helped that he was able to rest a hand on his thigh as he drove them to the chemist. That he could kiss him over sandwiches, gently teasing back and forth, and let fingertips trace hands, shoulders, waists when they returned to work for the latter half of the day. There were ways to express the love while keeping it safely tucked away, handled with white cotton gloves for that degree of separation. Just enough not to leave traces or indentations.

There were a few emails Aziraphale set aside to answer that afternoon, Anathema busy with a consultation, and Tracy too, for that matter. It was a good sign, coming into the second week of November. While he was still on the fence regarding social media in general terms, he couldn’t deny that Anathema had done a marvelous job at expanding their business just the way he’d wanted, in only a few short weeks. Of course, the slow processing of his computer really did remind him to get out before the stores became too cluttered with Christmas shoppers to find a new laptop. There were some things that were better off fast, after all.

He was waiting for confirmation that his email response had been sent, when his computer made a strange noise and a pop-up appeared. Squinting at it over the tops of his spectacles, he read the error message carefully. A script error of some kind… with the web browser. Aziraphale closed out of it, only for another to replace it. He was familiar with unwanted pop-ups, of course, and with the screen freezing, but the problem was when they happened at the same time whilst making strange noises. Well, stranger than normal. 

Aziraphale looked over at Madame Tracy and Anathema, his go-tos when computer issues arose, but the pair of them were still engaged in discussions with their respective clients. As much as Newton would want to help in their stead, he bypassed him completely and called for Crowley instead. “My dear, it’s making those noises again. Could I trouble you to come take a look?” 

“Got too many windows open?” he wondered, swapping glasses as he rose. 

“What are you talking about? None of the windows are open. It’s November.”

Crowley grinned, sauntering over and leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was completely unsurprised to see the taskbar littered with so many internet explorer icons, the labels were virtually unviewable. He pointed. “Those, love, are called windows. No, I don’t have any idea why.”

“You can’t see through them,” Aziraphale huffed, but didn’t press the issue, tipping back to let Crowley have a better look. “I’m trying to answer an email and this machine won’t allow it.”

Crowley just let his hand fall to Aziraphale's shoulder. “Because you’ve exhausted the thing by opening too many windows. It’s trying to catch up to everything you’ve told it to do, which could take a few minutes. Or you could just restart it. Probably take the same amount of time.”

“But it won’t remember my email, will it?” he sighed, fruitlessly trying to wiggle the cursor to no avail. “I’ll have to type it all again.”

“It might be saved automatically as a draft, but I dunno.” He knew the basics and much of it was outdated. Computer interaction for him had been sporadic at best during his, ah, legal studies. Now he didn’t know as much as Anathema, but certainly more than Aziraphale. “Could check if you wanted to try logging in on my phone?”

“Oh, that would be even more of a disaster, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned into him, reaching back to pat him on the arm. “I suppose needs must… I’ll restart it. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

He went to hold down the power button to force it off when a nervous fluttering caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Newton, it appeared, was trying to wave at him across the room. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, then followed his gaze to the front door. With a jolt, his spine straightened and broke the little contact he had with Crowley, a hiss smothered as his thighs rubbed together from the sudden shift.

In the doorway, Sandalphon and Uriel surveyed the shop with slow, judgmental sweeps before deigning to cross the threshold. Only Sandalphon and Uriel, Aziraphale realized, blood running cold. The pair of them didn’t bother with the pleasantries Gabriel might have and strode right to Aziraphale’s desk. He tugged on his bowtie, twisting the fabric between his fingers as he felt Crowley straighten behind him. 

“Aziraphale,” Uriel said, voice flat and lacking the mask of good cheer that Gabriel at least tried to put on. She had a different approach altogether.

“Uriel. Sandalphon. Hello. Um.” He had to clear his throat, mind working frantically as he tried to suss out the unexpected nature of their visit. Sandalphon never visited without Gabriel, and Uriel… well, Uriel… Things didn’t tend to go in Aziraphale’s favour when Uriel was brought in. “I wasn’t expecting either of you. What- er… what brings you to Tadfield?”

“I think you know why we’re here.” Uriel flicked her gaze to his computer as it tried its best to turn back on, then over to Crowley. “You’re the new clock repairman?”

How, Crowley wondered, how, how, how were Aziraphale and Anathema related to people like this? “Yup.”

Aziraphale swallowed, twisting his signet ring around and around and around… They couldn’t be here just because of Crowley. Uriel could care less about who was on his staff, and Sandalphon, too, but she had an interesting role with the shop. Out of the four of his cousins, she was the only one whose chosen career didn’t fit as neatly into the framework of Divine Restorations & Repairs. She was in IT, specializing in data security, firewalls and suchlike. Whenever Aziraphale heard the term ‘firewall,’ he couldn’t help but picture a roaring column of fire shooting up into the sky, but of course such a thing would not only be ridiculous but also physically impossible. 

In any case, they didn’t exactly have a need for her area of expertise outside of upgrading his computer equipment - which she had - and ensuring he had the proper anti-virus software installed - which he did, though it had likely expired at this point. Honestly, Aziraphale had the feeling that she liked it that way, but it didn’t seem right to not include her in some additional capacity. After all, it was her legacy, too.

Gabriel had been the one to come up with the title of compliance officer for her. Her role, essentially, was to ensure compliance and adherence to policies within the workplace, including the status of anything IT related. Usually she was brought in when they decided that Aziraphale needed to be made… compliant.

“Come with us,” she addressed Aziraphale once more, apparently done with her assessment of Crowley. “Let’s talk.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale’s rabbity gaze darted to Crowley and back, carefully rising out of his chair with quite a few nervous tugs to his waistcoat. “I’m certainly curious as to what this is all about-”

They were already walking back the way they’d come, heading for the barn door. Aziraphale exhaled, weak and thready, but chanced a touch to Crowley’s arm while their backs were turned. He wasn’t sure which one of them he meant to set at ease. He supposed it couldn’t hurt if it helped them both.

“I’ll be right back, my dear,” he said under his breath. “In a jiffy.”

It took everything - everything - in Crowley not to grab him. Push him back in his chair, stand guard over him like a- a- a- snake, hissing and venomous. Just a handful of words - just shadows in the doorway, really - and they’d dimmed his light. It was different, them being here after Crowley had gone and fallen in love with him. He’d never been particularly violent, always the first to talk his way out of a fight. But when he couldn’t... Well. 

But his angel would be hurt if he tried anything like that now, and then he'd probably just go off and let his cousins hurt him in turn. It was better to just... leave off and let him make the choice, no matter how badly it hurt him to let Aziraphale go. A dove facing hawks. 

He talked himself out of the fight, laid a hand over Aziraphale’s, squeezed, and let go. “Yeah. You’ll be fine, love. Telephone’s probably just twisted up about his maths.”

Normally he would’ve shushed him, but Aziraphale felt the tension in his muscles, heard the war he’d waged with himself without words. “Of course. Must be it.” He offered him a smile, fighting his own battle with uncertainty, then followed his cousins outside.

They waited for him by the door. “Ah, so… no Gabriel today?” he tried for conversation, grasping at footholds to orient himself.

“He had prior arrangements. Couldn’t miss them,” Sandalphon replied. “But thought it a smart idea for us to talk to you about our concerns anyway.”

“Concerns?” Aziraphale’s voice lilted. “Well, I hope I can address them. Come, I’ll put on the kettle and we can all sit and have a chat-”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Instead of following him to the house, Uriel and Sandalphon approached him head on. Aziraphale blinked at the two of them, taking a hesitant step back. They herded him to the side of the barn, away from the door, away from the window. His hands clasped protectively in front of his middle, trying not to tremble. 

They were his cousins. They wouldn’t hurt him, for Heaven’s sake.

“You’ve been up to something,” Uriel stated plainly, her expression blank as Aziraphale schooled his into something curious. “Sandalphon noticed the changes in payroll.”

“Ah… right. I take it you mean Anathema’s new salary.” It was a little sooner than he expected for them to catch it. “Well, I- I- I submitted all the proper documentation for it.”

“What’s she done to deserve a raise?” Sandalphon sneered. “She’s not been here two years yet.”

Aziraphale did bristle at that. “Quite a lot, actually. But I’ll have you know the raise correlates to an increase in responsibilities. She’s my PR person now. Our PR person… she updated the website and maintains our presence and relevance on the social media websites as the kids call it. Or the ah… the apps.”

“Apps?” Sandalphon stared at him.

“Yes.”

“We told you we needed to cut costs.”

“I believe that was because we are coming into our slow season, but with the additional business an online presence can bring in, I thought it was an investment worth considering.”

Uriel took a step closer to him and Aziraphale hedged back. “That’s not your call to make.”

“Well, I do believe it is,” he managed to get out, gaze flitting over their shoulders to his house just beyond them. “Really, why don’t we take this conversation inside-”

They advanced on him until he bumped into the side of the barn, cornered by the two of them. The wood snagged on his waistcoat, splinters from a decades old building poking through the fabric. His heart lurched, panic rising like bile in his throat, and for a moment it wasn’t wood his palms scraped against, but mortar and stone and he’d been twenty years old. Outside a pub in Oxford, and he hadn’t been as careful as he thought.

He could feel the phantom bruising; the initial punch to the gut that winded him, the ache in his jaw, and the heel of a boot against his spine once they had him on the ground. His peers. People he should’ve been able to trust.

Like his family.

“You wanted us involved,” Uriel told him softly, but there was a thread of barely concealed menace in her tone. “Now we’re involved.”

Aziraphale gasped for breath as if they were pressing down on his chest, but they didn’t touch him. They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t hurt him. They couldn’t.

“I only thought-” he tried to force out, but they didn’t give him room to ramble.

“You think too much.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the criticism and felt another memory strike him across the cheek. “I looked at the books,” he tried again, voice a little less shaky. “It looked to me as if we did have room for the investment in the shop’s future.”

“You just hired someone at a higher rate than the last person who worked for you,” Sandalphon pointed out. “And your purchases are to purposefully undermine our good advice. And you’re choosing now to embark on a new ‘investment?’”

“Well, I also thought it might be nice to give Anathema a bit more stake in the business, considering she’s family.”

Uriel shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You brought us on because you don’t know a thing about running a business. We all could see it. We thought we’d do you a favour and not let you squander our grandmother’s good name or drag her legacy through the dirt.” Sandalphon straightened his shoulders, somehow managing to look down on him despite his shorter stature. “If you don’t value our advice and assistance… we don’t have to be involved.”

“We can leave you to fall. You and all your employees. Where will they go if the business fails?” Uriel pressed where Aziraphale bruised easiest and didn’t let up as her level stare kept him pinned.

“Can’t imagine they’ll do well without the… inappropriate management they’re receiving.”

Aziraphale’s ears started ringing. “What?”

“Don’t think we didn’t notice your boyfriend in the dark glasses. A little too close to be considered appropriate between a manager and his employee, don’t you think?”

“Or perhaps an employee taking advantage of the manager’s softness,” Sandalphon added.

“No,” Aziraphale choked out. “No, it’s- it’s nothing like that. He’s not- he’s just my employee. I care about them all the same. I just want to give them a good work environment, that’s all. There’s nothing- I’d never- we’re nothing.”

Like a band had snapped, Aziraphale immediately flinched, recoiling under his own denial. He closed his eyes as he cringed, heart aching at the blatant lie. 

But they seemed to accept it, whatever the case. “Take our advice or we’ll stop offering it,” Sandalphon told him. “We don’t have to help you.”

“Cut the Christmas bonuses this year. Time off is more than enough, they don’t need the full amount. Or undo what you’ve arranged with Device. Take accountability for your actions,” Uriel added.

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. “I’ll… I’ll halve the Christmas bonus…” he whispered.

Sandalphon smiled, the gold in his teeth glinting. “We knew you’d see reason. You’re not a total loss. Fix your spending habits while you’re at it.”

He nodded again. He just wanted them gone. Anything to make them leave, but not leave at the same time. It was a terrible tug-of-war in his gut, one that was desperate to be rid of them and also terrified to lose any connection to them. This was all he had. Without their involvement in the shop, he’d have nothing to give them. Nothing they’d want.

He didn’t want to fall from their favour.

“Right. We’ll see you at Christmas, then.”

One last nod and Aziraphale didn’t look at them as their footfalls faded. The car doors opened and shut, then the engine started, and they drove away. Aziraphale stayed pressed against the side of the barn, head bowed as the terror turned into fury and self-loathing as he slammed his palm into the wood and turned his head skyward. Why? Why did they do things like this? 

Aziraphale slid down into the grass, breathing hard and heavy as the conversation replayed in his head over and over. He’d slid down the stone wall in Oxford, too. Beaten down and spat upon, flinching away when the boy he’d been with reached out to him. Just as broken and bloodied. We could run away together…

He’d run, alright. He’d run away from him, told him he was nothing to him. That their nights together meant nothing. They hadn’t even been friends. It was just a thrill. The thrill of the forbidden.

And he’d just reduced his relationship with Crowley to that. Denying its existence to the people he should’ve been able to tell. He could tell the whole town, parade around with Crowley’s hand in his and flaunt that sense of belonging to anyone who cared to listen, but he couldn’t tell his own family. Because it wasn’t right, not in their eyes, and at the end of the day that still mattered to him.

Aziraphale covered his face with his hand as he let that sink in, just as he’d sunk into the grass growing around the perimeter of the worn barn. He stayed there long after the sound of a car’s motor faded away, the stillness of the countryside enveloping him in its absence. Then there were footsteps, firm strides that faltered as they’d been headed for the house. Aziraphale didn’t look up, just rubbed at his face wearily.

Rage boiled, bubbling into a nasty furious froth that was blown out with a sigh that almost couldn't be heard. The next footsteps came closer until Crowley was sitting next to him. A rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of a lighter, a hiss of flame meeting paper and tobacco. Crowley's next exhale spilled a stream of smoke into the air, and he very gently let their legs press together.

He could listen or not, sit there or be sent away, touch him more or less or not at all. As much as he wanted to start spitting venom or demanding that Aziraphale never spend another second with any of his cousins if they made him look small and weak when he was the grandest, strongest person Crowley had ever known... He took another hit of nicotine, and let Aziraphale's busy, fretful mind make its choices. 

Aziraphale lifted his head after a moment, gaze drifting to the trails of smoke in the air. He stayed quiet as he watched, breathed it in, then tipped his head the slightest bit towards Crowley. “Could you spare one?”

That was not a choice he'd expected. Crowley almost stabbed the cigarette out on the side of the barn in reflex. He knew every single danger, had had it explained to him in excruciating detail by doctors and what-have-yous, and had quit a dozen and one times. He wasn't exactly trying to spread the addiction. “I- Wot?” 

Aziraphale looked at him then, the lines on his face still tired and tense, but there was a hint of that fondness, exasperated as it was. “You think I’ve never smoked a cigarette before? Really…”

“You're an angel. What d'you want from me?” Though instead of lighting a new one, he just offered the one he'd already lit. 

“I was also an adolescent in the eighties, same as you.” Aziraphale took it, placing it between his lips with the same sort of clumsiness one would expect from someone who hadn’t taken up their knitting in over a decade, but the familiarity was there. As he inhaled deeply, the memories of his youth tickled the back of his mind with something other than the pain of being caught and cowardly, and he held the cigarette between pristinely manicured fingers easier. He took another drag and blew out his own steady stream. “I quit in the mid-nineties, though there were a smattering of times where I indulged since then.”

That bad, then? Crowley almost asked, but didn't. It had so obviously been that bad. “I quit every few years, but it never sticks. The pot plant was easier to toss than these damn things.”

“Pot plant?”

“Shocked I haven't told you about that yet.” Crowley shrugged, and gave Aziraphale more of his own jagged puzzle pieces. “Never sold, just grew my own and smoked. Kept me calm, helped me eat, and if I had a joint in my hand no one pushed needles at me.”

“Ah. Cannabis.” Aziraphale inhaled once more, then passed the cigarette back to Crowley when he didn’t light another for himself. “Now that’s something I haven’t tried, if that sets your mind at ease.”

“Love, you called it cannabis. Nobody would've sold you a bag.” Crowley took a drag and passed it back. “Though, for the record, that first afternoon we got drunk together and you got all... scandalized when I asked if you had secrets? This is exactly the sort of thing I was wondering about.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’d hardly consider smoking in my youth to be a secret worth confiding in you. It’s not as if I did it often, just often enough.” Somehow, as it always did, conversation came easily when it was with Crowley. Even when he’d felt like he could hardly face him just minutes before. He wasn’t so sure that it was the nicotine calming him, or simply just Crowley’s presence on his left. “I always preferred alcohol when I had a choice. In fact, I plan on opening a bottle as soon as we close up. Perhaps the Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise. Or the Spanish sherry.”

“Pub's got that roast on special, if you want me to pick up some takeaway. It'd pair pretty well with the sherry.”

Some of the bitterness behind his words faded along with the smoke, Aziraphale captivated by him as he slowly passed the cigarette back. “You’re too good to me, Crowley,” he murmured, with a heaviness he rarely felt when confronted with the way he doted on him.

Crowley tapped the cigarette, watching ash fall off to the side. “I've never been good for anybody. You just make it easy.”

“I’m afraid not many would agree with you.” Aziraphale turned his gaze on the trees and fields, wrestling with himself for a moment before confession spilled out of him. “I lied about you. I said we weren’t… even though we are- but when they brought it up, I couldn’t-” His lower lip trembled as he kept dry eyes averted. “You deserve better than that.”

Crowley crushed out the cigarette and slid an arm around him. It did hurt, but it wasn't a surprise. The town they lived in knew, the people they saw daily - the people who would agree that Aziraphale deserved some goodness - knew. That mattered more. “I'm not going to ask you to pick me over them, Aziraphale. I'm just going to be here for you.”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be tucked against him, leaning into the lingering warmth of the barn he brought with him, the smell of cigarette smoke and wood. He took Crowley’s hand in both of his, cradling the wrist as he traced along each finger. “And that, my dear, is precisely why you’re too good to me.” He caught his reflection in the dark lenses when he tried to meet his gaze, then held where he knew it lay beyond the protection. “I’d rather go with you. To pick up the takeaway.”

“I'd rather you did too. Mr. Wallers always tries to make small talk with me.”

“He is quite fond of you.”

Crowley's lips quirked. “I made a mistake somewhere. Should've left the room a mess when I checked out or something.”

“Clearly.” Aziraphale felt an echo of his amusement. “I’ve even heard talk you’re one of the best occupants they’d had stay with them in quite some time.”

“Now you're just being mean to me.” Crowley disentangled his hand from Aziraphale's only to nudge his sunglasses down a little, enough to give him something besides his own reflection. Loving him had some jagged edges, but it was still there and intact. Just something new about this too-big feeling. “If Mr. Wallers talks to me, I'm pushing you in front to deal with him.” Which was a lie. He wouldn't make Aziraphale talk to anyone at the moment. 

Aziraphale huffed out a trembling laugh, not a full one, but something in him had been soothed by the sight of those golden eyes and slitted pupils. Guilt still gnawed at his ribs, but he told himself he had to lie. They wouldn't understand, not because he was gay and in a relationship with a man, no. His family wouldn’t care about that, Uriel herself in a relationship with a woman. No, they wouldn't understand because of the nature of their working relationship. They could use it against them both. It was safer if they didn't know. If their relationship was confined to Tadfield.

“What was I thinking? You're the foulest fiend I ever did meet. Mr. Wallers is out of his mind to think you decent,” he assured him, fixing his glasses for him, letting him know it was alright. “How's that?” 

“Better. A little condescending, but I'll take it.” Crowley cupped his cheek. “Hard to resist, anyway. You're beautiful in actual sunlight.”

“Oh…” His cheek warmed under his touch, one hand covering Crowley's to keep it there. “Stop that. I'll… I'll be alright, my dear. I'm not used to Uriel's tactics, that's all. She's a bit more… well, let's just say she can get her point across very well with very few words. And I already know your feelings on Sandalphon.”

She'd come across as vicious and intense to him, uncomfortably comparable to people he'd left behind but packaged better. “In the fifteen seconds it took her to sum up and dismiss me, I figured out she's a royal cunt. Calling you beautiful is unrelated.”

“You're worried,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And mind the language, please.”

“C'est une conne.”

Aziraphale blinked. “What is that?” 

Crowley very deliberately didn't smile. “French for 'She's a cunt.'”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, removing his hand from his cheek. “It is not. You're making that up.”

“Oi, I didn't spend a month learning French last year to make up insults.” Crowley skipped smile and went for grin, entwining his fingers with Aziraphale's. “I had to know the real ones.”

“You know French?” Aziraphale arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, why didn't you put that on your CV?” 

“M'not fluent. Some French ex-pat ended up in my fucking gardens and he muttered my name a few too many times under his breath, so I just, y'know, learned enough to figure out if he was threatening me or just insulting me.” And then enough to have a short conversation in case he'd tried to make things more difficult. Crowley shrugged. “Let the insults go for a bit but one day, he threatened 'Je t'étrangle avec une vigne,' and I said 'Bien, mais je te tuerai d'abord.' Scared the Hell out of him, so he mostly let me be after.”

“I can only imagine what that exchange entailed,” Aziraphale murmured, then paused as he actually gave it some thought. “Well, I know ‘vigne’ is vine.” His affinity for wine didn’t make that particularly difficult. “But the rest…”

“He threatened to strangle me with one, and I said I'd get to him first.” Crowley's next shrug was restless. Somehow, once again, they were talking about him and not Aziraphale. “Just the garbage you say when the only place you're happy is threatened.” 

“Ah. Well, that’s as good a reason to learn a language as any, I suppose. I hope he didn’t cause you any further trouble in your garden.” His restlessness didn’t escape his notice. “You brought it up,” he reminded him, a bit childish perhaps. “Trying to get around my request to not call my cousin such a thing. She might not be very understanding or patient with me, but she’s still my family, Crowley. They all are. They’re… they’re not bad people.”

“I didn't say they were.” But he thought it. He'd continue to think it. There were different levels of badness, after all; it wasn't all black and white. He'd left his scissors and was trying to get stitched back up, but Aziraphale... He was still reaching for his, letting them cut at his bindings. Different handles on those scissors, shinier decorations, but just as sharp. “But good people can cause hurt too, angel. I'm not... 

“Look, I am worried about you. It's a... It's new. Caring about anybody like I do you is-” He shook his head, words beating around his chest and in his mind, but they caught in his throat and only incomprehensible noises sputtered out. “I'm handling it,” he eventually managed, making the words smaller. Small enough to fit around the tightness. “I'm not going to try and get you to stop trying to have a relationship with them. You should be able to have a family. But I think I should be allowed to be angry that they hurt you when they don't need to.”

Aziraphale cupped his jaw, stroking one cheek with his thumb as he held him in place to press his lips to the other. “Of course you're allowed to be angry, dearest. I wouldn't presume to tell you how you should or should not feel.” It was new to him, too. Having someone who cared about him the way Crowley did. “You are handling it admirably well. I suppose you confiding your feelings in me is greatly preferred to unleashing them on my unsuspecting cousins. And of course I want you to feel comfortable expressing your frustrations, even if I'm not entirely sure how to go about assuaging them in this case.”

“Just...” Crowley wasn't sure either, but he knew what he didn't want. He didn't want his negative feelings to make Aziraphale hide his. The way he did with Anathema and probably would do if she asked him anything about what had happened. He wanted the full story, just the way he'd gotten it after the awful quarterly budget meeting. He wanted to take on Aziraphale’s hurt the same way Aziraphale so easily took his. “Just promise me you'll tell me what happened. You don't have to now, but... Try not to make excuses when you do and just- just talk. Vent. That's all I need, love. Let me be here for you.”

For a long, considering moment, Aziraphale just looked at him, gaze flitting helplessly over his face. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, a light, testing thing before he pressed their lips together. He could absolutely try. If Crowley just wanted him to talk, then he would. It had helped in the past to have him lend a hand when holding the burden of their words, to keep them from crushing his chest beneath their weight.

“Alright,” he murmured as he reluctantly pulled away from the safe haven of kissing him. “Perhaps not now, seeing as there’s still work to be done, but after… we can talk after,” he promised.

It wasn't easy to throw scissors away, but Crowley wondered if he would've been able to do it sooner if he'd had someone else. Someone who gave enough of a damn to just hear him. He could be that someone for Aziraphale. It was the absolute least sort of someone he could be for Aziraphale.

And if it helped him, if not entirely throw them away, then lock them in a drawer, then all the better. “After,” he agreed, and gave him an out. “So we'll have takeaway and too much sherry. Then you'll let me rub all that ridiculousness we got from the chemist into your skin.”

“If the ridiculousness works, you won’t hear any complaints from me next time you decide to sport a bit of scruff.” Aziraphale tapped a fingertip to Crowley’s chin.

“I don't recall hearing any complaints this time.”

“Then you might need to have your hearing checked, you contrary thing.” 

No real complaints. Crowley lifted Aziraphale's palm to his lips. “You liked it, but I’ll give you time to wonder over it before I change anything again.”

“I did,” he admitted, sporting a little pink in his cheeks that wasn’t only from the nip in the air. “Though, whether or not I like something should hardly be the measure for making such a change. It’s your face, my dear. Your- ah… as the children say, your look. You’re free to do with it as you’d like. When you’d like. My wondering will be content.” He did rub his thumb over Crowley’s lower lip as he drew his mouth away. “However, your clock must not be. I imagine it's eagerly awaiting your return.”

“Probably. Gonna need to contact the client tomorrow. Part of the back just kinda... crumbled? Tossed it Shadwell’s way as I was coming out, so he's having a look to see what can be done with it.” He smiled, giving half a shrug. “You coming back in?” 

“Oh, yes. I’ll be only a moment longer, I think. Mustn’t dilly-dally on the clock now.”

“I’m more thinking about the fact that it’s bloody cold out and you don’t have your coat.” He tugged off his own and draped it over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Take your moment, love. Just don’t hang outside too long. You’ll drag me away from the clock again.”

“We can’t have that.” Aziraphale rubbed the wool between his fingers, the earthy, spiced leather scent of him wrapping around him just as tenderly as the coat itself. “It really only will be a minute. Possibly three, at the most. To collect myself properly and soldier on through the rest of the day.” His smile gentled. “Don’t fret, dearest. Not about this.”

“I don’t fret,” he protested, pushing himself up and satisfied that Aziraphale was actually going to give himself time to steady, that he was willing to admit he even needed the time. “That’s your job.”

“Oh, of course. How could I forget?” Aziraphale watched him go, offering a little wave when Crowley paused to glance back at him before turning the corner. 

Oh, how in all of Heaven and Earth he somehow deserved that man was completely beyond him. After everything Crowley hd been through, the least he deserved was someone who would stand by his side. Who had the strength to tell anyone that he was cared for and would dare anyone to question it. Aziraphale wasn’t the same fearful boy who was more concerned with safety than breaking someone’s heart, nor the selfish young man who expected someone to give up their lifestyle to ascribe to his own, nor the self-conscious man pushing forty, wondering if this was his last chance, and if it was… was it what he wanted?

He didn’t feel fearful, selfish, or self-conscious with Crowley now. He felt… seen. A frightening feeling at first, of course, but there was something of a relief in knowing that there was someone in the world that knew him and liked him. Possibly loved him.

Oh, he wouldn’t dare to speculate on that, but it was a lovely thought. If Crowley wanted to be with him, then it was because he saw someone who was strong enough and bold enough. It was because he saw someone who was enough. Even if that someone couldn’t be open with his family.

Aziraphale sighed, resting his head against the side of the barn. Uriel and Sandalphon were strongly mistaken if they thought he was going to cut the Christmas bonuses. No, he’d take a cut to his own salary first. It would buy him some time, at least, while he sorted out this mess. It was quite the tangle of different threads now. He certainly hadn’t thought all of this would come from a dispute over a supplier’s contract.

True to his word, he was back in the barn soon enough, hanging Crowley’s coat up beside his own. He proceeded to fuss over the dust that had marred his trousers from sitting on the ground, telling Crowley with the gravest of convictions that he’d never get the stains out. Later that night, curled up on the sofa beneath a tartan blanket and the comforting haze of good wine, Aziraphale would tell him everything and wonder if he’d never get his cousins to see things from his perspective.

Crowley would let him talk, just like he let him fuss and whinge about his clothes, and it was enough that he was just there to listen.

Chapter Text

“I’m not so certain about this, Crowley…”

Aziraphale shifted on the balls of his feet, hands clasped in front of him as he wrung his fingers in worrying circles. They’d driven into Oxford for the day in search of a Currys or something like it. The weekend before had them checking out smaller, independent shops in the area, but none had a terribly wide selection of computers, or even sold computers at all. One in particular only carried kitchen appliances despite being advertised as an electronics establishment. Online shopping had proved to be rather difficult as well. While he and Crowley had scrolled through the inventories of several websites on his telephone, Aziraphale fussed and dithered over each one. He needed to see the machine in person before making such a commitment.

 Upon stepping through the sliding doors to the commercial electronics store, Aziraphale started having second thoughts. It had been decades since he’d needed to buy an electronic device of any kind, or at the very least something that one couldn’t find at a second-hand store. A few of his lamps, for example, though the one thing this place didn’t seem to sell was, in fact, lamps. The sprawling store was more like a warehouse lit up with blinding white lettering on all of their displays. Sleek, steel refrigerators all in a row in one corner, massive flat screen televisions with the thinnest bezels imaginable and surround sound in another. Towards the back, the sign for computers beckoned them, overseeing several counters-worth of laptops.

Well, at least they had options.

They were stopped by several clerks on their way, all asking if they were interested in things they weren’t even in the market for, like a new laundry or cellular telephone. “It’s almost overwhelming, all this pressure to buy something,” Aziraphale tutted.

“They might work for commissions. Shit way to run a business, if you ask me.”

“Crowley! They might hear you,” Aziraphale hushed him.

It worked as well as normal. “And I guarantee there's not a single employee in here who'd rather get commission than a regular salary. Unless they're slimy.” 

“Well, that’s quite possible,” more like likely, “but you never know who might be listening. Management, perhaps. Oh! Here we are. My goodness. If I don’t find a computer here, then I doubt I’ll ever find one.” He scanned the different models on display, hand settling on Crowley’s arm as the brands and model numbers jumbled about in his head like a bunch of nonsense. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, Anathema said to stay away from Dell and Apple so that cuts out some of these. Let's just start at the first one and we'll go from there.” Crowley laid a hand over his, squeezing gently. “And if you've got questions I can't answer, we'll find an employee who hates their job.”

“Thank you, darling. I know this is all rather new for you as well.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Alright. So no Dells or Macintosh… Hm, what about Hewlett Packard? Except not this one, dear Lord. That’s well out of my price range.”

He strolled past the models with the higher price tags, anything over four hundred pounds, really. He didn’t need any bells or whistles, just a machine that did what he wanted it to do. So far that list mainly consisted of turn on and access the internet. Oh, and he’d like to be able to do his taxes on it.

Most of the models on display were black, though there were a few charming silver ones that he supposed he could accept. He didn’t want to put this off too much longer, not with people starting their holiday shopping, so he told himself he needed to leave this store today with a laptop in hand. Even if it wasn’t the colour he wanted.

He didn’t have to dwell on that thought for long, perking up as he finally spied a white laptop on display on the next counter. Excitedly, he bustled over to it. It wasn’t an Apple or a Dell, so that was good enough for him. And it was under four hundred pounds. Even better.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale wiggled delightedly as he joined him. “I’ve looked at this computer. This is the one.”

Crowley arched a brow and played with the trackpad to wake it up. There was a trail of laptops behind them that would open to inappropriate search results or squiggles on the Paint program, depending on what he'd felt like, so he thought he had a pretty good handle on these computers by now. This one, however, was a little different. 

The home page was a little like his cellular, but the fourteen-inch screen was quite a bit bigger. It had USB ports for Aziraphale to plug in memory drives when he needed them and a glance at all the schematics promised a lengthy battery life and good memory. “Alright. It seems like it'll do what you need. Screen's bigger than the clunker you've got now.”

“Oh yes, I can see almost all of it without my reading glasses.” Aziraphale frowned a bit, glancing at the way Crowley touched the computer to the cursor moving about on the screen. “How are you doing that without a mouse?”

Crowley slanted him a look, unseen through his sunglasses. “This square here with the buttons is the mouse.”

The crease in his brow deepened. “That can’t be. Why it’s not a proper one at all. Don’t lie to me, my dear, I can tell when you’re teasing.”

“Not always since I'm not now.” Crowley stepped aside and pulled him closer. “Here. Play with it and see.”

Aziraphale huffed, casting him a sidelong glance as Crowley bracketed his arms on either side of him, supporting his lean on the counter while he watched him. With one finger, Aziraphale tapped the square and gasped when it clicked on something. “Oh. Oh, I don’t think I like it.” He leaned away from it as if it might snap shut on his hand of its own accord.

Crowley kept him trapped, lips twitching. “They're all like that, angel. It's called a trackpad, but I can get you a regular mouse if you'd rather.”

“Please.”

“Um, excuse me…” There was a subtle shift beside them, but Aziraphale made no move to escape Crowley’s arms, nor did the latter make any move to release him. Their cheeks nearly brushed as they both turned to face the young sales clerk attempting to approach them. “Sorry to break up an intimate moment, but can I help you with anything?”

“Ah, yes. How does one attach a mouse to this device?” Aziraphale asked.

The question didn't inspire annoyance at them so much as annoyance at life in general, so Crowley was satisfied, especially when the question was answered. “You can plug an external mouse into one of the USB ports. It'll run the same way it would for any desktop.”

“Can you install programs like a regular Windows computer?” Crowley wondered. “OS looks different.”

“Oh, yeah, plus access to the whole Google Play store. Uh. The Chrome OS is designed to be pretty web-based, but the interface is more straightforward than Windows. Pretty user-friendly.”

“Oh, well, I know what Google is. It’s the website where you can look things up.” Aziraphale cast a pleased smile Crowley’s way. “I didn’t know it was a game as well.” Perhaps it was like solitaire or that virtual pinball machine game he’d tried once or twice.

Crowley returned the smile, but he was absolutely not going into what the play store was. The clerk didn't have the same level of self-preservation. “It's got a lot of games, yeah. Not everything is keyboard and mouse compatible, but that one's a touchscreen and all so it won't limit any of the apps you want to install.”

“Oh, well, I don’t need it to do all that. I just need it to do what I want it to without fuss. Now, ah… where are the ones for purchase?” Aziraphale lit up as he located the boxes for that particular model, except… “Oh… none of these say that they’re white… there’s silver and black. Ah, my dear, do you still have any of the white in stock?” he asked of the clerk.

“Uh. I can look.” A scanner was retrieved and aimed at the bar code to pull up the options. “We're out of white, but we've got a refurbished gold one? It's around twenty percent cheaper than the listed price here.”

The disappointment didn’t linger long, Aziraphale’s eyes wide as he turned to look at Crowley. “I didn’t know they came in gold,” he murmured. And refurbished meant restored. Fixed up, not quite new, but back to functioning. It suited so much more than something stark and brand new. “I’ll take it!” he declared, attention and cheerful smile back on the clerk.

“Okay. I'll have to grab it from the back and I can meet you at the front? Uh. Here's a picture of it.” Or at least what a new one would look like. “If you want an external mouse, they're all over there. You can probably find one that matches.”

Crowley was already pulling it up on his own phone so he could see it without sunglasses when the kid walked away. “Come on, angel. Let's see what they've got.”

Aziraphale squinted at Crowley’s phone as he fell into step beside him, trying to get a good look at the computer. “Do you think they’ll permit me to open the box and make sure that it’s the right one?” he asked.

“Might since it's used. It's a good colour if it actually looks like this, though. Suits you and your tartan.”

“You think so?” Aziraphale adjusted his bowtie, chest puffed out and was very pleased by the assessment. “I am inclined to agree. While I like the white, it does tend to stand out amongst my things. It can be a bit cold. I simply never considered that gold could be an option.” His eyes sparkled a bit as he glanced Crowley’s way. “And you know, it rather reminds me of your eyes. They are quite golden in colour.”

“Ngk. They’re-” He didn’t quite know where to go with that, so made a few more useless noises. “They’re completely different shades.”

“Yes, your eyes are much lovelier.” It wrung another nonsense sound from him, one that had Aziraphale chuckling as he slipped his hand into Crowley’s. “Come along, you silly, sweet thing.”

“M’not sweet,” he protested, but kept his hand linked with Aziraphale’s as they went where the teenage clerk had vaguely pointed. “I was just- mnngh.” There was no way to finish that without complimenting him, so he left it there. 

There was quite the selection of computer accessories, it took a bit of perusal before they located one that was white with gold accents. Around the scroll wheel was a perfect gold circle, reminiscent of a halo. Aziraphale had hardly commented on it before Crowley plucked it from his hands and headed for the check-out counter.

They did open the box at Aziraphale’s request, the sleek laptop clean and gently used. The golden sheen was more of a champagne than an amber, but he thought it was beautiful just the same. Crowley was right, it would mesh well with his tartan. After making sure the hinges worked properly, Aziraphale let them close it back up and got out his wallet to pay. When he asked for Crowley to place the mouse on the counter with the laptop, he was only a little surprised to find he’d gone off and paid for it while he’d been looking over the laptop, now carrying it in a little plastic bag.

“Nevermind,” he told the young clerk. “No mouse then. It will be just the laptop.”

“Okay, so one Chromebook with warranty-” 

“Pardon?” 

The teenager gestured limply towards the box. “Your Chromebook.” 

“It's a gold laptop,” Aziraphale replied with such patient certainty that Crowley staggered at least three steps back as he laughed. 

Unsure if it was a joke thanks to the reaction, the clerk nodded. “Yeah. For the warranty, did you want one or three years?”

“I think just the one should suffice.”

The transaction went smoothly otherwise, though the first thing Aziraphale did once they got back to the Bentley was to open the box again. 

“What are you doing?” Crowley wondered, brows lifting. “You already saw it.”

“I’m making sure they gave me the right one and didn’t switch it on me while I was distracted by you,” he explained. “After all that ‘chrome book’ nonsense. It’s neither chrome nor a book of any sort. And you were no help, I’ll have you know.”

Crowley laughed, turning the key in the ignition. “It’s the brand, angel.”

“I beg your pardon, the brand is Hewlett Packard. It says so on the lid.”

Crowley waved a hand. “I know that, but it’s the OS or something; I don’t know all the technicalities with it. But it’s a Chromebook instead of a Windows laptop.”

Aziraphale merely hummed, not set at ease until he saw that it was, in fact, still his gold laptop that he’d picked out in the box. “I won’t argue the point with you, Crowley,” he replied in that holier-than-thou tone of his. “Now, what do you say we get some lunch? That whole affair has made me rather peckish.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, angel.”

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Aziraphale batted his lashes in Crowley’s direction. “Sushi?”

“Anywhere.”

Aziraphale sat back in his seat, trying to hide his smile. “And you say you’re not sweet.” 

“Shut up or I’ll make you figure out the GPS on my phone.”

“Oh, you beast,” he played along. “You absolute terror, you wouldn’t dare.”

“I think it would take a miracle for you to even figure out how to open it.” Crowley plugged in the name Aziraphale gave him just to get an idea of where to head and passed his phone over. Aziraphale would probably give him better directions than the little computer voice, so he didn’t touch the volume. He just liked to see and plan. “Or you’d just break it in the process.”

“A risk I don’t see you so willing to take.” Aziraphale cradled the phone gently nonetheless, handling it with the most care as he watched the route light up. “Was there anything else you wanted to do while we’re out, my dear?”

“Not really. Not this late in November.” He'd like to see the parks come spring, though. “We could go to the Covered Market if you like.”

“Oh, that does sound lovely. You know, I did have a bit of shopping I wanted to get done.”

As he'd ruminated earlier, it was about the time of year where the holiday crowds started showing up in droves. With Christmas gifts of his own still in need of purchasing, he wanted to see what was out there. This year, Aziraphale had found, was going by much too quickly. At least much faster than years past, it seemed. 

And not only because he had a speed demon behind the wheel of the car, though Crowley's presence in his life outside of driving did certainly make the days fly by. The company of another person after the work day ended, having places to go with someone, events to look forward to, conversations that stretched on for hours at a time, they all played their part in filling the spaces in Aziraphale’s life which had previously only been occupied by the very things Crowley once accused him of talking solely about. And church. 

As the autumn faded into winter, it was obvious there were differences in all facets of his life. Now there were debates to be had, philosophical discussions, and even slightly tipsy rounds of ‘would you rather’ and ‘never ever never have I ever,’ as Crowley put it when he was half a bottle in. There were drives through the countryside just to get out of the house, cosying up on the sofa to watch a film just to stay in. Sunday brunch and shopping took more time as well, with the addition of popping by the florist’s before getting their groceries so Crowley could stalk amongst the greenery while Aziraphale chatted up the sweet girl at the counter. 

That, actually, was quite a bit of help in figuring out what to get Crowley as far as a Christmas present. Aziraphale was quite fortunate that Crowley lost himself to his own mumblings and musings as he examined the tips of leaves, quality of soil, and placement of the pots throughout the store. He was none the wiser that Aziraphale was potentially plotting something. He only hoped he could keep it properly under wraps, so to say, until the big reveal.

However, it also made Aziraphale acutely aware that it wouldn’t do to only celebrate Christmas. While the holiday was decidedly important to him, he wasn’t against celebrating any of the others. In fact, the shop’s annual Christmas party was more of a Christmas and Yule celebration. It would hardly be any trouble to celebrate Hanukkah as well.

His new laptop came into his life in just the nick of time. It turned out to be quite instrumental in locating exactly what he needed. Aziraphale had expectations, and he’d be damned if they weren’t met. 

Anathema was also instrumental in helping him navigate the world wide web. She introduced him to a few independent shops online for him to support, that were open to the customization of certain objects. There were also online thrift stores, which minimized any suspicions of Aziraphale taking the bus to his preferred haunts. He was positive Crowley would know he was up to something if he just went off somewhere without at least mentioning it first. Best not to give him any reason to speculate.

After all, it was rather a big thing he had planned. An unprecedented step forward. Aziraphale had butterflies just thinking about it, but rather than the sheer terror other large steps brought forth, this instilled a sort of giddiness and hope. Oh, but he did hope Crowley would like it.

For the few things he did need to purchase in person and bring to the house, he arranged with Deirdre to assist on her days off. She’d been more than happy to help in the spirit of the holidays, brought into the loop just enough to have an idea of what was going on, but that if things slipped out and Adam got word of it, the whole thing wouldn’t blow up in his face if the children spilled the beans to Crowley. Accidentally, of course.

While it was certainly a challenge when they spent so much of their time together, Aziraphale found he wouldn’t change any of it. And he was grateful that Crowley slept for far longer than he, and quite soundly at that. That also provided plenty of opportunity to be, as one would say, sneaky.

Yes, it was all rather good organization, if Aziraphale did say so himself. Flawless, even.

----

On the evening of December 8th, Aziraphale got out a box and brought it into the dining room. “Darling, come in here a moment. I want your opinion on something,” he called out, setting the box on the surprisingly still clean tabletop.

It didn't take long for Crowley to saunter in, though there was some fidget in it. There had been fidgeting for the better part of a week now with the holiday looming. It was the most well-known, the most often misunderstood, and it had memories pushing and pulling at him. Two days away and he still wasn't sure exactly what he wanted to do, if anything. 

Well, yes, alright, he wanted to do something. He wouldn't have bought Aziraphale something for it if he wanted the eight days to go totally unmarked. But how far did that go? He glanced at the dining room window, trying not to wonder what a Chanukiah would look like on the sill, and tucked his hands in his pockets when he saw the box. 

Since he'd rather tease than fidget, “More clutter, angel?” 

Aziraphale tsked at him, reaching into the padding the box was stuffed with. “Hardly. No, you see, I saw this and thought that it would be a lovely addition to one of our windows, but I want to know what you think.” He pulled out an old, brass candelabra from the box, built to hold nine candles. 

A proper Chanukiah.

“Ngk.” It hung, the only sound he could make for a few seconds. He glanced back at the window, able to see it there now. Too easily, really, so he knew he wanted it there. He just didn’t want... Well, it’d be seen. Probably not by every single person in town, but it’d certainly be viewable to the oddball group of kind-of friends who worked in the barn five (or so) days a week. It was harder for him, with all his questions and uncertainties and irritation with Upstairs, to come out as Jewish than it was to be queer. Not that he’d actually said anything explicitly about that either, as specifics didn’t matter so much as just being known as Aziraphale’s partner.

No one bothered him about that, though. He didn’t know if anyone would about this, this very vulnerable, private link to the only family he’d ever had. “Looks antique.” 

“Oh, it is.” Aziraphale turned it around in his hands, careful with it even as his own need to fidget bubbled up. It seemed like the right course of action, purchasing a Chanukiah so that Crowley could have the option to celebrate the holiday if he so chose. “Of course, it doesn’t have to go in a window if you don’t want it to. We could put it somewhere else. Wherever you think is best, my dear.”

Crowley took a step closer to the table to better see it. He could just light it, let it burn for thirty minutes on the dot, then they’d hide it away again until the next night. He glanced at the window again, then looked at Aziraphale and watched him rub at a little age spot on the brass. He loved him so much it hurt sometimes, which wasn’t completely unpleasant. Bizarrely. Something so big brought so much pressure with it, and it really should’ve just been unbearable all the way through.

“My grandad had a silver one. Or it looked silver, anyway, but it was so tarnished it just looked black. Definitely could’ve used a place like yours to give it some shine, but I liked it. It sort of looked like it’d, y’know, been dipped in the oil from the story.” Back when things like religion had been easy, before the doubt and the let-downs had come in and opened the gates for everything else. It had been harder to exist then than it was now, yet it had gone into the window every year. His grandad had never been afraid to put it anywhere except where it belonged. It was the very least Crowley could do now, especially when Aziraphale had gone out of his way to get one. A brass one, of all things, like so many clocks and gears and fitting right into his home.

Fitting in the same way Aziraphale had so easily fit Crowley in. “I want it to go in the window. Did you get enough candles?”

“Yes, ah. I asked Deirdre if she could pick up several packages from Poundland.” His cheeks turned pink, but it was with a pleased sort of smile as he handed Crowley the Chanukiah. “I’ll go get them. I hid them in the library. It was quite a challenge keeping so many packages of candles out of sight. Oh, but I didn’t tell her what they were for. Just that one can never have too many candles.”

He did, in fact, have a shopping bag full of simple white, tapered candlesticks. Eleven packs equaled the forty-four candles they’d need for all eight nights, plus an additional four in the twelfth pack just in case. Aziraphale unpacked them all on the table as well, looking at Crowley expectantly.

“Will they do?” 

They weren’t blue, thankfully. He didn’t think he could handle quite that level of traditionalism, but he popped open a box and fit a candle into the shamash spot. “Yeah. It-” Crowley finally smiled at him. “They’ll work, love.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, lifting up to kiss Crowley’s cheek. “I’m so glad. You know, I wanted us to find some way to honour the holiday. I’m willing to do as much or as little as you’re comfortable with, darling. I have no expectations other than spending the time with you. Though, of course, if you’d like some personal time to reflect on things or reminisce, then I completely understand and will stay out of your way.” 

“This wasn’t really a big one. It’s more fun in a way when you’re a kid. There were things to do that grandad didn’t pull out of thin air, so it was... good. I’m not going to do all the prayers, but I’ll probably talk about him some if that’s...” He shrugged. “I don’t want you to stay out of the way.”

Lifting both hands to frame Crowley’s face, Aziraphale stroked over his cheekbones with his thumbs. “Then I won’t. I’ll be right beside you when it’s time to light the candles.”

And he was, even sporting a blue and white bowtie for the occasion in lieu of the usual tartan two nights later. Next to the Chanukiah, there was a small box wrapped in tartan paper instead. The tag affixed to it simply read Crowley in neat, cursive script.

“You know it’s not like Christmas, right? You don’t have to do gifts. Especially not ones in tartan wrapping.”

Aziraphale ignored his pointed emphasis on tartan. “I know it’s not entirely traditional, but I thought it would be fun. It’s only a little thing. And needed for the evening to progress.” Now that it was out in the open, there was a bit too much amusement curving his lips and dancing in his eyes. “You should open it first.”

“Dunno that I trust that look.” But he still unwrapped the little box and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up and out when he saw what lay inside. A lighter, very much like the one he used for the occasional cigarette, but completely different. It was entirely covered in his unique tartan. “You’re ridiculous. I should just use my old one.”

“Good luck finding it.”

“Bastard,” he accused, grinning just the same. He fixed the shamash to the center, using the new lighter to light it. It then was used on a single candle to the furthest right spot of the Chanukiah. He hadn’t lit a candle during this holiday since he’d been fourteen, either unable or too wary or just not caring enough to risk it since and a revolving rabbi in sole possession of any matches during his time in jail. But the little glow in the dining room window was good.

Despite the tartan lighter.

Aziraphale made a soft sound, a gentle contentment flickering over his face with the candlelight. His gaze wandered from the Chanukiah to find Crowley’s face, glowing even brighter when he caught his eye. The laughter was what he’d hoped for, the warm teasing just the sort of ice breaker he thought he might need. He touched his arm and laid his cheek to his shoulder, letting him soak up the presence of another who cared for him. Who loved him, even if he couldn’t yet say it.

Crowley tucked an arm around him, the shifting and rustle enough of a distraction. He was embarrassed to even be thinking about doing this, but he reached up and brushed his fingers against Aziraphale’s ear. When he withdrew, he flashed a chocolate coin wrapped in shining gold foil. “Mm. Odd spot for this.”

Aziraphale blinked, then gasped and clapped his hands together. “Crowley!” he giggled, delighted by the trick and the chocolate. “Oh, you sweet, sneaky thing.” He plucked the coin from his fingers, nails already teasing at the foiled crease. “How long were you waiting to pull that off?”

“I’m not answering that, but I got you a bag of them. Chocolate coins are more traditional than tartan.”

Though tartan seemed to be the running theme this year. When he awoke the next morning, his usual grumblings over the morning came to a halt when he saw another neatly wrapped box atop the denims in his drawer. He was still getting used to having a drawer in Aziraphale’s dresser, so certainly hadn’t been expecting another gift. When he opened the tartan-patterned scarf, Aziraphale had been able to hear him laughing from the kitchen.

Day three, he needed his magnifiers for a tiny clock and found a tartan cloth for cleaning glasses in their case. He barely bit back the laugh, but couldn’t fight the grin when he glanced over to find Aziraphale’s smugly amused gaze on him.

The next day, his new scarf around his throat and date plans ahead, he found his gift in the Bentley. The old steering wheel had been graced - or cursed - with a tartan cover and a stupid bow Crowley didn’t take off. It wouldn’t occur to him until much much later that he hadn’t even been upset that Aziraphale had changed something about his beloved car without asking. For Somebody’s sake, who gave love permission to get bigger?

The popcorn tin the next night was beyond ridiculous. He’d turned away for less than five minutes to pick out and pop in a movie for them to watch and it was right on the table when he turned around next. It had been a good night of popcorn and popcorn-flavoured kisses.

He’d found gloves the day after, speeding outside when he’d realized it was snowing. He stayed out far too long in his aching need to watch the thick, fat flakes steadily coat the little plot of land. His first snowfall out of jail, the first one he could be outside for, and it had felt like that first rain he'd been outside for. Painful freedom. The new gloves, a hot mug of tea, and an angel pressed against his side once he’d realized where Crowley was and why had kept him warm. Not an easy day, but they couldn’t all be, and the gloves had still managed to make him smile.

They'd even made him laugh later, when he'd realized the fat flakes were sticking and sundown was on the horizon. He'd stolen outside again, balling up a snowball for the first time in longer than he could remember. It had hit Aziraphale square in the chest when he'd opened the door to see what he was up to and then it had been war. 

Despite freezing fingers and wind-reddened cheeks, adrenaline had still been high when they'd stumbled back inside, a sweet kiss in the foyer taking a very swift turn into something that had made Crowley pin Aziraphale to the front door and melted the chill with a hotly whispered, “I need you.” Aziraphale had never been with someone able and willing to hold him up against a door, but it was a highly recommendable experience. 

When the next day had come, Crowley dug into his workstation drawers for some brass taper pins, and instead drew out a tartan tin filled with black licorice. He couldn’t even recall telling Aziraphale he liked black licorice, but it didn’t surprise him that he’d know. He’d grinned at him, returned to his seat, and promptly got right back up because he still needed the bloody taper pins. He’d glared at Aziraphale’s giggling, but it was hard to be effective with his lips twitching and eyes covered in dark lenses.

“Festival of Lights,” he scoffed later, using the shamash to light seven candles. “Should call it Festival of Tartan with you around.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him from behind, lips curved as he pressed them to his neck. “Oh, just my way of lighting up your days in little ways,” he hummed, a laugh escaping when Crowley nudged him with his hip. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, dearest.”

“It’s ridiculous.” He loved every single silly gift. “I still don’t know how you managed to get your pattern on every little thing.”

“I have a network of highly trained agents,” he told him as seriously as possible, which wasn’t very serious at all as another nippy kiss was planted just beneath his ear. “Spread across the country.”

Crowley definitely did not giggle, but his laugh didn’t quite hit cackle either. He was happy and he liked it. “Just waiting to slather your tartan all over everything, I wager. What’s tomorrow? A whole book of patterns?”

“No, no, no. None of that now, you wily old serpent.” Aziraphale squeezed him about the middle, then released him so he could cast a proper chastising look his way, grin shining in his eyes. “You’ll just have to wait and see. As you did for all the others.”

It wasn’t the most patient of waits, this last gift not in his drawer, his coat, or his work supplies. He was almost unbearably distracted, casting glances Aziraphale’s way and growing more suspicious as he grew more delighted. Definitely a bastard.

Distraction came in the form of Anathema during his second break. She appeared in the kitchenette behind him, and he was convinced she’d materialized completely out of nowhere when her “hey” had made him spill more milk onto the counter than in his tea.

“No wonder Shadwell hates you,” he joked, wiping up the spill when she handed him a rag. As if she was very used to startling people in this kitchenette. “You’re like a church mouse.”

“Newt’s a church mouse.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “A cat, then, since you’ve caught him.”

He did like Anathema. He liked her even more when she pushed a new CD into his hand, gave him a hug that shocked him, and said, “Happy Hanukkah” before returning to her station. That was all she did. No questions, no judgment, just an easy acknowledgment and an unnecessary gift. At least she hadn’t bothered to wrap it.

He got the same simple acknowledgement from everyone as they left the barn that night - except Shadwell, but he would’ve had to die of shock and then he’d never know what Aziraphale’s last silly surprise would be. But it wasn’t as if Shadwell was more unpleasant. He was normal, and it was the most obvious sign of acceptance Crowley was going to get. Them noticing and accepting without pestering him unknotted something he didn’t know had been tied, and he felt, for the first time in longer than he wanted to think, that he was possibly in the right place. Hanging ‘round the right people for a change.

It was easy to ride that good mood until Aziraphale asked him to get something out of the pantry for the latkes he was making. The brisket he’d seasoned and put into the oven to slow cook during lunch smelled like memories, and it was hard to focus on anything else.

He didn’t miss the tartan pot, though. A tartan flower pot. A tartan flower pot with flowers. The yellow eye spoke of a classic, non-hybridized primrose, the colours a beautiful silver lace. Good G- Somebody, the man had gotten him flowers. Pain in the arse princess flowers that he loved and he had never told Aziraphale that.

He picked up the plant, cradled it to his chest, and completely forgot what he was supposed to be getting. His heart hopped right out of his chest, bounced right into Aziraphale’s hands, and he was officially never getting it back. “Angel, primroses need bloody sunlight! You can't lock 'em in the pantry. They’ll die if you look at them wrong.”

“Oh hush, dearest. I promise you she was only in there for ten minutes tops. She’s had a lovely, sunny spot all to herself up until then, so don’t you fret, sweet.” Aziraphale watched him with nothing but fondness, exasperation hardly making a dent in his tone. “Honestly, I should be offended you’d think I’d leave her in the dark all afternoon.”

“Can't believe she's even blooming this late. She's probably just trying to impress so she'll get rescued from this ridiculous...” Crowley blinked at him. Then again, mind catching up with everything Aziraphale had just said. He'd called him sweet. Not like an easily swatted adjective, but as an endearment like dearest and darling were. He didn't know how to swat that away. “Ngk.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened. “Do you like it?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer. To both the plant and pet name. 

Awful, humiliating angel. He made a few nonsense sounds before giving up. “Primula polyantha are nearly impossible to grow indoors, y'know. They flower for a few solid weeks and most people just chuck 'em after that. Ridiculous.”

“Oh?”

“They're hard to work with. Real susceptible to root rot and all, so it's not easy to make them bloom more than once.” Crowley looked down at the flowers, pretending his cheeks weren't a mortifying shade of pink. “You have to actually give a damn.”

“Well, then… I believe we may have found her the perfect home.” Aziraphale approached him, hands clasped behind his back. He'd done a little bit of his own research when he saw the darlings in the florist's, but nothing nearly as extensive as Crowley's knowledge. Honestly, Aziraphale had liked how the black petals framed a yellow “eye” of sorts, lined with white at the very edges, but that they were a challenge to care for solidified his decision. “I'd say you're quite good at 'giving a damn,' my dear.”

Crowley glanced at him. “So are you, love. I... wasn't expecting flowers.” And he didn't think he had to say no one had ever given him some before, not with Aziraphale knowing so much about his history. 

“Well, I thought they might be nice, given how fond you seem to be of your other plants. Though I never thought I’d be attracted to flowers with black petals, yet here we are. She’s just such a beautiful thing,” he gushed before his pleasure softened into something sweet as the primrose itself. “You deserve beautiful things in your life, Crowley.”

“Mnng.” No, he didn't. “I've got you. Met my quota, haven't I?” 

“I’m afraid not.” Aziraphale shook his head, impossibly fond of this creature. “And there’s no use arguing with me about it. Now, I do actually need the matzo meal in order to make the latkes, so if you wouldn’t mind?”

“That's what it was. You can't distract me with plants and then expect me to remember things. Christ, angel.” He shifted the tartan pot to one arm and cupped Aziraphale's cheek. Their kiss was brief, but it sizzled a little too much to be considered chaste. It was the closest he was going to come to a thank you, that and the way he didn't put the plant down until they were eating and, even then, it just went onto the table beside them. 

It stayed there while he lit all eight candles, something in him finding peace in the sight. Familiar, but new in this house that felt more and more like home. “They're my favourite,” he admitted, watching the flickers of flame. “Primroses, I mean.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, any trace of his amusement and teasing from earlier gone in place of genuine surprise. “Are they?” he asked. “I’d honestly had no idea. Isn’t that a bit of a miracle? What about them draws you in?”

“The yellow eyes, for a start. The hybrid versions don't have them, but the natural ones do.” Crowley looked over at him, his unusually coloured eyes glinting from the candles and some self-deprecation. “And the lore grandad used to tell me about them and fairies. He was a grand storyteller, and we had some in the yard when I was growing up. All sorts of colours, but they all had the eyes.”

“Beautiful, beguiling eyes,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching out to thumb just beneath Crowley’s. “They certainly are mesmerizing. I can’t blame you for being captivated by them.” 

“Captivated by something, anyway.” He wasn't so oblivious that he couldn't tell Aziraphale didn't really mean primroses. Crowley reached up to take hold of his wrist, battling back the heat that wanted to colour his cheeks. “‘Behold, my love, how green the groves, the primrose banks how fair; the balmy gales awake the flowers, and wave thy flowing hair.’”^[13]

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, fingers drifting to his ear as if to idly tuck his hair behind it had it been long enough. He wondered if he’d ever grown out his hair. Crowley seemed like the kind of person who could adapt to any look, his face suited to them all.

“That’s lovely, dearest, but I do believe your turn is quite overdue,” he told him, smiling at the question in his eyes as he sat back and thought a moment. “‘The evening primrose opes anew, its delicate blossoms to the dew; and, hermit-like, shunning the light, wastes its fair bloom upon the night.’”

Lowering his fork, Aziraphale leaned in to whisper the next verse over his lips. “‘Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, knows not the beauty it possesses.’”^[14]

Evening primroses were very different from English primroses, entirely different genera, and his stupid mouth almost said that instead of pressing forward and kissing him. Almost, but he was hopelessly drawn in by, of all things, flowers and poetry. They were the most obvious, the most classic ways to express romance and they weren't things Crowley had thought would hold any appeal directed towards him. From Aziraphale, the appeal was boundless and as addicting as the taste of his lips. 

Aziraphale opened up for him, lips parting like pretty petals in bloom and just as soft. Not nearly as delicate though, no, not with the way he kissed back and tugged Crowley all but into his lap. Knees bent, settled on either side of plush thighs as they fought physics to stay balanced on the singular dining chair. By some miracle, it held them. It held them just as easily as Aziraphale held Crowley, hands stroking along his spine as they pressed close, haloed in the light of nine candles in the window.

Candles which had mattered more to Crowley than he’d expected them to. Eight days of silly gifts, little things that would make him think of Aziraphale every time he needed to use them. Little things that made him think that someone cared about him. Practical things he’d needed but wouldn’t have bothered getting for himself mixed in with a few treats he wouldn’t have thought of, and now a plant. A bigger thing, an incredible surprise of black and white petals. The contrasting colours were so stark, they shouldn’t have worked.

He and Aziraphale shouldn’t have worked. Contrasts abounded, clashed, should’ve repelled them away from one another. Fingers buried into soft curls, Crowley spilled something like “yours” over Aziraphale’s tongue and meant it.

And Aziraphale was quite alright with that.

“I can’t possibly imagine a better gift,” he murmured against his mouth, loath to part when they slotted together so perfectly, but he didn’t need to see the future to know their dinner would grow cold if they didn’t rein themselves in soon. “I’ll cherish you, darling. My sweet. My dearest heart.” He slowed their kisses as his hands cupped sinuous hips. “My Crowley.”

Crammed in the chair with him as he was, Crowley couldn't really wriggle the way the words inspired. “Dunno how you just... sssay things like that, angel.”

“Says the person who speaks poetry like a fountain pours water,” Aziraphale hummed, giving his hip a fond pat. “They may be someone else’s words, but you wouldn’t say them if you didn’t mean them, would you?”

“There wouldn't be a point in any of it if I didn't mean it.” His own words just never seemed to be right. It was easier to recite someone else than risk his own words coming out wrong or incomplete.

Aziraphale lifted a hand to rest against Crowley’s cheek, thumbing over the serpent tattooed beneath his temple. “So it’s the same thing then, isn’t it? If you mean it, does it matter that someone else thought up the words first? Though, I must admit, I don’t believe there’s a sentiment in the English language that delights me so much as the way you say you're mine. And that’s only one word. One, single word.”

Crowley smiled, hum soft and fond under the soft touch and soothing understanding. “Yours,” was a very easy word to say. “Not a bad thing to be.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale returned the smile, as warm as the candlelight and the cosy aura that filled the home. “How convenient. It’s not a bad thing to have you either,” he giggled. “You know, I suppose there is one more thing for you to unwrap tonight that goes along with our tartan theme.”

Crowley tugged his bowtie a little lopsided. “I suppose there is, and you're already mine.”

“Ah, so no rush then?” Aziraphale batted at his hand, then fixed his bowtie.

Grinning, Crowley untied it. “Depends on you, I think. If you're interested in getting unwrapped while you eat or if you're going to make me wait.”

“Well, I did think we’d be more comfortable in bed.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as his gaze followed the tartan fabric, but didn’t stop him. “And won’t you want to eat?”

“Mm.” He started undoing buttons. “There's a perfectly good table right here, angel, and I know how to reheat food. Besides, if you're offering yourself as a present, shouldn't I get to have my way with you?”

“I suppose this is my fault for believing the ‘later’ was inferred.” Aziraphale glanced at the table, specifically his plate, lips pursed even as anticipation curled in his belly like a contented serpent. “But you’re right. Having your way with me is very much the point.” Though he did manage to grab his fork and sneak a bite of brisket.

“You can't pull me into your lap and get all suggestive and not expect me to want you.” Crowley's hands fell to his thighs and squeezed. “But I did mean you can eat. I'm planning on taking my time. Wouldn't want to ruin the wrappings.”

“Oh, yes. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tear anything.” Aziraphale couldn’t help a bit of a wiggle, relishing the way Crowley’s weight shifted with him. “I didn’t pull you into my lap to be suggestive though, darling. I simply wanted to hold you.” He batted his lashes, pink dusting his cheeks as he anticipated the assortment of non-word noises such a sentiment would wring out of him.

He got them, of course. Crowley really could be just as predictable as Aziraphale, but he caught the look in blue eyes, the hint of smugness in the corners of his smile, and he couldn't help the huff of a laugh before they were kissing again. 

Aziraphale's string of tartan-themed gifts had brought quite a bit of laughter over the past eight days, had smoothed over his anxiety and fidgeting over another holiday. Given him a safe place, and more besides, until even the difficult bits had soft edges. Crowley loved him and was more than happy to take all the time in the world to show him.

Footnotes

^13. “Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves” by Robert Burns↩

^14. “Evening Primrose” by John Clare↩

Chapter Text

Projects were wrapping up on their last full day of work before the Christmas holiday. There was, technically, the following day, but it was an easily skipped Saturday so long as work was done. They'd all be reconvening come Tuesday for something more fun than a job anyway, the holiday potluck as traditional as the week off. 

It wasn't a normal time for something new to arrive. 

The door sliding open let in a shock of cold and an international express delivery man, a familiar enough presence to the shop. They had good rates and cheerful workers, particularly the chatty Lesley. Holding a box with one arm, he closed the door behind him. 

“Bit chilly out today.” He tipped his hat to Deirdre as he walked in, nodded to Newt and Shadwell, more hat tips to Anathema and Tracy. He didn't need nor necessarily expect anyone to respond, but continued on as if everyone did. “Sort of weather one expects the week before Christmas, I reckon.”

Crowley got a nod before he focused on Aziraphale, holding the box out. “Afternoon, Mr. Fell. Sounds like you're enjoying some classics. Takes one back to childhood, the music does.”

“Indeed, it does. You know, I always say, there is little that warms the soul quite like a classic Christmas carol and a cup of cocoa.” Aziraphale beamed at him, cradling his own mug as he came close to inspect the package. “Now, what have we here, my dear fellow? I can’t recall expecting anything until after the new year. Ah, right.” He set his mug down on Crowley’s worktable, ignoring the way he spread his arms out and stared at him like he had a right to infringe upon his space, and fetched his fountain pen so he could sign for it. A.Z. Fell was scrawled elegantly on Lesley’s clipboard, with an extra bit of festive flourish. “How has your Maud been?”

He turned positively pink with pleasure, the exact same way he'd been doing nearly his whole life at the mention of her. “Stunning and wonderful as ever, Mr. Fell, and looking forward to the holiday, she is. Even packages pause for Christmas.” He took the clipboard back and checked the signature. “And this here's from, ah, an Ensign Chalky. S'pose they sent it off when their ship docked. Can't imagine spending all my days on a ship, meself, but to each their own, I think.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement and took the package. A half glance at his own cluttered workspace had him setting the box on Crowley’s. He borrowed one of his sharp little tools to open it, sending a smile his way when an “oi” attracted his attention, but did nothing to remove himself from Crowley’s station. At least until pieces of garbage started spilling out of the newly opened box.

“Gosh!” Aziraphale gasped, quickly relocating the package away from the primrose and his cocoa to spare them the risk of being tarnished by what looked like old newspapers, plastic six pack rings, something burnt, an old sole of a shoe, and dozens of cigarettes, which accounted for the something burnt.

“Now who’d send something like that in?” Madame Tracy tutted, unable to help being curious at the rubbish practically overflowing from the box, now set down on a wheeled cart while Aziraphale fetched a pair of gloves. “And when it’s nearly Christmas. Some spirit this is.”

Crowley shrugged, making sure to pluck up what little rubbish had ended up at his station. “Might be the crown. Said Chalky, didn't you?” 

“Sure did, sir.”

“Yeah, must be. It came in earlier than it was s'posed to, Tracy, so I don't think this is strictly a knock against the holidays.” So much as someone who was just... gross. 

“Well, I'll be on my way, sirs and ma'ams. Got more deliveries to make.” Lesley took the fiver Crowley passed over via handshake with a smile and a tipped cap and left as cheerfully as he'd arrived, and Crowley took the gloves from Aziraphale. 

“Here. You'll muck up your sleeves in all that, and you already attacked me with it anyway.”

“I’d hardly say I attacked you,” Aziraphale huffed, but stepped aside nonetheless. “If I’d known the contents of the package, I wouldn’t have opened it near you.”

“You would’ve opened it outside. And made Newt do it,” he added, glancing his way with a wry grin. 

“I still could,” Newt offered, hovering over a nearly finished family washboard.

When Shadwell immediately started lecturing Newt on keeping his hands on varnish and wood, Crowley chuckled and dug into the box until he actually felt the jab of crown spires. The emails he’d read over Aziraphale’s shoulder had said, very specifically, no cleaning requested, but the crown was black as night with tarnish. The actual damage was a deep indent of one side, bending the crown nearly in half, but Crowley didn’t really think the, er, protective(?) way it’d been packed had done it any favours.

“Bluh,” he decided.

“Oh, good Lord.” Aziraphale grimaced at the sight of it. “They truly don’t want it cleaned? I can’t imagine why not. Look at the state of it.”

“They sent us a bloody box of rubbish. Hate to know what their cabin looks like.”

“My vote is messy,” Anathema chimed in.

“Now normally I don’t see anything wrong with making a bit of a mess in the bedroom, but this is a bit different, I’d say,” Tracy clucked her tongue, grinning when she heard Newt drop the bottle of varnish and Shadwell’s gruff criticism.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, nudging a fallen cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe by means of distraction, “seeing as we’d agreed to take on the project in January, and considering the state it’s in, I’d say it’s safe enough to leave until we return from our Christmas holiday at the earliest. Oh, thank you, my dear.” He beamed at Deirdre as she brought him the broom and dustpan from the supply corner. “We’ll clear out the rubbish from the box, then tuck the crown away until we have more time to spare.”

Crowley gingerly set the crown beside the box, grimacing when a cockroach tried to crawl out of a crisp bag. He flicked it back in. “I'm just gonna chuck the whole thing. We can store the crown in something else.”

Aziraphale leaned away from the box, looking decidedly unsettled by the cockroach. While he didn’t usually have a problem with insects - they were all God’s creatures and all living things were deserving of love - he could not have cockroaches in the shop. “Oh… yes, I do believe that might be the wiser thing to do. I do have an old hat box, I believe.” Aziraphale swept up the bits of trash that had collected on the floor into the dustpan, carefully checking to make sure any other critters were swept up with it. “That should do nicely.”

“Yeah, great.” Crowley wrestled the box flaps closed, the smell as bad as the sight, and hefted it off the cart to carry it out to the rubbish bin. 

Shadwell, who had an entire room of his home filled to the brim with newspapers and magazines, shook his head. “Some damned people.”

It wasn't worth pointing out the hypocrisy. 

----

The farmhouse had been trussed up with decorations sometime in the middle of November. Aziraphale had been out there as autumn took a turn towards winter, sharp and sudden as the temperature dropped, ladder leaned against the stone of the house as he strung up lights from the eaves and around the front windows. He’d started before Crowley woke up, cheerfully rousing him from his slumber with a few merry taps to the window and laughed when the man tumbled out of bed and shoved on his boots to hold the ladder for him in just his joggers and coat. Pink-cheeked from his giggling and the cold, Aziraphale continued his work while Crowley snapped at him for getting on the bloody roof by himself.

“Oh, darling, hush now. It isn’t as if I haven’t done this on my own every year,” he told him, but his heart fluttered at the concern just the same.

Crowley scoffed. “Should at least have gotten Shadwell to hold the ladder,” he’d grumbled.

The way his fingers had been near to freezing when Aziraphale had finally come down had been what prompted him to buy him the gloves for Hanukkah, though he couldn’t say it hadn’t been quite nice to cup Crowley’s clever hands between his own and gently warm them with his breath and feather-light kisses. That night he’d let Crowley stand behind him and held his hands, slipping them into the pockets of his coat so they could keep each other warm as they admired the colourful, old-fashioned bulbs. Crowley muttered into his ear that LEDs were more economically and environmentally-friendly, grinning when Aziraphale rolled his eyes and told him that one house wasn’t going to hurt. Besides, he didn’t like the look of the new-fangled LEDs. His ancient glass bulbs that had belonged to his grandmother and came with the house would do just fine, thank you.

The same lights trimmed the shop as well, Christmas decorations hardly limited to the house alone. The shop was also where the tree was put up. Amongst all the clutter in Aziraphale’s house and the compartmentalized floor plan, there wasn’t really space for the tree. He’d also admitted one night, tucked into bed together, that it didn’t seem right to put up a tree that no one else would see. He liked having it somewhere it could inspire joy in others, even encouraging Madame Tracy and Deirdre and Newt to bring some of their own ornaments to place on the boughs. Besides, he had plenty of decorations for the house itself, garland for the mantle and a wreath for the door. Stockings over the fireplace.

If he was going to take the time to decorate the house and the shop, then he wanted to be able to enjoy them for as long as possible. He was, of course, mindful of them over Hanukkah, making sure the Chanukiah had been given its own dedicated space where it could shine for its eight nights. Christmas already overshadowed every other holiday out in the world, the little town of Tadfield decorating its streets on December 1st without a thought. Aziraphale wouldn’t have that in his own home.

Though Crowley didn’t seem to mind the little baubles. He mostly arched an eyebrow at the boxes dragged from storage and would take any opportunity to change out the records and see how long it would take Aziraphale to notice they were no longer listening to Christmas music just for the sport of it. One decoration he truly didn’t seem to mind was strung up in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. A sweet sprig of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon caught them beneath it on several occasions.

“How long’ve you had that?” Crowley had asked, crowding him against the doorframe as Aziraphale tugged on his silver chain.

“Since yesterday,” Aziraphale giggled, kissing all the silly sounds right out of Crowley’s mouth. “Didn’t have a need for it until this Christmas.”

Once Hanukkah had passed, the kitchen was then fully transformed into a veritable haven of gingerbread spices and delectable holiday treats. Aziraphale had attempted a Yule log cake, but the delicate sponge cracked when he’d rolled it and covering up his mistakes with frosting had yielded less than desirable results. It still tasted good, was his defense, not that Crowley could hear it over his own cackling. It looked more like the ashes of a Yule log that had long since burnt and smouldered in the hearth several months prior.

Decorations also helped to distract Aziraphale from another event that was rapidly approaching: Christmas at Uncle Met’s. The day was always met with some degree of anxiety, plenty of hand wringing and fussing over waistcoats and bowties before packing up for the weekend and taking the bus to Surrey. Uncle Met’s house was on a rather large plot of land, the man having made quite the living as a political spokesman in his younger years, then retired just outside London to his stately, Georgian home. It had plenty of room for overnight guests, making it the ideal space for family to gather, unlike the farmhouse in Tadfield. 

Aziraphale could recall a few Christmases spent at his grandmother’s, he and Michael tucked onto the sofa while his parents, Uncle Met, Aunt Cheryl, and Uncle Cort slept upstairs in their old bedrooms, baby Sandalphon with them. Gabriel usually spent Christmas in the U.S. with his mother and Uriel hadn’t been born yet. Michael had always seemed annoyed with having to share sleeping quarters with him, older than him by several years and missing the comforts of her own home. Aziraphale always preferred the cosy warmth of the farmhouse though; it better suited his idea of Christmas than his parents’ cold flat. Everything too pristine. Untouchable. Like a museum.

Uncle Met’s house was no better. Though it had character in its exterior, everything was too polished, too clean. The entire interior had been ripped out and renovated to a more modern time’s taste and style. The foyer was marble, for Heaven’s sake. Aziraphale almost hesitated to step on it and it was right when you walked in the front door.

But it was where the family gathered and they invited Aziraphale, so surely they wanted him there, too. Even if it didn’t always feel like it. The room he stayed in at Uncle Met’s wasn’t even a proper guest room, it was an office with a daybed and two drawers tucked in an end table, but at least he had it to himself, he supposed. Of course Michael and Gabriel being Uncle Met’s children should get actual bedrooms, and Sandalphon and Gabriel had grown up close, so he had his usual guest quarters there as well. Uriel stayed with her mother and father in the carriage house that had been converted into a proper guest cottage. Then Uncle Cort and his parents should have their own rooms and, well, that left the office for him.

It was fine, it was a place to stay where he was surrounded by family which was important. He had no right to complain or feel upset about it. Christmas was about love and being with family, and he was so lucky to still have at least one of those.

How could he not appreciate it when he thought about how Crowley would likely leap at the chance to spend another holiday with his grandfather?

That was another thing though. This year he was living with someone. This year there was someone he loved very much that he could spend Christmas with instead.

With the discontent brewing between four out of five cousins - Michael excluded only because she clearly did not want to be dragged into their affairs - Aziraphale was actually considering what exactly would be the cons to not attending the family’s Christmas. If he… stayed home instead. Stayed with Crowley.

The thought of leaving Crowley completely alone for the holiday filled him with an ache that overflowed and spilled out of him much in the same way the cream had from the rolls of his Yule log roulade. It was his first Christmas since being released from prison, even if he didn’t celebrate it, he hadn’t so far given any indication that he ignored it either. He helped Aziraphale decorate, put up with his requests to taste test gingerbread men and mince pies made with spiced fruit, and sat with him through festive films like A Christmas Carol and even It’s A Wonderful Life, even if he did talk through it, though Aziraphale found he didn’t mind in the slightest. He even made one of his adorable sounds when he noticed that Aziraphale had hung up two stockings over the fireplace, hung by an A and a C stocking holder respectively.

“They came in a set of five,” Aziraphale had told him when he spluttered cutely. “It spelled out ‘peace,’ but I didn’t need five stocking holders. I think it’s worked out rather well though, don’t you? Quite fortuitous that I bought all the letters.”

Honestly, he was very close to calling the whole Christmas affair with his family off, had he not received an email from Gabriel telling him not to ‘sweat’ the whole encounter with Uriel and Sandalphon. That they could have a civil conversation with him, and possibly even Anathema if she didn’t already have plans for the holiday. Gabriel likely didn’t think Aziraphale would see his email in time, but with his new laptop and emails from potential clients coming in more regularly, well... he certainly saw it. And he certainly couldn’t deprive Anathema of a chance to get to know this side of the family, to partake in their traditions and maybe even be welcomed in a way Aziraphale missed out on. There was still hope for her.

So he asked her, at the start of the month to give her time to deliberate, if she’d like to accompany him to Surrey. “It would be two days,” he told her. “I usually pop over on the morning of Christmas Eve and then come back the day after Christmas. Is that… would you be interested?”

She’d needed to talk to Newt about it since she, too, lived with someone and he did celebrate Christmas. She had her reservations over meeting the entire family, but curiosity and some gentle nudging from Newt - not to mention she was more than happy to keep Aziraphale from having to face them all alone - had her returning her answer later that very afternoon. “I’ll go with you. Newt and I are doing Christmas with his mom the day after anyway.”

Right. So now he couldn’t back out. With Anathema agreeing to attend and shifting her plans around it, Aziraphale was locked into his own attendance. It would look entirely unbecoming on his part to tell her that he’d changed his mind, doubly so when Aziraphale responded to Gabriel’s email letting him know that they would both be there come Christmas Eve. It was fine though, it was Christmas. Everything would be just tickety-boo.

In the meantime, trying not to think about the gathering looming in the not-so-distant future like storm clouds on the horizon, Aziraphale had thrown himself entirely into Crowley’s Hanukkah and Christmas presents, as well as preparing for the shop’s own annual Christmas party. This year it was more of a holiday party, accounting for Hanukkah, Yule, and Christmas. In addition to it being a potluck, they also had games and Christmas crackers and a hot cocoa station. Deirdre was also encouraged to bring the Them along with her, the children on their holiday from school and eager to take part in the festivities. 

The weekend before Christmas had Aziraphale in the barn setting things up. Most of the projects had been completed before the break, the few remaining tucked away to free up work tables. Aziraphale covered the surfaces in tartan tablecloths - Christmas tartan, though, not his usual Heaven’s Dress tartan - and set a few presents beneath the tree for his dedicated team. He made more latkes to bring to the potluck, along with his very sad Yule log cake, a trifle, and fixings for cocoa. Whipped cream, peppermint sticks, marshmallows, and festive sprinkles in an array of colours. It might have been a bit much, especially considering he also had a slow cooker that would be full of his own recipe for mulled wine. Well, it had been his great-aunt’s recipe, but he’d made some adjustments to it over the years to his taste.

While it may have been a work function, they were decidedly not working, and a little bit of wine didn’t hurt, as long as they kept it out of reach from the children. 

And the distractions worked, for the most part. There was very little fretting on Aziraphale’s part throughout the entire weekend. All the way up until the morning of the party, when Crowley discovered the right side of the bed was cold and had been absent of his angel’s warmth for most of the night. He found him in the kitchen, twisting a cold mug of tea in his hands as he stared out the window at the horizon. The sky was clear and blue, the ground dusted with the lightest snow, like someone had sprinkled it with powdered sugar, but the blue of Aziraphale’s eyes clouded with a grey mist only he could see, growing closer with each passing hour.

“Y’know it’s way too early to look this lost,” Crowley mused, carefully extracting the mug to set it on the counter.

“Lost? Nonsense. I know precisely where I am, my dear. I’m simply… contemplating the day ahead. Days.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands and blinked a few times before finding the mug. “Ah. I should get a fresh cup.” He moved to fetch an additional mug for Crowley without asking.

Crowley let him set it on the counter before turning him away from it and pulling him close. “This whole holiday season, you’ve been excited about every little thing. Now three days left and you’re contemplating?”

“I didn’t realize contemplating was a crime,” he huffed, but allowed Crowley to move him as he wished if only to set him at ease.

“It’s not. You can even contemplate out loud if you want. To me, actually, right now. What’s wrong, angel?”

“I’m trying to decide if I’m peckish enough for a large breakfast, or if I can make do with a small one and save room for the potluck,” Aziraphale tried.

Crowley huffed at him, then leaned in to nuzzle their brows together. “Are you really going to make me worry about you all day?”

“There's nothing to fret about, sweet.” Aziraphale softened, lips pursing as his hands settled on Crowley’s shoulders to knead the muscles there, and ignoring his grunt of protest at the endearment. “Nothing for you anyway. I must admit, I am a trifle concerned about you spending the Christmas holiday on your own. Now I know you don't exactly celebrate it, but I can't help but wonder at how lonely it must be, just the same.”

“Tch. I’ll have the plants to yell at. Might take a drive somewhere.” Crowley shrugged under Aziraphale’s hands. “Maybe I’ll be extra stereotypical and get Chinese takeaway somewhere. I’ll be fine, angel, and I’ll just be a phone call away if you want to check up on me. Anathema would probably let you use her cell phone if you need to duck away.”

While it was meant to be reassuring, and it was if Aziraphale was being honest, it wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear. A why don't you stay home instead? maybe, just some kind of opening so he could find a way to be talked out of the whole affair. Oh, but that was selfish, wasn’t it? It wasn’t fair to Anathema and certainly wasn’t fair to Crowley to be used as an excuse.

And a part of him, a part hidden beneath the writhing coils of his own anxiety, still fluttered with a hope that hadn’t yet been strangled. Perhaps this year would be different. He just needed to go in with an optimistic outlook.

Aziraphale let his hands fall from Crowley’s shoulders as he nodded, giving him a weak smile. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I’ll certainly telephone you to wish you a happy Christmas.”

“There, see? Something to look forward to.” Crowley pressed a kiss to his brow. “It’s only two days, love, and at least you’ll have Anathema with you. You’re not going in there alone.” Which was, really, the only reason Crowley hadn’t tried talking him out of it.

Aziraphale still wished he would. 

Instead of voicing that though, he pulled away to fetch the kettle as it began to whistle and prepared their tea for them. “All that can be put aside, of course. First things first, I have to check on my trifle. Make sure it's set and then we have our wonderful party to enjoy! Oh, and the mulled wine. Best get that in the slow cooker, yes.”

For the moment, Crowley let it go. “What can I do?” 

“Could you set up the slow cooker in the shop? I imagine it will be easier to put the recipe together there rather than attempt to move it while it’s hot and full of liquid.” Aziraphale handed him his mug. “But we have time, my dear. It only needs three hours or so.”

“Alright.” He took a sip of tea, watching him over the rim. He knew Aziraphale didn't want to go. He may not have known every single reason behind it, but he knew he'd rather stay. Crowley, too, would rather he stay. Two full days with people who hurt him over a holiday Aziraphale so clearly cherished sounded awful. He'd probably be upset on Christmas and who knew how many Christmases had been spent the same? But he'd promised not to make Aziraphale choose him over them, hadn't he? He didn't want to try tying a string Aziraphale wasn't ready for. 

Nevermind that he was tied to Aziraphale with so many strings they'd tangled up like headphone cords. They'd never come undone now. 

Only being supportive, though, was wearying. It wasn't exactly him. He poked and prodded and questioned. Drumming his fingers against his mug, he leaned his hip against the counter. Fuck it. “Why did you even agree to go when you don't want to?” 

Aziraphale stilled, then looked over him as the hope burned brighter and the tension in his chest coiled tighter. “Well, it’s… it’s expected. They’re my family. How could I not go when they took the time to invite me and when so many people don’t have that option anymore… to see their family?” he answered, reaffirming his stance.

Sometimes family wasn't worth seeing, though Crowley wasn't quite ready to get into that on his end and it sounded a lot like pushing. He shrugged, not quite sure how to navigate this but bluntly and hope it didn't hurt either of them. “S'pose inviting Anathema’s just extra pressure, then.”

“Well, they’re her family, too. She came out here to have a better understanding of her history. For better or for worse, they’re a part of it.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, then shook his head and tried to emphasize more of the positives. “They brushed her off before, hardly gave her the time of day, but now they may just be ready to get to know her and make a space for her in their lives. I couldn’t possibly jeopardize that opportunity for her.”

“And she might be able to talk to them about the business since she's got a new role.” One Crowley thought she was doing well at. “So those are some pros. What are the bad things about going? The cons.”

Pensive, Aziraphale gave it a moment’s thought before responding. “Being away from you, for a start. Though I suppose we really haven’t had much time apart since you’ve moved in, not that I’m looking for that. I would invite you, dearest, but I… I don’t know that they’re ready to accept our personal and professional relationships as being able to coexist. And I don’t want it to cause a stir.”

“Aziraphale, I don't think I'd be able to be quiet for two days around them. So no thanks.” He shrugged. There were other cons to going, but he was pretty sure they both knew those. They were why Crowley wouldn't be able to behave. “What are pros and cons to staying?” 

“Well, surely they’d think it quite rude of me.” Or they wouldn’t miss him at all. He honestly didn’t know which was worse. “As for the pros, well, my dear, certainly you must know by now that I’m always more comfortable in my own home.”

“I know. But you also like coming home. Gotta leave to do that. So not a lot of pros or cons to staying?”

Aziraphale pouted a bit at the oversimplification. “Well, and being with you on Christmas. That’s a pro. I could give you my gift on the day of- oh, don’t look at me like that, Crowley. Of course you’re getting a Christmas present. Anyway, I could go to the Christmas service in town instead of the one in Surrey. Not that their service isn’t lovely, but it’s not my community, you know. All my books are here, I don’t have to pick and choose which ones to bring with me. And my bed is far more comfortable than the one I sleep on at Uncle Met’s. See? Lots of pros to staying.”

“Alright.” Crowley hummed around his next sip. “There a way to cut it short? Stay one night instead of two?” 

“Well, I would, but the bus doesn’t run on Christmas,” he sighed.

“You don't honestly think I'm letting you and Anathema ride the bloody bus.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, both eyebrows raised. “Well, it’s not as if I could ask you to drive all that way when you wouldn’t even be allowed to stay.”

Crowley blinked back at him. “I bought a seatbelt for the back. It's supposed to be here today so I can install it tomorrow. You don't have to ask, angel. I'm taking you.”

“Oh…” He really shouldn’t have been surprised that Crowley would think to do such a thing, but it flooded him with love for the man just the same. Aziraphale tilted his head up to kiss him, heart unsteady, but certain. “You lovely thing. I suppose that would make things much simpler as far as travel goes. Though would it be too much to suggest that you mind your speed if dear Anathema is going to be in the car with us?”

“Might've been planning on it already. If I do near enough the speed limit, it's an extra hour I get with you. The whole thing's completely selfish.”

“Oh, incredibly,” Aziraphale agreed, fondness colouring his tone as he smiled at him. “I don’t see how you could call it anything else.” And he didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky as to have Crowley in his life. “Should I not say ‘thank you,’ then?”

“Obviously not.” Crowley huffed at him, just as fond. “Look, I do want- I want to ask you to stay, but I was serious about not pressing. If you want to give them a chance to get to know Anathema and keep to that tradition, that's fine. I'll do what I can for you. Alright? That's- ngk. You never have to thank me for it. It's barely anything.”

“You’re wrong. It’s quite a lot, really. Not everyone can be so…” Aziraphale stopped, lips quirking as he edited himself, “selfish. Not in my experience at any rate. But you have made me feel a smidge better about the whole thing. I must say, I’m not exactly looking forward to their condescending attitudes, nor that of my aunts, uncles, and parents, though in their case it’s more a vague disinterest than anything else, but they are my family, just the same. And you can’t choose family, but you can learn to cope with them. And I’ve had many years to do just that. I can only hope that Anathema may yet be welcomed in at this stage.”

Crowley swallowed his tea the same way he swallowed a disagreement about picking one's family, not willing to argue with him for the moment. “If they don't, they're wrong. She's interesting.” Which was about all he could handle as far as praise went. He liked her, at any rate, and she was better family to Aziraphale than the others he'd seen. 

“She certainly is that,” Aziraphale hummed, taking a sip of his own tea. “Now then. Breakfast. We have quite the day ahead of us, after all! Best get a wiggle on, there’s a dear fellow.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, rinsing his empty mug. “There’s going to be enough food in there today to feed an army. I’m not worried about needing fuel for the day.”

“Well, then I’m going to get a wiggle on. You take the slow cooker out to the shop. I’ll join you in a tick once I’ve buttered my crumpet.”

Crowley slanted him a look. “Normally takes longer than a tick.”

“For you, perhaps.” Aziraphale pursed his lips against the cheeky smile that wanted to tug at them, then brandished a package of crumpets from the breadbox. “Are you certain you don’t care to join me?”

His grin was wickedly amused. “Angel, you know I like to watch.”

Aziraphale tutted and purposefully turned away with a wiggle. “Fine. You may watch, but only because we have time.” He popped two crumpets in the toaster. “And because it’s nearly Christmas. I’m feeling quite generous.”

“One of us has to,” Crowley decided, arms banding around him and lips pressing just under his ear, “and we’ve already established I’m selfish.”

Aziraphale laid his hands over Crowley’s as he leaned back into him, head tilted on a pleased hum as he waited for the crumpets to toast. “Well, one of us should be,” he nearly echoed. “That way our intentions align quite nicely, I should think.”

“It’s been working out well enough.” He’d almost go so far as to suggest that they weren’t really muddling along anymore. There were still spots where their rhythm faltered, but they’d settled into something good. 

“Mm. Still have some work to do then.” Aziraphale bumped him with his hip, but brought one of his hands to his lips so he could kiss the pads of his fingers before releasing him. “Now, I really do need to get the butter, dearest. Do you mind?”

----

There might have been some second thoughts whether Aziraphale should have actually gotten himself a new laptop to help him into the world of 21st century technology.

Apparently he discovered he could watch magic trick tutorials online.

“Choose any card that you like, my dear girl,” Aziraphale encouraged Pepper, fanning out a deck of cards in front of the children. “Go on now. You have a free choice.”

Pepper looked at him over her peppermint stick. “Then I choose not to pick a card. Magic’s not real anyway. It’s all illusions.”

“Some magic’s real,” Brian piped up. “Otherwise how could there be witches?”

“Yeah. Plus there’s things like ESP which they don’t have any explanation for and some people can know the future and read auras like Anathema does. S’got to be magic,” Adam agreed with a firm nod.

“But Mr. Fell’s not a witch and he doesn’t have ESP.” She raised an eyebrow as she looked up at Aziraphale, as if daring her to contradict her. “Do you?”

“Er. Well, no, I wouldn’t say I’m a witch. Nor do I possess any magical inclinations.” Aziraphale fiddled with the cards, pushing them back into a firm block so he wouldn’t drop them. “Ah, aside from my magic tricks, of course. But I shan’t infringe on your right to not choose a card, Pepper. You make an excellent point there.”

Chin held high, pleased to have her point acknowledged, Pepper raised an eyebrow at the three boys as they exchanged glances amongst themselves. “I’ll pick one,” Brian offered, if only to keep Mr. Fell from looking disappointed.

Beaming, Aziraphale fanned out the cards once more, all of them facing down. Brian plucked one from the center and all four children couldn’t help but look and see which one he’d selected. Instructing them to hold onto it, Aziraphale cut the deck and sought out the nearest surface to spread half of the cards out on. He did so on one of the tables decorated in a tartan tablecloth, after moving a platter of biscuits.

“Ah, right. Now, let’s see your card. Oh, the two of hearts? Excellent. Now, I’ll take that here,” Aziraphale took the two of hearts back and placed it on the bottom of the deck, showing each of the children that it was indeed on the bottom, and to Newt as well, who’d ventured over to take a look, then cupped his hand and flipped the two of hearts so its back was facing everyone instead, concealing the fact that he had a double-backed card tucked just behind it and pressed the two together tightly, “and proceed to place it with these cards here. Face down, you see.” Aziraphale wiggled delightedly as he placed a face down card right in the center.

“Why face down?” Brian asked.

“So that it stands out, my dear boy. For I’m going to make your two of hearts magically teleport from this row of cards…” Aziraphale spread out the remaining half of the deck after moving the Yule Log cake a smidge to the left, except this time the cards were face down. “To this one!”

Pepper rolled her eyes and looked as if she was about to open her mouth to contradict him, but Adam nudged her and gently shook his head to silence her. She huffed, but stayed silent. Wensleydale pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, also appearing skeptical, but followed Pepper’s lead. After all, it was kind of Mr. Fell to allow them to join the party even though they didn’t work there. He let them take as much cake and chocolates as they liked. Well, and that Deirdre approved of, always keeping a watchful eye on the four youth.

“Alright.” Aziraphale pulled out a peppermint stick to use as a magic wand and tapped each row of cards with a flourish. “Are you ready?”

They nodded, watching attentively as Aziraphale used both hands to turn over each row - with the appropriate “ooh” and “ahh” sound effects - and revealed that in the newly face up card pile, there was - in fact - one single card face down. He stood back, hands clasped behind his back as he bounced on his heels.

“Go ahead, young Brian, is that your card?” he asked with a wiggle.

Brian picked it up and turned it over, everyone crowding around to see. “Woah. You made it have two backs.”

“Er. What?” Aziraphale’s face fell. “Let me see that card.”

Brian turned it over for him to see, and indeed the card was double-backed. Aziraphale’s face burned as he took the proffered card. He’d mixed them up somehow. He cleared his throat, as he fumbled for some sort of excuse that wouldn’t ruin the magic, while Pepper shook her head in disappointment and the boys muffled their giggles behind their fists.

Newt reached out to give Aziraphale an awkward pat on the arm. “You almost had it this time. Was a good effort,” he offered as meager encouragement.

“Ah… Thank you, Newton.”

Across the room, trying not to choke on mulled wine flavoured embarrassment, Crowley sent Anathema a pained look when she asked, “How many times have you had to watch him practice that?” 

“Ask how many times it's been successful. Less humiliating number for both of us, I think.”

“He's been successful?” 

The shock in her tone made him laugh. It was so genuine. “I'll call it twice to be generous. Once it was to show me how it was done,” though he already knew. It was an old trick, better for distraction than the very dull classic version. “Second time, I honestly don't think either of us know how he did it. I annoyed him halfway through and he huffed and pouted right up until he flipped over the right card.”

“Then what?” 

“He got excited for a minute, then went right back to scolding me.” Briefly. Crowley took a drink to hide his smile, though it didn't work as well as he may have liked to think. It was humiliating to watch in a strictly secondhand embarrassment sort of way, but Aziraphale just seemed so undeterred by his own struggles. 

And oblivious to the way the Them took turns filming him with their cellphones. TikTok, as he'd discovered and had no intention of sharing, had absolutely nothing to do with clocks unless there was a filter somewhere. Crowley's discovery was relatively recent and he hadn't had nearly enough time to explore yet. He'd just created an account and added one more number to the Them's subscriber count. Their page was filled with videos of their game rules, Pepper’s equality rants, Dog and his variety of tricks, some truly entertaining purple-faced R.P. Tyler rages, and Aziraphale. Charming, out-of-date, oblivious Aziraphale. Adam had told him, with some amount of pride, that he'd gone viral. Crowley didn't completely know what that meant, but Aziraphale wasn't the only one who could negotiate context clues. And the subscriber count was quite the clue. 

Regardless, he'd watched every single short video with a pair of headphones he'd bought when he'd gone to print out Aziraphale's Christmas present. It had been well worth the inevitable migraine and Aziraphale's tutting. Halfway through, he'd discovered the ability to download videos so his phone was filled with them. Whatever footage they were getting now, with Aziraphale now playing with and trying valiantly not to drop a coin, was also inevitably going to end up on his memory card. 

How had he fallen so completely in love with someone that mortifying? Honestly. 

“He needs to be rescued,” Anathema mused, listening to the Them argue over whether or not a coin could be considered magic. Or if there were any witches involved in making coins. And how exactly were coins made anyway. The situation was deteriorating fast. 

Crowley chuckled, reaching for a coin of his own and a half-baked plan forming. It couldn't be worse than Aziraphale's magic act and then maybe he'd cut into his pitiful yule log cake so it could be known it was edible. 

Or maybe he just wanted to channel some of this secondhand embarrassment into something useful like kissing Aziraphale senseless. “The Them need to be rescued.”

She laughed. “What are you going to do?” 

He shrugged, making sure his wine wasn't full enough to spill and the coin was tucked between his palm and the paper cup he'd been told several times were better for the environment. “Some proper magic.”

“Oh, Hell.”

Crowley grinned, expression schooled into something less suspicious as he pulled his phone out and pretended to be distracted by it. Just long enough to trip right into Aziraphale's side. A coin clattered audibly on the floor, ending up right under Crowley’s shoe and the Them just knew another one of Aziraphale's tricks was ruined as they immediately started to hunt for it. 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale started, brow furrowed as he looked at him in mild confusion. “You should really watch where you’re going, my dear.”

“Myeh. Got distracted looking something up,” he lied, phone returning to his pocket. 

“Where'd the coin get to?” Brian wondered. 

“Dunno. Maybe it bounced under the table,” Adam suggested. 

Wensleydale looked puzzled. “Actually, it only bounced once. It can't have gone too far.”

Aziraphale glanced down at the floor, prepared to assist in the search as well, when he was stopped by a touch to the back of his hand. With a huff, lips parted to ask what he needed - and if he’d wanted his attention, couldn’t the silly serpent have waited until after the trick? - but the question disappeared on his tongue as a one pound coin was carefully slipped into his palm. The annoyance faded promptly, though Aziraphale was a bit baffled as to why Crowley was giving him money, until it clicked and he lit up brighter than the Christmas tree in the center of the shop. Oh, his love was very clever.

“Ah, I believe I see it, my dears,” he piped up, carefully concealing the freshly slipped coin.

“Where?” Adam asked, the first to rise in an attempt to see from the grown-ups’ vantage point.

“Just…” Aziraphale waited a beat, until the other three were looking as well, then gasped as he procured the coin from behind Adam’s ear. “Well! Look at that, it was right here, all along! Fancy that!”

“Wicked! How'd you do that, Mr. Fell?” 

Pepper took the coin to inspect it, brows drawing together in suspicion. “We heard it fall.”

Crowley hummed around a sip. “Must be magic.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale wiggled happily, beaming at him.

“Actually, you could have pulled a new coin out of your pocket while we weren’t looking,” Wensleydale pointed out. “And the old coin is still on the floor somewhere.”

“But we checked all ‘round and didn’t see it,” Adam reminded him, then grinned up at the couple. “It must be magic. Good trick, Mr. Fell.”

“Thank you, Adam. Ah, and I suppose I should say thank you to my… assistant of sorts?” Aziraphale teased, nudging Crowley’s side.

“Oi, I didn't do anything.” Crowley waved a hand. 

“Can we keep it?” Brian wondered, taking the coin from Pepper. “Maybe it's a trick coin and it bounced back up when he dropped it.”

Adam was a bit miffed that he hadn't thought of that, so he took the coin next and studied it the same way Pepper had. “We should experiment. Can we, Mr. Fell?” 

“Have at it, my dear children. The pursuit of magic should never be squandered.” With an encouraging fist raised to the air, he urged them along, waiting until they were out of earshot before telling Crowley, “I’ll pay you back. Now, where did my coin actually get to?”

Crowley shifted his foot and stooped down to quickly grab it while the childrens' attention was elsewhere. “Here, angel. If you hadn't dropped yours, I was going to do mine.”

“Ah. You wily thing.” Hand coming to rest against his hip as he straightened up, Aziraphale leaned in to give him a light peck on the cheek as a show of gratitude. “I assume you saw the disaster of the teleporting card trick.”

“Nyeeeah, at least something got teleported. Could've been worse.”

“I revealed the existence of my double-backed card. I can hardly think how it could be worse,” he sighed, then moved to collect his cards from the table and neatly align the deck. “Well, I suppose at least one trick turned out. Perhaps they won’t remember the double-backed card next year.” It couldn’t hurt to be a bit optimistic. After all, today’s youth had so much going on in their lives, remembering the details of a silly card trick would surely be something they could brush off to make room for more important things. Like memes, whatever those were.

“All you've got to do is turn it back into the- what'd he have, two of hearts? They'll think it was on purpose.” Crowley set his cup down and held out a hand for the deck. 

Aziraphale handed it over, the double-backed card on top. “Enlighten me, my dear.”

Crowley scoffed, flipping through the deck until he found the two of hearts. And then he started to shuffle, quick and nimble. “I don't think I have to enlighten you. You're the magician here, angel. I'm just the assistant of sorts.”

“That may very well be, but I’m afraid I don’t work quite as well ‘off the cuff,’ so to speak.” Aziraphale admired his hands, placing his own at the small of Crowley’s back while he watched. “That’s more your forte, I should think. You are quite creative.”

“A bit. My imagination’s kept me going a time or two.” He stopped shuffling and picked up what seemed to be the top card of the deck. He flicked it back and forth to show Aziraphale and set it back onto the deck. “Then after you give it some of your theatrics...” He picked up the actual top card of the deck and it was the two of hearts. “All fixed.”

Aziraphale’s gaze was full of the same wide-eyed, sparkling delight that had been there the first time he’d pulled a coin from his ear across the table. That it had only been a few short months since then… well, he couldn’t quite believe it had been so little time, really. Crowley had become such an essential piece of his life, it still astounded him that he was there at all. Living in his house, sleeping in his bed, carving out his own little space and letting Aziraphale rearrange things to suit him. Quite literally, in some aspects.

“Oh, thank you, darling. My very own Christmas miracle,” he couldn’t help teasing even as he fawned over him, then took the deck of cards back to attempt the same sleight of hand with the two cards.

“Attempt,” unfortunately, being the operative word. The cards slipped out of Aziraphale's grip, scattering like red and white snowflakes. Crowley couldn't claim to be completely surprised. “Well. There's always plan B.”

“It might be a lost cause,” Aziraphale huffed, stooping down to collect the cards, but his curiosity would always be piqued when it came to magic. “What’s plan B?”

Crowley helped him pick up the cards, taking two and letting him put the deck back to rights. He positioned the two how he needed, one right behind the other as if they were one card and fingers placed just so. “You and all your theatrics are distracting enough that we could make it look like you're causing this.” At the word, he swapped the cards. It was quick as a blink. “If you actually want an assistant, anyway.”

“You mean work together intentionally? You’d be willing to endure that, my dear boy?”

“Ngk. It's for you.” As if that explained everything. 

Smile turning soppy, Aziraphale couldn’t help but reach out to stroke his cheek. What a ridiculous, precious man. He could feel his blush warm under his palm, heart swelling with the sensation of love that was still just as staggering as the first time he’d felt it. “Well, I can hardly turn down such an offer.”

“Don’t be too eager,” he warned, the effect ruined a bit by the way he leaned so readily into the touch. “We both know there’ll be plenty of eye rolling, even if you can’t see it.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, darling.”

“Mm. What ever could you do to shut me up?”

“I can think of several, but this is a work party, dearest.” Aziraphale gave his cheek a pat, grin a little too devilish for the angel Crowley claimed him to be. “Hardly appropriate for this sort of venue.”

Crowley laughed, so very in love with this humiliating, wonderful bastard. “We’ll just have to work through that list later, then. For now...” He leaned in, eager for a taste of that wicked grin.

Across the room, Anathema sighed at Newt. “I’m going to have to be in a car with them. Alone. For over an hour.”

“Well... Crowley can’t kiss and drive,” he reasoned.

“If I die on the way, it’s because he tried.”

“I’ll give you a very good eulogy,” Newt promised, her answering laugh just another boost of cheer at Divine Restorations & Repairs that wintry day.

Chapter Text

Heavensgate Hall gleamed like a beacon at the top of the hill it sat on at the edge of Guildford and the Surrey Hills. Its Georgian facade boasted pure white stucco from top to bottom, a pale grey roof the only variation in the pristine colour scheme. Perfectly trimmed hedges lined the perimeter, the garden well-manicured in a way that made every plant appear artificial and molded to fit a certain design. Its namesake - the iron wrought gate with what appeared to be a pair of angel wings soldered into the metal - separated the grounds from the evenly paved street. Two symmetrical wreaths flocked in white with gold and silver tinsel threaded through them were affixed to either column. Aside from that, the house itself was largely undecorated save for a modern, LED string of white lights that lined the roof and windows. They weren’t on at a quarter past two in the afternoon, however, so hardly added to the festive feeling as the Bentley pulled up to the kerb just outside the gate.

It looked nothing like the farmhouse and Aziraphale’s mismatched, but well-loved holiday decor. And it certainly didn’t look like the kind of place one would bring a tartan tin of homemade shortbread and two bottles of wine as a hostess gift.

Said tin was clutched in Aziraphale’s lap as he looked out the window on Crowley’s side to take in his uncle’s house. When he was younger, invited on the rarest of occasions, he’d fancied the estate as a wondrous monument akin to Pemberley House or Misselthwaite Manor. Now, despite its kerb appeal, he could only compare its aura to the dismal Wuthering Heights or Thornfield Hall for all its warmth and welcome.

“Well,” Aziraphale started, for want of something to say. “This is it.”

“This is your uncle’s house?” Anathema squinted at it from the backseat in disbelief.

“Yes. He was a political spokesman, you see, made a fine career of it. He’s also written several books on the subject as well. And his current wife is a, ah, high-end interior designer, if I’m not mistaken.” She was also neither Michael nor Gabriel’s mother, the third of Uncle Met’s partners, but she’d certainly lasted the longest and Aziraphale found they suited each other. “I’m fairly certain they met when Uncle Met renovated the house, as a matter of fact. But the point is, he’s done quite well for himself.”

They got out of the car, luggage fetched from the boot, and even Crowley unfolded himself from his seat to lean against the Bentley. His posture was loose, fingers tucked in tight pockets as he attempted to project an air of coolness, but Aziraphale could see the tension still coiled in his shoulders, knotted at the base of his neck. He longed to reach out and knead the knots out of his muscles with firm fingers and reassurances that everything would be fine, but there was no telling who might be watching. It was a touch he couldn’t risk. Not in front of this house.

“So,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “We’ll see you tomorrow night?”

Don't go in there, Crowley thought but shrugged it away. It wasn't a fair thing to ask, let alone demand. No matter how cold the house looked or how much he knew Aziraphale didn't actually want to go, he wasn't going to be the barrier. “Yeah, Aziraphale. I'll be here.”

“We should be finished with dinner by eight. So, ah… anytime after that should suffice,” he continued, swallowing down the urge to ask him to stay, to take them home, take them away, but oh, wasn’t that dramatic? It was time spent with his family, something he’d always appreciated and wanted, especially at this time of the year. He fidgeted with the biscuit tin and one of the bottles of wine that were nestled in the crook of his arm, the other entrusted to Anathema so he could carry his suitcase, grappling for anything else to say. “Don’t forget about the leftover roast beef in the fridge. I know you mentioned something about ordering Chinese, but just keep that in mind in case you decide you don’t want takeaway.”

He grinned, quick and easier than it should be with how much he disliked this entire scene. “I can be a stereotype if I want to be.” 

“Of course you can, I only want to be sure you also remember to eat.” His rabbity gaze darted to the gates and beyond, then back to Crowley before he shuffled forward to quickly and sweetly kiss his cheek. “Mind how you go,” he told him, regret a soft, dull ache that would linger even when the Bentley was out of sight.

 Crowley hadn’t expected the contact. He'd really expected him to just open the gate and go. “Ngk. I'll be fine. You just... call me if you need anything.”

“Can I?” Anathema cut in, trying to get a little more color into Aziraphale. 

“No because you know how to text. Even though you don't have good enough sense to avoid iPhones.” Crowley huffed at her grin. “Go on in already. Tomorrow at eight. I'll be here.”

The gate was locked but for a keypad that Aziraphale knew the code to. It eased open without a creak and the great white house seemed even less inviting. Hefting up his suitcase, Aziraphale glanced back at Crowley with a reassuring smile and nod.

“Happy Christmas, my dear,” he wished him, then turned to Anathema with that same smile as he led her up the path.

The angel wing motif carried to the pair of door knockers mounted on the pristine double doors. Aziraphale politely tapped it three times, then stood back and waited. A glance was shared with Anathema, as well as a wiggle that was trying its best to be optimistic. Their attention snapped forward as the right side of the door swung inwards, revealing a man with Serious Sideburns™ and stern eyebrows. He had the same vivid blue eyes as Aziraphale himself, leaving no question that the two shared genetics, but his expressed a severe pointedness as they scanned up and down Aziraphale’s body in quick efficiency, ignoring the little wave and bounce.

“You! You’re late!” he accused, right from the start.

“Ah, right. Hello, Uncle Cort. Dreadfully sorry about that. Had a bit of a late start.” With more than half the morning spent with a certain snake of a man tangled around him in bed, not that anyone needed to know that particular information. “Might I introduce Anathema Device, here. She’s Virtue’s granddaughter, our cousin.”

Uncle Cort’s gaze snapped to her next. “Agnes’s Virtue?” he asked, like it needed to be clarified. When she nodded, he hummed and gave her a slower onceover than he had Aziraphale, though still as though he were scrutinizing her as a potential recruit as though they were going to war rather than a Christmas party, but seemed appeased by what he found in her stiff posture and stepped back to let them into the polished foyer. “Welcome to Heavensgate. Gabriel will tell you where to put your things. But you,” he pointed suddenly at Aziraphale, making him go cross-eyed as he backed up to avoid being jabbed in the nose, “your whole family is waiting for you!”

“Oh?” It was Anathema’s family, too, though he refrained from bringing that up with his uncle at the present moment. “Well, I- I- I do apologize. Again. Uncle Cort. Er. We brought wine. And biscuits. Shortbread. I know how much Aunt Cheryl likes shortbread-”

“Is that Aziraphale?” Uncle Met’s voice floated out to them, echoing off the white tiled floors and blank walls with an air of authority that suggested he believed himself more important than he actually was. After all, it wasn’t as though Aziraphale wasn’t a fifty-year-old man himself, yet he still stood at attention as his uncle wandered in from the sitting room. “Ah, so it is.”

“Hello, Uncle Met. Happy Christmas.” Aziraphale smiled. “I was just expressing to Uncle Cort here how terribly sorry we are that we’re- well… I wouldn’t say late, as there really hasn’t ever been a strict schedule for this sort of thing before, but ah-”

“You’re rambling,” Uncle Cort said bluntly, like the military man he was.

“Yes, right. My apologies.”

Uncle Met hardly appeared bothered, hum noncommittal as he seemed to accept the apology easily enough. “Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

“Better late than never, I always say.”

The rather unwelcome sneer that followed on Uncle Met’s heels came from the one and only Sandalphon, his teeth bared in a smile that evoked less than an ounce of goodwill from Aziraphale. Even on Christmas. His answering smile was also more of a grimace, but he was saved from having to respond to him by Gabriel’s amused chuckle as he walked past them, cell phone held to one ear while his free hand clapped Sandalphon on the shoulder.

“That’s a classic,” he told him, grinning. “Nice one, Sandalphon. ‘Better late than never.’ Clever.” Gabriel made some sort of vague gesture in Aziraphale’s direction before he continued across the foyer into the formal dining room, heels of his loafers clicking on the tile as he went. “Yeah, I’m still here,” he responded to whoever was on the other line. “No, that works with my schedule. I’ll pencil you in. Great. I’ll see you then.”

“A business call on Christmas Eve?” Aziraphale questioned, more to Uncle Met than to either Cort or Sandalphon.

“Zachariah and Mary,” Gabriel answered, circling back around to them as he hung up and pocketed his phone. “I had to tell them the good news. I’ve got some business that’ll have me back in New York for New Years, so was making some plans to see them while I’m out that way.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched in understanding. “His children,” he told Anathema quietly. “They live with their mother in the states.”

“Oh.”

“With all the traveling I do, it just makes sense for them to have that stability growing up. It’s a sacrifice we as parents have to make.” Gabriel shrugged in a what can you do sort of way, then pointed at Aziraphale. “Aziraphale,” he said unnecessarily, given that he was, in fact, pointing at him. “We’ll have to wait to go over this quarter’s numbers until after I get back. It’s looking like I’ll be available after the 9th, so we’ll talk more then.”

“Of course. Whatever works for you, Gabriel.”

“Such a good sport.” Gabriel shared a crinkly-eyed smile with Sandalphon, then finally seemed to notice Anathema. “You made it! You know, we weren’t sure if you could with the late notice. Didn’t know if you had any other holiday plans. But you know, we thought it couldn’t hurt to ask. Right, Sandalphon?”

“Precisely,” he agreed.

As unused to direct engagement from Gabriel as she was, Anathema blinked owlishly from behind her glasses. Her shoulders were straight, though, as they'd been since Cort - and Anathema still had to ask Aziraphale what was up with those whackass sideburns - had opened the door. It did feel like they were going to war. Met still hadn't acknowledged her either. “No. No real plans.” Nothing that hadn't taken just a touch of rearranging. Newt's mom was incredibly patient. “I appreciate the invite.”

“Well,” Gabriel spread his palms out in what was meant to be a congenial gesture, perhaps, but Aziraphale had been on the receiving end of such a look one too many times to trust it, “Aziraphale here told us you were interested in getting more involved with the business side of things. Thought this would be a good chance to get a feel for that. How it’ll mesh together.” When he brought his hands back together, he interlaced his fingers and smiled at her over them. 

A slight furrow etched itself into Aziraphale’s brow. “But we’re not exactly here on business,” he pointed out, throat drying up as all eyes turned to him. “Er. That is- ah, it’s Christmas. Obviously.” His attempt at a smile was strained at best, wrung out like one of Crowley’s soggy teabags. “We’re also here to spend some time together as a family. Not only talk of business, right?”

“Of course. No. No business on Christmas, of course.” Gabriel eyes crinkled even more insincerely as Michael headed up the stairs, cell phone pressed to her ear as she cooly listed out what seemed to be a set of instructions for someone on the other line. “Well. You’ll probably want to settle in, right? Aziraphale, you’re in your usual room. You remember where it is, don’t you?”

“How could I forget,” he replied weakly, but was startled as they all began to depart, heading back towards the sitting room and the parlour. “Wait. Which room will Anathema be staying in?” he asked.

Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “In the study with you. Obviously.”

“With me?” Aziraphale’s hand fluttered nervously over his middle. It wasn’t that he minded sharing, just that the study wasn’t exactly a large room, and it only had a single daybed.

“There’s a trundle,” Gabriel told him, anticipating the question. “It can pull out into a separate bed.”

“Oh…”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, no, not for me. But ah, it may be rather cramped. And Anathema is a young lady, after all, I’m certain she’d be more comfortable sharing a room with-” He stopped himself before he could say Uriel, remembering all too clearly the way she and Sandalphon had cornered him against the shop. The wood still snagging his coat, the shame curdling in his belly. No, Uriel was unacceptable. “-ah. Are there no other available rooms? I could bequeath the study to her and locate alternative quarters elsewhere.”

“The entire family’s here, Aziraphale,” Uncle Met huffed, disregarding the fact that his two grandchildren were not. “I may have quite a few rooms, but there is a limit.”

“Unless you’d like to share with Sandalphon,” Gabriel chuckled.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked over to his cousin in question, who met his gaze with his own withering look. He’d rather drink an entire mug of overstewed, microwaved tea and stir it with a knife.

“No, ah… that’s not what I was suggesting. More that I wouldn’t mind a space that isn’t quite so private, if it came down to it.” It was only for one night, after all.

“And what? Sleep on the couch?” Sandalphon chuckled lowly, the word dripping with distaste as though couches had personally offended the man at some point in his life. 

Aziraphale stiffened, reminded of the way Crowley would sometimes doze on his own sofa, how he had fallen asleep there. Safe and cared for. There was nothing wrong with sleeping on a couch, aside from potential back problems that might arise if one did so for too long. 

“Aziraphale, be reasonable,” Gabriel advised. “You don’t seriously want to sleep on one of the couches down here, do you? And I mean, I know you like the kitchen, but that’s taking things a bit too extreme.” He actually reached out and gave his middle a firm pat, causing him to suck in his breath sharply. “I’m sure you’ll work something out.”

“It's fine,” Anathema cut in. This was worse than when they appeared at the shop. At least there, it was Aziraphale’s turf. He never made them leave, but they always did soon enough. This was their turf. They weren't going anywhere, and their auras swam in ugly colors. Her grip tightened on her suitcase when attention shifted her way, and she tamped the ability down. No more of those unwelcoming, uncomfortable shades. 

Nothing like her own parents or grandparents. When they had overnight guests, their auras would swim in warm welcoming hues. Suitcases would be taken away from guests. Tight, meaningful hugs would be exchanged. They'd start talking so much, often voices and laughter would tumble and tangle into one cacophonous sound. This quiet place would likely stay that way. She could only hope the echoes in this sparsely yet smartly decorated foyer weren't going to be a theme. 

Abruptly, she wished her hair was up. People took her more seriously when her hair was up, but she'd worn it down and loose. Her own attention shifted to Aziraphale, Anathema quietly wishing they wouldn't talk to him how they did, and foresaw a very long holiday ahead. Thirty hours. They'd manage somehow. “I'm fine sharing, Aziraphale.” Not only was he very gay, he was the only person she trusted in this fancy, cold house. “Show me where to go so we can put our stuff down?” 

“Ah… of course.” He offered her a small smile and resolved to properly apologize once it was only the two of them. “Oh, but first, Gabriel? Would you mind taking the wine and biscuits to the kitchen? It seems rather silly for us to take them upstairs just to bring them down again.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow as he examined the wine label - not that he was any kind of wine connoisseur, Aziraphale had noticed on more than several occasions that his wine pairings did not suit his meals, and that he would drink whatever was on trend for the time. Sure enough, Gabriel seemed satisfied that it was a cabernet sauvignon and a brut rosé, then nodded for Sandalphon to take the tartan tin. He held it out gingerly as if he’d been told it contained Hellfire rather than shortbread, but carried it off to the kitchen nevertheless.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said politely, then picked up his suitcase and motioned for Anathema to follow him up the tiled stairs. 

White walls carried throughout the entire upstairs hall, everything perfectly smooth without any indication of character. Where Aziraphale’s grandmother’s house had chair rails and crown moulding and baseboards and nice trimmings for the doors, her eldest son had veered in the complete opposite direction, lacking any of the creativity and personalization she’d had in her design, as far as Aziraphale’s opinion went. There was something cold about it, like it was for show rather than to live in. 

The study was much the same. There were a few books on the shelves, all colour-coded in shades of grey and uniform in height and shape. Most of the shelves held odd, miniature glass sculptures that held no real form or figure. The daybed was fixed up to look like a couch more than a sleeping space, the trundle still tucked up beneath it, despite guests being anticipated. Aziraphale set his suitcase down so he could fix up the daybed for them, a habit he was clearly used to. It was enough that they were hosting him at all, the least he could do was make up the bed himself. Though the thought of them expecting Anathema to had him bristling a bit. This was her first time being exposed to them, the least they could was offer something of a better first impression than this.

“I didn’t mean to imply that I wouldn’t be pleased to share with you, my dear,” he explained as the trundle rolled out after a bit of tugging. “I don’t mind at all, it was just unexpected given this room’s… limitations, let’s say.”

“I get it. I really wasn't upset at you or anything.” For him, yes, but not at. Anathema abandoned her suitcase next to an armchair that looked as if it had never been used and reached up to one of the gray books to discover the pages were still crisp like new. The spine was still stiff. She reshelved it with a frown. “Where are all the pictures?” she wondered, focusing on the barren hallways instead of the other questions tumbling through her. “Family pictures? It's like walking through a- an office building, not a house.” 

“Yes, well… Uncle Met has never been the sentimental type. Agnes would always complain that she and my grandmother made a living in cherishing the memory found in all things, and that none of her nieces and nephews understood a scrap of it,” Aziraphale sighed. “They have their own values. Appearances are one of them.”

“Oh.” She folded her arms, cupping her elbows. She did her best to make it not look as self-protecting as it felt. “I guess it’ll be... interesting. I’ll take the trundle so you can have the actual kinda-bed.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I insist you take the daybed, my dear. I’m certain you didn’t expect having to make do with a trundle.” Aziraphale dusted off his palms, looking pleased with his job well-done in scooting the makeshift bed across the floor. When he turned his brighter than necessary smile in her direction, he faltered, taking note of her posture.

It tugged at his heart, beating out a stuttery rhythm born of sympathy. He wrung his hands together, gaze darting to the window so he could give her a moment to feel her emotions at her own pace, without being watched too closely. The cloud cover they’d driven under was darkening, growing thicker as the day went on. Snow was even a possibility. Aziraphale had heard that it always snowed in Tadfield on Christmas, though he’d never been in town on the day to see it himself. Not since childhood. He wondered if Crowley would, if he’d stay up to watch them from the window, or wander out to feel the flakes fall on the flat of his palm. Perhaps he’d put the lights on, even if he didn’t celebrate, just for some of that warmth they brought. So the farmhouse wouldn’t feel so empty and cold.

He’d be fine, Aziraphale told himself. There was plenty Crowley could do with the house to himself for one night. He’d probably go for a drive, like he said, if he got too bored. Right now, it was Anathema he needed to ensure was comfortable and reassured that she was a delightful person to get to know, if a bit eccentric, but then weren’t they all in this family? In some way or another? Aziraphale thought it was all part of the charm.

His gaze shifted back to her, to the way she held herself even as she followed his lead and looked out the window. “It’s different than I think either you or I would prefer, but that doesn’t necessarily make it a bad thing,” he told her. “It’s… I think when my grandmother left, they didn’t quite know how to fill in the gap that left behind. She just… went off on her sabbatical, claiming she needed time away. No one tried to stop her, no one dared speak against her, but I think it left them a little lost, just the same. I was lucky to be with Agnes who could hold her own, so I… I don’t know that I experienced the loss the same way as everyone else. And then when she returned, she wasn’t quite the same. Still a formidable force to be reckoned with, still the head of the family, but it wasn’t long after that that she passed.” It didn’t answer everything, after all, his parents sent him away while his grandmother still ran the shop. Uncle Met divorced Michael’s mother and had remarried and had Gabriel while she was still around. Uncle Cort had enlisted and Aunt Cheryl had tried to become an actress. 

“Right.” He didn’t speak of her often, Anathema’s curiosity running to her as much as it did to Agnes. “Do you ever think she wanted someone to stop her?”

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips lifted in a kind, but resigned smile. “I don’t think anyone could. Not by that point, at any rate. While her word was revered above all else, I think everyone found it a challenge to live up to her expectations. Myself included.” With a sigh he stooped down to lift up his suitcase and set it on the bed, allowing himself some time to compose himself while he unpacked, placing his nightclothes, trousers, and shirt for the next day in one of the drawers of the little end table by the window. “She was a good woman, but could be uncompromising at times. So I’ve been told.” By Agnes though, never by the rest of the family.

“Grandma - Virtue - used to say it always seemed like Aunt Frances was always playing a game. One where she held all the cards, wrote all the rules, and would only hand out the game pieces in the dark to maximize the mystery.” Anathema huffed out a laugh. “Which just sounds a lot like Great-grandma Agnes, honestly.”

“There was a reason they got along quite swimmingly.” His smile brightened, pleased by her cheer. “They had their moments, as sisters do, I expect, but there was a reason the shop flourished under both their guidance.”

“Right.” She fished some bobby pins out of a pocket of her skirt, putting her hair up in a partial bun. “Guess we should go back down?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Ah. I’ll give you a brief tour on the way. So you know how to find your way around.”

“Yeah. The last thing I want to do is get lost in a place where every hallway looks the same.” She got the distinct impression that no one would be amused if she did.

----

There was light chatter that filled the sitting room and parlour as relatives mingled more like co-workers at an office holiday gathering than a true family get-together. As far as Aziraphale was concerned, it was the way things had always been. It was what was right for his family. Uncle Cort stood at attention as if he was expected to be called to the front lines at any minute as he listened to Aziraphale’s mother detail the events of her summer travels. Uriel sampled some wine poured by her partner as they chatted with Aunt Cheryl and Aziraphale’s father. Michael was on the phone still - or perhaps it was a different call - and Gabriel was chuckling at another one of Sandalphon’s clever jokes.

“Human beings can be so simple!” he exclaimed, as though he was above them all.

There was a table with a spread of various hors d'oeuvres that were being politely picked at and had been professionally prepared. Neither Uncle Met nor his current wife knew how to cook, to Aziraphale’s knowledge, and Gabriel only knew how to juice things or turn them into smoothies. Michael, he imagined, knew how to cook, though time and time again had showed that she much preferred giving orders and overseeing a caterer than actually getting involved.

Everyone else was a guest, and Aziraphale knew his mother hadn’t liked cooking at all when he’d grown up either. His meals had usually been the leftovers of whatever his parents brought home after going out with friends or co-workers. Perhaps that was how he’d ended up with such a refined palate. Most five-year-olds didn’t know what to do with gravlax and dill sauce or sushi and a pair of chopsticks. They’d certainly never dare to eat an oyster. 

There weren’t oysters or sushi at this Christmas party, the tiny nibbles hardly more than air as Aziraphale subtly scanned the table. Not to say they wouldn’t be divine in a spread that had a bit more variety, however, but the gluten free canapés, cucumber spring rolls, stuffed peppers, and shrimp lettuce wraps all had such a similar flavour profile. The buffet table was sorely missing a nice deviled egg or cheese fondue or even some gingerbread. It looked nothing like the potluck Divine Restorations & Repairs had, no warmth or comfort or holiday favorites. They’d have a traditional Christmas supper on Christmas Day, also catered, with all the trimmings and flavours one would associate with the holiday, but aside from that, it was all very corporate.

Aziraphale turned to Anathema with his best smile. “Would you like something to drink, my dear?” They both could use it, no doubt.

“Yeah. Whatever you think is good.” She didn’t drink enough to have any real knowledge, but she felt out of place enough that having something to do with her hands would be great. It was like watching a movie, or being on the other side of a two-way mirror. She didn’t know what exactly to do first since, besides a spare glance when they’d entered the room, no one had noticed them. Anathema wished for Newt’s genial, awkward presence. Quiet, but never shy, he would’ve been a boon here.

Aziraphale fetched them each a glass of Prosecco, something mild with a little fizz that he determined Anathema’s palate could handle. He clinked their glasses together, then guided her into the fray.

He introduced her across the board, and she felt thoroughly dressed down by each and every scan they made of her. Like she was a rather dull artefact on auction, they looked her over, judged her worth, and didn’t raise a paddle to bid. The calm greetings, the quiet confusion as to what she was doing there, the recurring explanation that she was Agnes’s great-granddaughter and the way it was met with a hum that vacillated between bored and unimpressed - it all started to chip away at her self-confidence very quickly.

She hadn’t exactly been a sociable or socialized child. Being raised by a family trying so hard to live up to the expectations of a powerful matriarch and learning witchy rituals hadn’t really been conducive to play dates. Her fascination with conspiracy theories - and belief in several - was very little help when it came to social interaction. Newt would listen to her ramblings and read her magazines himself to keep up, but she didn’t have that sort of conversational partner here. 

She could talk about the shop, which was a topic surprising only by the ease with which it was dismissed. For people who pushed and pulled Aziraphale along into doing exactly what they wanted, they didn’t care about it. And they didn’t seem to care about Agnes - her name sniffed at, sighed over, frowned about. It was frustrating and disheartening, and she was struggling hard to come up with something to say when the closest person to her in age was Met’s third wife or Uriel. Met’s wife seemed as vacant as the minimalist design she’d decked the house in with all its empty spaces, and Uriel regarded her with barely concealed hostility. Or it was just impatience since she looked at Aziraphale the exact same way, and she was just projecting her increasing nerves.

Really, all too soon she was starting to feel... humiliated. She wasn’t exactly sure if that was what they were aiming for, but it was the feeling that rose highest the longer she was amongst these mannequins posing as people. People she was supposed to be related to. People who presumably knew she was related to them. Cousins, even semi-distant ones, should matter a little more than this, she thought. Her mother would probably be appalled, but Anathema didn’t have her mother. She didn’t have anyone from what was coldy called Agnes’s side of the family. The Nutter side, like the name was a slur. It wasn’t as if everyone in the room had the Godric surname, but they’d drawn a line and Anathema was starting to feel like they were piling bricks onto it.

Or, more likely, paying someone to lay the bricks.

It wasn’t as if she’d grown up poor or as a criminal or even wholly American or something. Her mother was European and, thanks to Grandma Agnes’s prophecies, “her side” had wisely invested in Apple back in the early days. She’d grown up homeschooled on the side of a mountain in Malibu! By all rights, she should be just as stuffy as them. She should be able to fit in.

But half the time, they wouldn’t talk to her. More than once, they didn’t acknowledge when she spoke. She didn’t want to monopolize all of Aziraphale’s time or seem like some little kid in need of a hand to hold, but she retreated to his side more than once just to remember what a warm human felt like. Not that his aura was any more pleasant to look at than the rest of them in this frigid house, but he at least smiled at her and talked to her. She wasn’t proud to admit that she was using him to remember she wasn’t some wisp of smoke, to gain back the feeling of being someone who had every right to exist before venturing out again. 

A different grouping of cousins, maybe, a different duo. She tried to avoid Gabriel. He smiled at her once or twice, but it was the same smile she’d seen him give Aziraphale too many times. The one that said, “I’m obligated to acknowledge your existence, and that’s all.” It was a false cheer, like a salesman who wanted you to believe you were the only one who mattered but it was the end of quarter and he was running low on patience.

It made her feel low and, somehow, it made her feel like she needed to apologize or somehow placate him. At least she recognized a trap when she saw it, so avoided him and those feelings as much as she could.

Her hair changed, too, as the night went on. In just a few hours, her loose curls had been gathered and secured into a bun that was just the wrong side of painful in its tight severity. It made her look older, more capable, more in charge of her own situation. A defense mechanism at its root, but it was a far nicer thing to focus on than the third time in as many minutes that Sandalphon talked over her. And it was the way she let him that left her feeling a little humiliated.

It was like watching the timelapse of a flower as it wilted.

Aziraphale was conscious of the way she moved about the space, keeping an eye on her the way a parent might observe their child at the playground, ready to intervene in case of skinned knees or needing a push on the swing. A nudge or two, to build momentum. But it wasn’t that Anathema needed such a push or couldn’t get back up and dust herself off, things he felt equipped to help with, no. She was being held down, a shoe planted firmly on her back to keep her from rising, from carrying herself with her natural poise he found so endearing. 

They didn’t give her a chance to sit up, let alone stand, and so she drooped, downcast and downtrodden as the afternoon went on into evening. He made a point to join her in her conversation circle when he could, when he wasn’t dragged away by Gabriel or Uncle Met. He wanted her to know she wasn’t alone in this, to offer her some kind of support, but the damage had been done. 

Aziraphale watched as everyone convened in the dining room, taking his own seat beside Anathema, Michael on her other side. She didn’t spare Anathema a second glance, didn’t acknowledge her presence. Michael had always seemed above them all, Aziraphale reflected, further cementing it when Anathema rose to clear her plate and Michael set hers atop it without a word, focused on responding to an email on her sleek smartphone. 

Anathema didn’t say anything, confidence worn thin in this unfamiliar place with these unfamiliar people, and something far too familiar festered in Aziraphale’s chest as he watched her head for the kitchen. Then she was stopped by Gabriel, his and Uncle Met’s barely touched plates added to the stack, piling on.

“Would you mind? If you’re heading to the kitchen anyway,” Gabriel reasoned, but the pinched smile said more than his supposed pleasantries.

You don’t have to. Aziraphale willed for her to decline, to request assistance, to suggest Gabriel was perfectly capable of taking his own bloody dishes to the kitchen. Because it wasn’t about dishes. It was about making her feel small. Small and valued only by how useful she was to him and the family, rather than by her own merit. Valued for who she was.

Aziraphale swallowed past the sour taste of his fermented frustration as he watched her agree. He couldn’t see auras the way she could, but he knew her spirit was flickering and that was unacceptable. He might have been conditioned to do such things, to hang his head and be guided by the firm hand at the back of his neck, but Anathema didn’t have to put up with such treatment. All she had wanted was to get to know this side of the family and gain a better understanding of her ancestry. There was no need for them to treat her like a blight upon their family name. Aziraphale balled up his own napkin and tossed it onto the table as he rose to follow her with his own dishes and glass, intercepting her on her way out of the kitchen.

“My dear girl, I completely understand if you need a moment. That was…” Infuriating. “There’s no rush in needing to rejoin them. You could take some time to refresh yourself in our room.” 

Part of her wondered if she'd be able to make herself come down at all if she left. She was still feeling that humiliation, and now stupid on top of it. In the kitchen, she'd squared her shoulders and put on a brave face. It was a mimic of Aziraphale, however subconscious. Stiff upper lip until freedom could be achieved. They’d invited her, she couldn’t help thinking. Surely there was a reason for that. At least there had to be a better reason for that than obligation, right? But the chance for a respite from all that negative energy, auras swimming in front of her or no, was too good to pass up. “I... Yeah. I want to call Newt before it gets too late anyway.”

“That sounds jolly good. Absolutely tickety-boo,” Aziraphale encouraged her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “A chat with Newton is sure to brighten your spirits. He cares for you very much.”

“It'd be...” It'd be nice to hear from someone who did. “Yeah. I've missed him since we got here.”

“Then I shan’t keep you any longer. Go on, and I’ll… I’ll have a few words with them. This behavior can hardly be condoned.” Aziraphale would have pointedly tugged on his waistcoat, had his free hand not been balancing his dinner plate.

“No, it’s fine. Don’t-” She shook her head, swiping her hand. She didn’t want to see him in the crossfire. They didn’t both have to be miserable. “You don’t have to do anything like that for me, Aziraphale. It’s really not worth it. Michael wasn’t paying attention, that’s all. And Gabriel just-” She heard herself making excuses for them, excuses that weren’t so different from Aziraphale’s attempts to reassure her that they were just having an off-day. Not all days could be off-days. But excuses were bottomless. “I was already headed into the kitchen, and he and Met were talking. It’s fine. You don’t have to fix it.”

It wasn’t fine. It was absolutely the complete opposite of fine. But Aziraphale heard the echoes of his own excuses, time and time again batted around like a wobbling shuttlecock that wasn’t even in play, and wasn’t so obtuse as to not recognize them for what they were. 

He managed a nod, then stepped aside to allow Anathema passage to the stairs. She was a shadow of her usual self, normally phantasmagoric only in the way she silently snuck up on him and he wasn’t so convinced that she didn’t do that on purpose, but her spirit - her presence - was strong and unapologetic. She held her own against Shadwell’s derogatory and sexist remarks - not that they had anything to fear from him - and she often went toe to toe with Crowley on all manner of discussions, rarely taking the bait when he played Devil’s advocate on any of the social and environmental issues she was so passionate about. She was also the only person he knew that could command the full attention and respect of young Adam and his friends.

He could see traces of Agnes in her, the strong will, stubborn mind, passion, and hint of mischief and stirring the pot on occasion. Aziraphale didn't think it possible for her to be so affected by their cousins, but that had been careless of him. Of course she would be. And really, they'd never made an attempt to be kind to her before. Why on earth would they start now? 

To drive her away. Aziraphale set his dishes down in the kitchen, the thought like an icy something slithering down his spine. He'd just given her new responsibilities, after implying she might want to inherit the shop once he retired. After his cousins made it clear they wanted to sell it eventually. 

They didn't care about her, that much was clear, but it had been a different kind of hurt to be ignored by them, and another entirely to be invited and shown how much she didn't belong. Aziraphale looked about the large kitchen, empty save for some of the leftover catering trays on the island countertop. Was that what they were doing to him?

He went back to the dining room, but it was empty, everyone had reconvened in the parlour. He stood in the doorway, gaze traveling from Michael and Uriel to Sandalphon, Uncle Cort, and Uncle Met. Then to his parents, his aunts, and Gabriel. All in their bubble, heedless of the two who were missing. Who were unwanted. 

Aziraphale could handle it. He'd swallowed the bitter pill and told himself it was simply what was done in families like his, that had images and reputations to upkeep and soft was an insult. But there was no need, whatsoever, to have exposed Anathema to this sort of callous behavior. And that was on him.

Crowley might say otherwise, but these decisions were all on him. The decision to go to his family, to tell Anathema she'd been invited, to bring her along, and then to watch as she floundered as he did at twenty-five. It was on him, and it made him sick. 

Unable to face them, to mingle with them when it wouldn't matter what he said, Aziraphale retreated down the hall, retracing his steps to the kitchen and hoped no one had slipped in. While there might have been other empty rooms in which to hide, the kitchen, he knew, had a telephone. 

It was still empty and likely to remain that way. No need for anyone to go scrounging about in here, not when there was catering. Aziraphale pressed his palm flat over his middle and inhaled through his mouth, then out through his nose. Or did he have it backwards? Oh, quite possibly. It would explain why it was doing absolutely nothing for what felt like a massive, lead ball bearing lodged in his gut.

Get over yourself, the voice in his head sniped, you’ve put up with this before. You can do it again. It’s just one night. Just look out for Anathema and soldier on. 

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered the room until he found the telephone. He considered himself lucky that Uncle Met couldn’t quite bring himself to embrace all facets of new technology, though the landline had a sleek display and was obviously cordless. Well, in this case, that worked in his favour.

He flicked his gaze to the hall, wringing his hands together for a good minute before crossing the room and snatching the phone from its cradle. Pressing it to his chest, he ducked into the large butler’s pantry and closed the door behind him. It was dark and he backed into what must have been a bag of rice, but when he pressed a button on the phone, it illuminated the storage space with a blue glow. He dialed Crowley’s mobile by memory, thumb hesitating over the call button. Was he just being ridiculous? He’d had every chance not to come here, he could’ve come up with any excuse and he wouldn’t have been missed.

The button gave beneath the firm press of his thumb, then he held the phone to his ear as it rang, watching the crack in the door in case the kitchen suddenly flooded with light.

“This is Anthony-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s breath punched out of him as the sound of his voice washed over him, only for the relief to dry up when the voice didn’t stop.

“-Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

There was a beep, and then silence. Right, Crowley wouldn’t recognize this number. After everything he’d been through, Aziraphale didn’t blame him for not picking up when anyone could be on the other end of the line. So he’d have to leave a voice message, right. That was fine.

“Crowley,” he said again, slower this time. “It’s me, Aziraphale, though you’ve probably figured that out by this point.” He swallowed, oh he was terrible at leaving voice messages. “I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things. Did you go to Madame Tracy’s and Sergeant Shadwell’s? Or to pick up your Chinese takeaway? I’m certain either of those would’ve been much better than…” 

What? Here, surrounded by family? While Crowley was alone on Christmas Eve? Even if he was Jewish, it didn’t take away from the fact that he knew how important the holiday was to Aziraphale and that Aziraphale had chosen to spend it somewhere other than with him.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It’s not as if I’m actually talking with you. Just wanted to check in. Everything’s tickety-boo here. Anathema and I are having… quite the time. Yes, right. Lovely talking with you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Happy Christmas. Pip pip.” 

He hung up and immediately pressed the phone to his forehead as he let out a frustrated sigh. He’d sounded absolutely foolish. Crowley would immediately know something wasn’t right and now he’d have all night to come up with ways of carefully prying it out of him on the drive back.

Well, he’d just have to bolster his own defenses. Stand strong in the face of the temptation to whinge about the evening and how Anathema had been treated and how he’d been treated and how they shouldn’t have had to put up with this at all and, oh, if only he’d listened-

The phone lit up in his hands as he stepped out of the pantry, its mechanical chirp bouncing off the clean lines of the polished kitchen. Aziraphale blinked down at the display and his breath caught. He recognized that number.

Nearly dropping the phone in his haste to answer, he fumbled with it a moment until he clutched it to his ear and gasped, “Crowley.”

“Angel. Got your message.” His amusement was evident in his tone, but so was an undercurrent of worry. “Sounds like you need a break from ‘quite the time.’”

Aziraphale cracked. He cracked and he didn’t even try to hide it. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” he sighed, possibly a bit overdramatic, but also so fed up. “There’ve been all sorts of comments, and sometimes they straight up ignore Anathema like she isn’t even there and it just-” Righteous anger welled up within him, but it was choked off at his throat, wrung right out of him. “Well, it’s completely uncalled for.”

Crowley's hum traveled over the line, a soft sound of understanding. “That doesn't really sound like a grand way to spend a holiday. How's she taking it?” 

“Not well, I'm afraid. Outwardly, she seems calmer than I am, but she did step away to call Newton.” What gave him the idea to try Crowley in the first place, and hoped she was receiving some semblance of the comfort he was taking in his conversation. “I feel just terrible about bringing her into a situation like this though. I thought… I hoped someone would attempt to make an effort.”

“It's not your fault they're not, angel. It's theirs, and they're the ones missing out.”

“But I should have expected it. They’ve done it before, only this time I’m watching it happen and it’s-” It would be childish to say it wasn’t fair. Things weren’t always fair, he knew that and Crowley definitely knew that. “She shouldn’t have to put up with that. No one should.”

“I can come get her, if you like.” Him, too. There was a beat where that was unsaid. “I'm only, ah... I was going to say ten minutes, but the roads are empty 'round here so five.”

Aziraphale blinked, mouth too dry to speak as he failed to fully grasp what that meant. “You… you didn’t go home?”

“Unless the house magically teleported five minutes away, no. I'm- I hung ‘round town. For a bit.” For hours. “It was just in case you, y'know, needed someone.”

“Oh…” Not so much a punch this time as a slow strangulation, Aziraphale lost his breath for a moment, frozen in place in the middle of a cold kitchen.

He was struck suddenly by the fantasy of bursting out of this kitchen in an impassioned frenzy. He’d fly right out into the foyer and fling open the doors to find the Bentley, a chariot of night almost hidden in the dark, and Crowley would just be there. Arms folded atop the Bentley, leaning against it as he looked up at him from the other side of the gates. Waiting for him.

Except it wasn’t a fantasy, it was very much a real possibility, he only had to say so. And how could he not? It had been hours and there’d been no guarantee Aziraphale would even call and ask him to come. He’d just wanted to be nearby. Just in case.

“I do,” he croaked out, almost too quiet, but he knew Crowley heard him from the hitch in his own breath. “I do, I… I want to go home, Crowley.”

“Five minutes, love.” The Bentley's engine revved. “I'll be there.”

When the call ended, the light of the receiver going dim in his hands, Aziraphale was spurred into a flurry of motion. The phone clattered in its cradle when he practically tossed it aside, then marched out of the kitchen, right past the polite, tittering laughter of Uncle Met, Aunt Cheryl, and Uncle Cort. His father was pouring himself another round of scotch, while his mother sat primly in the chair by the window as she listened with half an ear to whatever it was Uncle Met’s wife had to say. He didn’t see any of them though, his attention firmly focused on finding the guest room set aside for him and Anathema.

She was still on the phone and sitting on the edge of the daybed. “I don’t know about you, my dear girl, but I’ve had quite enough of things here. What do you say to ducking out early?”

Her expression shifted rapidly from hope to guilt to uncertainty. “Hang on,” she said into the phone, then to Aziraphale, “Can we do that? Are you sure?” 

“Believe me, I’ve never been more certain of anything,” he replied, collecting his suitcase and the few things he’d bothered to remove from it. Not unpacked though. Unpacking implied ‘settling in,’ and he couldn’t recall a moment he ever felt settled in this house. “Well, perhaps not never, there are quite a few things I’ve been just as sure of, but that isn’t the point. The point is Crowley’s just around the corner. He’ll take us back to Tadfield, if that’s something you’re not opposed to.”

“Why-” She cut herself off, tipping the phone back to her ear. “Did you hear-? Yeah. Yeah, I- I love you too. I'll see you soon.” After hanging up, she slipped her phone into the pocket of her skirt and reached for her suitcase. She hadn't so much as opened it. “How's he so close? Did you call him earlier?” 

“Er…” A blush crept into his cheeks, his gaze firmly on his books as he carefully squeezed them back into his suitcase. “That is to say… he happened to be in the area…” He cleared his throat, finally glancing over at Anathema in time to see her arch an expectant eyebrow. “He was waiting for us apparently. Just in case things went a bit… you know.”

“Yeah.” She knew, and she was tired. She fiddled with the handle of her suitcase for a nervous moment before straightening her shoulders. If she couldn't ask Aziraphale questions about them, she couldn't ask anyone. It was one of the few things Newt was never afraid to do and his encouragement was still ringing in her ear. “Are they always like this or is it me? Did I do something?” 

The question wasn’t an unfamiliar one, but it pained him to hear it from her. “No,” he answered immediately, not wanting to give her any room for doubt there, not when it had quietly festered in him for years. “No, my dear, this is… this is just how they are.” It was a paltry response, hardly enough to give any reasonable person any level of comfort.

Aziraphale took his suitcase in one hand, then laid his free one on her shoulder as he tried to channel something of his great-aunt - her great-grandmother - and then some. As present in his life as she’d been, Agnes had never been as gentle as he thought he wanted. Maybe he’d needed the coarseness and the thick skin, but he thought about what Crowley had said on the phone and what he wished someone had said to him when he was young.

He looked Anathema in the eyes, hesitant in a way that didn’t suit her, and continued. “That doesn’t mean you have to put up with it. You’re a brilliant, steadfast, and kind young woman and if they don’t want the chance to get to know you and have you in their lives, that’s entirely on them. It might not make it hurt less, I’m afraid, but it’s still something you should hear. Especially when it feels like… like you have done something wrong. Like you’re being rejected. But I promise it’s not a rejection of you as a person. They can’t reject what they don’t know, only some misunderstood vision they’ve conjured to justify their way of thinking.”

“Well...” She'd expected some of the reaction she'd gotten from what little she'd seen of Gabriel and the other cousins, but it was overwhelming all at once. So much cold pressure when she'd spent her life being warmly enveloped by her parents and grandparents when they'd still been alive. When she'd been so warmly welcomed by Aziraphale from the first hesitant knock on his door. “Okay. Let's go spend the holidays with the people who do know us, then.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiled warmly at her, then allowed her to exit the room first.

Chapter Text

Of course, it wouldn’t be so simple. They couldn’t simply sneak out, after all. Just because their relatives could behave so rudely with little thought didn’t mean that they would follow that kind of example. Aziraphale checked his pocket watch at the bottom of the stairs. It had been five minutes.

Setting down his suitcase to free up both hands, he adjusted his bowtie as he glanced at Anathema. “You go on, my dear. I’ll let them know we must excuse ourselves-”

“Aziraphale.”

He froze, eyes wide as his previously unaccounted for cousins became very much accounted for. They both turned around in time to see Gabriel come out of the parlour, flanked by Sandalphon and Uriel, with Michael just behind them. Aziraphale swallowed, eyes darting to follow Gabriel’s line of sight as it fixated on the suitcase at his feet.

Pointing to it unnecessarily, Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the suitcases?”

“Ah. Well. That is to say…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, clawing within himself for more of that fortitude he’d just mustered for Anathema.

“Something wrong with where you’re staying?” There was a twitch to his lips just then, not quite a smile or a smirk, but it was enough of something to fuel a bit more of Aziraphale’s fire.

“Actually, we were just leaving.” Silence descended upon them in the wake of his words. “Yes, dreadfully sorry to leave right in the middle of the festivities, but I’m afraid something’s come up.”

 All four of them stared at him. “Something's come up on Christmas Eve?” Uriel asked slowly. 

Bugger. Aziraphale nodded earnestly. “Yes, afraid so. Terribly inconvenient, I know.”

“What’s all this, Aziraphale?” Uncle Met’s voice cut in, vaguely curious despite its careful articulation of every syllable in his name. It caused him to stiffen, hands falling behind his back reflexively as his uncle effectively cornered them from behind. Luckily they still had easy access to the front door. “You’re leaving? After we’ve made space for you and Miss Device?”

“And we do appreciate it, Uncle Met. I can assure you this was entirely unplanned. But now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got to be going now-”

“And how exactly are you getting back to Tadfield?” Gabriel chuckled. “Aziraphale, think reasonably. The bus doesn’t run this late on Christmas. Whatever’s come up so suddenly can surely wait.”

Aziraphale swallowed down the sour taste in his mouth that arose at the way Gabriel implied the bus was a demeaning method of transport. “We’re not taking the bus, I’ve already arranged for a lift.”

This time it was Michael who spoke up, her shapely eyebrows creasing as she studied him with a look he’d come to recognize since he’d been very young, her way of dissecting his arguments and scattering the pieces of it at his feet. “A lift?” she echoed.

At least it was a bit less insulting than Gabriel’s incredulous, “You know what Lyft is?”

Aziraphale frowned, believing wholeheartedly that he knew what a lift was, not even remotely aware that he actually didn’t know what Lyft was. “Obviously I know what a lift is.”

“Huh.” Gabriel blinked. “I didn’t think they operated internationally.”

Michael sighed and rolled her eyes, but Aziraphale chose to ignore them both. Sometimes it was easier to let these things go, and anything that kept him in this house longer than strictly necessary wasn’t worth the trouble. Not with Crowley just a few feet away.

Aziraphale inched his way to the front door, nudging Anathema along with him. “Yes, well, it was lovely seeing all of you. May we meet again bright and early in the new year. Come, my dear.”

He opened the door and let her out first, though he couldn’t stop his gaze from snapping to the kerb. The Bentley purred in the winter night, its stark outline just visible against the icy slush in the street. It had only been a few hours since he’d seen it last, but he realised a part of him had been prepared to be disappointed. That it was only an extension of a fantasy.

He still wondered when his breath hitched as he noticed Crowley’s silhouette leaning against the Bentley - standing in the cold instead of tucked inside the warmth of the car - because how could something so perfect be real? A smile blossomed on his face like a snowdrop in a wintery wood and he went to shut the door behind him. He met resistance in the form of Gabriel’s hand against the door.

He was squinting at the car, recognition sparking as he snapped. “Isn’t that…? Is that Anthony Crowley?” Aziraphale hurried forward, only for his wrist to be snatched and stopped in place with a firm grip. “Hold on a minute, sunshine, you called an employee to come get you?”

“I beg your pardon!” he gasped, both at the shock of the grip and the horrifying assumption that he’d be the kind of person who’d do that. “We’re friends! And he was in the area. And I don’t have to explain myself to you, now unhand me at once!”

Gabriel blinked and his grip grew slack, holding both hands up like he could make himself seem unthreatening. Not that Aziraphale felt threatened. No, he was family. He wouldn’t hurt him. Not deliberately. No, the racing of his pulse was out of indignity and outrage, not fear. Aziraphale still held his hand close to his chest, eyes wide and alert as he looked into the faces of each of his cousins. For a moment, it felt like he was standing trial and the people in front of him looked like strangers who held his fate in their hands.

“Who is Anthony Crowley?” Michael asked, as out of the loop with the business as ever.

“Clockman he hired in September,” Sandalphon answered, something akin to a sneer twitching in his face and Aziraphale straightened his shoulders in response. “You’ve been getting rather close with him, haven’t you?”

“Well, that is what one does when one makes friends,” Aziraphale snipped. “I’d think that bit would be hard to forget. Though if you treat potential friends the way you’ve treated our cousin this evening, I’m not surprised you wouldn’t know.”

That had Sandalphon glaring, but whatever he might have said was stayed by Gabriel’s hand. “Easy now. No need to get upset, Aziraphale. We’re just curious. As a part of the advisory board and as business consultants, I think it’s in all of our best interests and the company’s if we’re kept in the loop about any developing relationships. Especially if there’s the potential of an HR scandal. Or worse.”

“A lawsuit,” Sandalphon clarified needlessly.

Gabriel pointed at him as if he’d answered the million dollar question just the same. “A lawsuit.”

“Of course, I hadn’t thought of that. Never even crossed my mind once in the twenty-five years I’ve managed the shop.”

“See? Good thing we’re talking about it.” Gabriel clapped his hands together, grinning his patented business consultant grin and ignorant to the bland stares he received from both Uriel and Michael. “Because you know, Aziraphale, you’ve seemed to have… changed a bit, since hiring Mr. Crowley on.”

“Oh?”

“And if you have a personal relationship, well, that’s a bit concerning. For the sake of the business, after all. We want to protect the good family name and our grandmother’s legacy, don’t we? If it came to light that you were fraternizing with one of your employees… that doesn’t look too good, does it?”

Aziraphale felt a sinking pit in the center of him. Though it had been what held him back at first, to reduce what he and Crowley had to this... to reduce what he felt for Crowley to a base attraction where the thrill was in the forbidden nature of it all… well, they might as well have punched him in the stomach.

“If only you were half as interested in getting to know Anathema as you are in the sordid details of my relationship,” he murmured, shaking his head as he tightened his grip on his suitcase. “Or if you actually took the time to ask me about my personal life instead of making assumptions-” He cut himself off before his voice could give out. “But it doesn’t matter. Don’t you worry. Mr. Crowley and I aren’t engaged in a clandestine dalliance or fraternising behind closed doors.”

He turned on his heel and stalked towards the gate, adding on before they could get another word in, “We’re courting right out in the open. The entire town knows. Not ashamed of it at all. Happy Christmas.” 

Aziraphale didn’t look back, firm in his resolve to make it to the Bentley. As firm as his grip on his suitcase, which took a gentle touch from Crowley’s gloved fingers against the back of his hand to soothe the white-knuckled tightness. The tartan pattern was soft against his skin and it captivated him long enough for the black hole within him to cease its accumulation of every negative emotion he was feeling and left him utterly blank for a moment. It was an embarrassing few seconds before he realised Crowley was trying to take his suitcase from him, Anathema’s already in the boot while she herself was tucked in the backseat.

Aziraphale’s grip finally lessened and Crowley slipped it away. His other hand replaced the suitcase, thumb rubbing gentle circles against the back of Aziraphale's hand as he watched him. He didn't glare up at the house like he wanted to, aware that it was a bit pointless behind his shades and pretty sure that ignoring the lot of them would be more insulting anyway. 

In any case, they weren't his focus. Aziraphale and whatever was swirling through him was. “It’s alright, angel. Let me take you home.”

Even though he couldn’t see his eyes in the dark, the tinted lenses had long become a familiar comfort in their own right. Aziraphale looked into them, nodding as he exhaled and imagined the cloud of his breath carried away the negativity that had been crammed into him. It wouldn’t do to carry that into the car, not while in such close quarters with Anathema at the risk of her being overwhelmed by his aura, and not when he got to spend Christmas with Crowley after all. They were leaving and it didn’t matter any more.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s so good to see you.” His fingertips caressed the bit of skin between the edge of his glove and the long-sleeved henley under his coat before he shuffled around him to the passenger seat. 

Crowley deposited Aziraphale's suitcase on his way to the driver's side, securing the boot. He still didn't look towards the house, too aware of the light spilling into the yard and the long shadows of judgmental family members. They were waiting, it seemed, for him to look their way so he could know their disapproval. He didn't care, so didn't look that way until he slid behind the wheel and then he only saw Aziraphale. Quiet and a little too pale. 

He reached out to click the heat up a degree, fingers brushing Aziraphale's knee before he put the Bentley in gear and finally pulled away from the kerb. Behind him, Anathema blew out a sigh that might've been relief. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and did the same, breathing in the warm comforting notes of leather and wool and a hint of just Crowley. The sterile, overly sanitized air of his uncle’s house was forced out and he filled his lungs with this grounding reminder that he didn’t have to go back. Until next year, a thought prodded him. He balled his hands in his lap, clutching at his own fingers tightly to root himself in the here and now.

“So sorry you had to bear witness to that, my dear girl,” he addressed Anathema. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. You telling them off like that was the highlight of the night so far.” He should get some blunt honesty after the tap dance of insincerity that lived in the house they'd left behind. “Are you okay?” 

Aziraphale looked ahead of him into the night, at the Christmas lights of the other houses on the street before they’d be enveloped with the darkness of the countryside. He’d never spoken up like that to all of them. The occasional snippy comment and passive aggressive back-and-forths with Gabriel, yes, but he’d never just told them no. Never that they were wrong.

But in this case, they were. They didn’t know Anathema, so they didn’t get to treat her like a pariah. They didn’t know the first thing about his relationship with Crowley, so they didn’t get to speak of it at all. They didn’t get to touch it. 

There was a sort of liberating satisfaction at telling them off, which made sense and he understood why it felt good to stand up for oneself. It’s what he encouraged Anathema to do, what he’d encourage of any reasonable person. What he didn’t understand was why he still felt guilty. Like he deserved whatever retribution they’d dole out for being spoken to so disrespectfully, in front of Uncle Met, who’d surely tell everyone else who hadn’t witnessed the conversation.

He suppressed a shudder, tightening his grip on his own hands as he realised he hadn’t said anything for too long. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Crowley’s fingers tighten around the wheel, concern radiating off him like the Bentley radiated heat. “Yes, I… I think I’m still just taking it all in,” he started with that to buy some more time, turning his head to look more directly at Crowley. “Are you alright, dearest? It was never my intention to make you wait so long. If I’d known you were still in town, I would have-” What would he have done? Called sooner? Well, then he might as well have just stayed home to start. “I didn’t mean to make you drive all this way for nothing, and waste your whole afternoon-”

“Shut up,” he interrupted. “I wouldn't have hung around if I didn't want to, and you had to try, didn't you? Both of you. S'fine.” Crowley waved a hand. “There are worse things to do than wait for you, angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t know if he’d expected any other sort of response, but it still made his heart beat heavy in his chest and a great swell of love crash into him. He wanted to ask what Crowley would’ve done if Aziraphale had never called, but he didn’t think he’d get a proper answer out of him while he knew Anathema was listening. At least not one that wasn’t overly punctuated with all manner of flustered sounds. 

“Can I at least say, ‘thank you?’”

That earned a few flustered sounds anyway, but Crowley ended up shrugging. “You don't have to,” he eventually muttered, hands shifting restlessly over the wheel. “That's not why...”

The way his voice faded tugged at Aziraphale’s heart with such fervent affection, he couldn’t resist being drawn in. “I know.” Hands unclasped so he could touch Crowley’s knee. “I know that’s not why.”

“Ngk.” Crowley settled under the touch, the understanding, and glanced at him. He wasn't quite as shaken or pale, so some progress had been made. Still not all the way there yet, but he knew Aziraphale’s relationship with his family was... complicated. “Right.”

A small smile was attempted, but Aziraphale could feel how fragile it was in the corners of his mouth and the creases around his eyes. Like cracked porcelain. One wrong move and the entire thing would shatter. Pieces breaking away one by one, collected in cloth in an attempt to save all that was left, to keep track of every sliver to fill in every crack.

He squeezed Crowley’s knee instead, trusting the contact more than his expression to let him know things would be alright. The car was quiet, even the radio turned to a low volume one had to strain to hear. Aziraphale wanted to fill it with chatter and keep everyone’s spirits up, he was good at that, but the right words eluded him and in the moment it was far more tempting to not have to think about what he’d say next.

The silence was more telling anyway. The only times Aziraphale wasn't chatting about something or other were when his nose was in a book or when food was involved. Even then, there'd be gasps or hums of delight or surprise, soft mumbles whispered at pages when he found a new mystery or if a character decided to do something foolhardy. 

But for all that, Aziraphale was private. He wouldn't talk about himself, what really mattered anyway, around someone. Even if that someone was family. She was newer family than what had been left behind, so the binds weren't as tangled. He'd picked her over them, though, and now there were sides. Crowley didn't think he had to point that out for Aziraphale to know his family tree had some splits in its bark. He didn't really think he needed to point out anything, but he was ready to keep waiting for the chance to listen. Like he'd been waiting all afternoon, just in case his phone rang. 

He didn't know how to say that, probably wouldn't have even without Anathema in the car, but a hand slipped off the steering wheel. His fingers curled around Aziraphale's, hold easily broken if that was the choice, but solid. There. A comfort or a reassurance, both or more. If all he could do in the moment was be there, he would be in whatever way his angel needed.

Aziraphale held his breath as he stared at the point where their hands met. He didn’t move, didn’t dare to, as he watched and expected that any moment he’d pull away. To flex his fingers, to steady the car on dark, icy roads, to scratch his chin even. There were any number of things that could draw Crowley’s touch away, but twenty minutes later, he was still holding on.

Holding with the gentlest of pressures, as if he’d scare him away or bruise him if he coiled too tightly. If he felt too much. Aziraphale blinked, his eyes damp as he pictured Crowley waiting by the phone, huddled in the Bentley, watching for his call as much as he likely hoped that things wouldn’t go poorly. No matter what he might have thought about his family or Aziraphale’s choices regarding them, he hadn’t once tried to stop him. He circled him in the same way he held his hand, his presence unwavering but never stifling, even if he wanted nothing more than to simply be there.

There’d been no I told you so. No why didn’t you listen? No are you really surprised this whole thing went down like a lead balloon, Aziraphale?

I’ll be there, he’d said. Like it was nothing.

It was everything.

Oh, he loved this man. Aziraphale let the thought flow freely, felt it tremble down to his very bones with how very fierce it was. Like a storm colliding with a warm summer day, the air crackling with electricity and at the same time thick and sweet like treacle. It hurt and it soothed the wounds it left behind, too much and not nearly enough and incapable of being put into words.

He loved him when the sunlight caught fire in his hair in the morning light. He loved him when he grumbled and groused his way through the tiniest spot of breakfast just to appease him. He loved him elbows deep in a car’s engine, covered in sweat and oil and shooed away whenever he got too close to his favourite coat or his books. He loved him when he shouted at the pot plants that he never outright said he wanted, but always ended up in the backseat of the Bentley regardless. He loved his cackle of a laugh and the somber quiet of his woes. 

He loved the crease in his brow as clever fingers took apart the works of a clock - the same way they could take him apart in bed or on the sofa or against the wall. The curve of his lips as he indulged in his craving to watch Aziraphale eat, read, drink, sleep. The sharp press of his knees against his thighs, the spread of his fingers over his stomach like he needed to touch as much of him at once as possible, the wicked things he could do with his tongue. The taste of the hollow of his throat, the sounds he’d make when he felt too much and wanted more. His cheeky smiles. His tears. The wrinkle of his nose when he was well and truly pissed or frustrated with him. The way that same wrinkle disappeared when he kissed it or called him sweet darling, dearest, mine.

Aziraphale loved Crowley and, for the first time since it flickered to life in his heart, he didn’t feel afraid of it.

Yes, he loved this ridiculous man who put up with an even more ridiculous him and didn’t demand anything in return. Not even for him to say thank you or to hold his hand back in return. He likely didn’t expect his love, either, and instead of being terrified of telling him, of letting him know, Aziraphale realised the thought of him going through life and not knowing a moment longer would be truly unforgivable.

He carefully turned his wrist, slow enough that he could feel each cord of muscle tighten and release one by one until their palms were flush and fingers intertwined. He secured his grip and wanted to cry when Crowley’s fingers flexed in uncertainty before squeezing back. Oh, good Lord, he truly needed to pull himself together.

The car was still quiet enough that they’d all hear him sniffling soon enough, so with his free hand he fiddled with the radio and turned up the volume. “You know what we need? Some music. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. What’s Christmas without a little music?” he rambled, and found that holding Crowley’s hand and loving him so deeply made it a little easier to feel the cheer his words were meant to instill.

He tried to find a station that was playing actual Christmas music, but the only station that managed to cut through the static was playing Queen. Well, there were worse things to listen to on Christmas. Bebop, for instance.

“What sort of music do you like to listen to, Anathema dear? Are you as fond of the ‘hard bops’ as young Adam and his friends like to put it? It certainly sounds like an American invention, if I’m being quite honest,” he continued as Freddie Mercury sang “Thank God It’s Christmas” in the background, and a conversation was born that carried the three of them the rest of the way to Tadfield.

Their hands didn’t let go once.

----

As they passed the sign for Tadfield, it began to snow. Thick, fat flakes that belonged on a postcard and would make the children of Tadfield very excited come morning. They just made Crowley flick on the windshield wipers as they made their way through town as he deliberately drove the main roads. Everyone was closed down and had been all day, but it didn’t mean everything was dark. On the contrary, the little town was bursting with colourful, twinkling lights and Christmas displays that made Crowley glad he hadn’t yet removed his sunglasses for the night. 

It made him wonder if it was anything like Aziraphale remembered, a picture not unlike what he’d told him of childhood Christmases when the family would come to Tadfield to revel in the powerful matriarch’s home. It was a simple way to please him, he hoped, to get some of his natural excitement over the holiday back. The warm squeeze of his hand was a good sign, at least.

The sparkle stretched even to Jasmine Cottage, though the lights were a bit uneven on one side. Crowley wondered if Newt was still limping from the fall he’d taken, but swallowed the question. They could see him waiting in the yard, snow clinging to his jacket.

“Oh, that idiot,” Anathema sighed.

“I think it’s darling,” Aziraphale replied, smiling fondly as Newt perked up at the sight of the car slowing just outside the gate. It was also a relief to know she’d have someone to spend the rest of the night with her and hopefully give her a far better Christmas than they would’ve had otherwise. “Let me help you with your bag, dear girl.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-” The driver door was shoved open, interrupting her, and she only shook her head in defeat. Crowley could pretend he wasn’t a soft touch all he wanted, but he could be very obvious. “Okay.”

Aziraphale got out while Crowley went to pop open the boot, then wiggled the passenger seat forward so she’d have room to get out. He offered a hand to help steady her, so she wouldn’t slip as the snow collected on the ground. Before he could grab the suitcase though, Crowley had already hefted it up and carted it over to the gate, where Newt fiddled with the latch to let them in.

“How was the drive? Are you alright?” he was asking, gaze flitting between the three of them, but mostly hovering around Anathema.

“It was fine. I think Crowley drove slower coming here than he did on the way there.”

If he had, it was because he’d only had one hand to drive with. “Should chuck this in a snowbank,” he muttered, making her smile.

Aziraphale still tsked and took it from him, waving off Newt's attempt to reach for it - he was still favouring one leg, he could see - and started up the garden path. “Well it was dark this time around,” he reasoned. “I for one appreciate the consideration of the elements.”

“Ngk,” Crowley protested. 

Anathema laughed, letting Newt tuck her into his side as they followed Aziraphale. “I'd hate to see how he drives during the summer. Or any season without snow during the day. Can you even see?”

Not as well as when there was daylight and there had definitely been some irritated motorists left behind since his brights had been on the entire time. “Yup.”

Aziraphale set the suitcase down just inside the door, hands clasped together in front of him as he faced the young couple. Anathema, more precisely. It had been like watching his own past through smudged lenses, or perhaps the same dark tint of Crowley’s in the dead of night, seeing the way she floated aimlessly, unmoored and unwanted by those who should have loved her. That he was watching it happen to someone else made it all the more painful. She’d come to Tadfield full of curiosity and questions, keen on unraveling all she didn’t know about this mysterious other side of her family. The side where her gift came from, even if no one else had been blessed with the abilities of either Agnes or his grandmother. They were all still an enigma, and family nonetheless. 

But he was the one who knew Agnes’s stories. He was the one who could shed light on her great-grandmother and the family tree that stretched on beyond her. He could open that door for her, already had, he just never thought that… Well, to come all this way to England to meet one’s family… surely, he’d thought, she couldn’t be satisfied knowing only him.

He’d wanted her to stay, this living link and reminder of someone who’d cared for him. He wanted to get to know her, too, and fill in the gaps in his own family tree that refused to blossom even if the branches were there. It had never been his wish for her to see their family in this light, had tried his hardest to shield as much of his grievances with Gabriel and Sandalphon as he could, he’d only wanted her to have more of that connection she was seeking. Of the connection he’d been seeking, too, possibly… until Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled at Newt and gave him a firm handshake, clasping the boy’s hand between both of his. Then he took Anathema’s hand and gave it a loving squeeze, eyes soft as he spoke. 

“As much of a disaster as that might have turned out to be, I am glad I got to spend this Christmas Eve with you, my dear. Perhaps next year we can have our own quiet celebration, here in town. Invite your parents, if they feel up to making the trip and don’t mind a bit of a white Christmas.”

“I’d like that. Mom’s been making noises about coming out, so I don’t think they’d say no. And I don’t think I’d call the night a disaster so much as a... learning experience,” she decided. “Newt and I were going to go see his mom in London after we got back, so maybe we’ll head there sometime tomorrow instead. But we could do lunch or something before we go? If you’re up to it.”

“That would be lovely, my dear. We would be delighted to host you both. Feel free to telephone us once you know your plans.” It was too cold to linger for long, so with that decided, he made his way back to the gate, turning to give them a wave while they still lingered in the doorway. “Have a wonderful Christmas!”

Newt returned the wave in his awkward way, and Anathema folded her hands and let the colors come through. Murky ones weren't unexpected, nor was the vibrancy of other shades. They clashed and tangled around them, but she had a good feeling about them. If Aziraphale had to be her only family over here, she'd gotten rather lucky. “Merry Christmas!” she called back and pulled Newt into the warmth, already scolding him for waiting in the snow. 

Crowley held the gate open. “Ready to head home, love?” 

The lights gleaming from the eaves of Jasmine cottage reflected in Crowley’s sunglasses, highlighted the angles of his face, but still left him shrouded in enough shadow to leave Aziraphale wanting. Home sounded wonderful. Part of him wanted nothing more than to hide away from the world in his bed, tangled up in Crowley under the thick quilts and bask in the feeling of loving him and being loved by him.

But…

“You can say no,” he started, twisting his signet ring as he stepped through the gate, “but there’s somewhere else I’d like to go first, I think.”

Crowley latched the gate behind them. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught, misty-eyed and wavering on the precipice of something as he looked at him. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, he’d said earlier, and still meant it. Without even knowing where they’d be going. He reached out for Crowley’s hand when it let go of the gate while they were still close enough to touch, fleeting as it was before they had to part to get back into the car on their respective sides.

----

The church had a large Christmas tree set up out front, with a nativity scene tucked beneath it. The roof was trimmed with icicle lights and a star had been mounted on the wall. It overlooked the rest of the town, illuminated with its own cacophony of colourful lights. The very center of Tadfield looked as pretty as a Thomas Kinkade painting, the quiet winter glow like every child’s dream of a perfect Christmas.

They didn’t go inside the church, or even beyond the gates. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t demand that of Crowley, especially not tonight. Instead he sat on the bench just in front, where he could look out at the town dripping with light. Aziraphale cleared the snow from the seat of the bench, then looked at Crowley and patted the spot to his left.

“I’d like to sit for a minute, if that’s alright.”

“S'fine, angel.” Crowley sat beside him, tucking an arm around his shoulders. He'd claim a defense against the chill if he needed an excuse, but he didn't think he would. They'd sat the same way over Guy Fawkes Night, watching fireworks and sharing nibbles. That night hadn't felt as heavy as this one, but Crowley would sit in this freezing cold as long as his partner needed. “It's pretty enough.”

“It is,” he murmured, reaching up to stroke over Crowley’s hand where it perched on his shoulder as he leaned into him. He smelled like cigarettes and leather and worry after practically marinating in it the entire day, the poor dear. “I can’t tell you enough, my dear, but it truly does mean so much that you were there today. That you stayed. I’m not saying it to embarrass you, only to stress that I… I like that you know me. That you know what I truly want even if I refuse to say so, even if it’s unbearably frustrating, which I know it must be.”

“Can be,” he admitted after a moment, “but you don't need a boss and I don't want to be one.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, just as carefully, “but you could just as well let me fall. Let me face the consequences of my decisions on my own, instead of standing beside me.” He turned his head to look at his profile, squeezing his hand when Crowley tilted his head to face him. “It would be quite understandable if you did.”

He arched a brow. “I don't think making you hurt more is understandable.”

Aziraphale’s lips curved in the fondest of expressions. “No, I don’t suppose you would think so,” he murmured, then tugged Crowley’s hand up so he could press a kiss into his palm, all devotion and full of that soft, sweet ache he couldn’t escape. Didn’t want to escape. “You’re a wonder, Crowley.”

“Ngk,” he protested, sure that was just to embarrass him. “I'm not. It's not difficult to-” His free hand gestured as helplessly as the sounds he made while he searched for words. “To be there for you and all.”

“That doesn’t make it any less of a wonder.” Aziraphale kissed the pads of his fingers next, loving the way they twitched before he gave him a bit of a reprieve. “Crowley, you must understand, I’ve always been so frightened of doing the wrong thing. All my life. And they knew-” His voice cracked, throat suddenly tight as the fresh pain welled up, not nearly close to being scarred over and the stitches too new, but… “They knew and they took advantage. My own family, Crowley.”

He needed to see his eyes, he realised. He couldn’t staunch the onslaught of how much it still hurt - he was fifty years old, for Heaven’s sake, it shouldn’t have still hurt like he was eight and his parents told him not to come home - and he needed to see his eyes because it wasn’t about this and it was all at the same time. Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand to gesture at his glasses.

“Please, can you-? I want to see you.”

“‘Course, yeah.” Crowley slipped them off and tucked them in his pocket. It was only the two of them out so late on Christmas Eve and the lights weren't so bright that he couldn't accommodate such a simple request. “Y’know their choices aren't your fault, angel.”

“I know. I know they’re not. But they’re what I’ve come to expect. I’ve expected that if I make a mistake, then I lose everything. Or what I thought was everything. What I thought was love.”

Aziraphale angled himself to face Crowley better, cupping his face with his hand as his world narrowed down to this moment. In this moment, bubbled in their winter wonderland like a scene in a snowglobe, Aziraphale didn’t feel afraid. He lost himself in the intensity of Crowley’s gaze, focused entirely on him. Always on him.

“Dearest,” he breathed, stroking his thumb across his cheek. “You’ve shown me time and time again that I don’t need to be frightened with you. You helped me question everything I’d come to accept was just how things had to be. That in order to be accepted and loved and wanted, I had to behave a certain way. Say the right things. Certainly I could put up a decent enough argument with them, but only because in the end we all knew it would be a fruitless endeavor.

“I want to try harder. I think we both more than deserve that. I know you won’t ever say so, but it must not feel good when I consider your opinion and then turn around and reject it. Naturally we’ll still disagree from time to time and won’t always see eye to eye, but you see, that’s what makes being with you so wondrous. Because I’ll still be with you. Through all the mistakes, the uncertainties, and the frustrations. But when it comes to things that matter, the important things…” 

Aziraphale looked long and hard at him, hoping to convey the sheer magnitude of his feelings on the matter, but still trying to muster up the courage to say what should have only taken three words. “I want to try harder for us. You deserve that. Just as I deserve to feel safe enough to make mistakes and know you won’t think any less of me when I do, you deserve to have someone fighting for and beside you. Always.” 

Crowley wanted to deny it. Not because he disagreed, exactly, and not because he wanted to push aside Aziraphale's feelings, but the words were so much. They felt like so much. Big and overwhelming, permanent and promising - all things he just wasn't used to and really didn't know how to handle well. 

He tried to reply, but the denial and the words he couldn't say tangled and lodged in his throat to keep everything else trapped behind it. And Aziraphale just let him stumble and hiss and have himself a little panic under the weight of those promises - that always part Crowley wasn’t ready to fully believe - until he could find actual words, deny what he actually objected to and not what the defensive part of him wanted to. “I... I do want you to feel safe with me. You are. So I don’t know how you could try harder, what could change.” And he knew his family wouldn't be out of Aziraphale's life after one Christmas walk out. It wouldn't be so simple, but of course Crowley would be there. He'd prop him up when he was needed. 

Aziraphale drew his hand back. At first the fear flickered back - he’d done too much, said the wrong thing, of course Crowley would think him ridiculous - but he made a conscious effort to snuff it out before it burned too brightly and hid his resolve in flickering shadows.

“I think I could stand up for myself more,” he tried, lifting his chin a bit. “Worry less about what they think. Run my shop and my life the way I want to. Give voice to things that might be rather difficult to say. That could change, couldn’t it?”

He already ran the shop and his life how he wanted, but there were lines. Every visit - expected or not - every phone call, every email, every little change done behind his back because Gabriel and Sandalphon had access to far too much. If he wanted to start chipping away at their power over him, Crowley was very much for it. 

He caught his hand before he could clasp them in his lap or fidget with his ring, lifting it to let his lips linger over the knuckles. “It could. You know I'll help you.”

“I believe that was precisely my point,” he couldn’t help huffing, but it was more of a fond sigh, if anything.

The light kiss accomplished what it set out to do as Aziraphale softened. He also realised exactly what Crowley had been attempting, the wily thing. Trying to squirm his way out of a conversation that felt like too much because he didn’t hear it enough. No, not nearly enough. Aziraphale had a lot of time to make up for.

“Now, I see what you’re doing, Crowley, and I’ll have to ask that you stop trying to distract me and let me finish what I’m trying to say.”

He kept a hold of Aziraphale's hand, using it as an anchor point to keep him grounded in the moment and letting his thumb rub circles against his back as a distraction from the panic that wanted to well again. “Ngk.”

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale sighed again, squeezing his hand. “I’m not trying to upset you, quite the opposite really. Don’t-” He held up his free hand to quiet him the second he realised he was about to deny being upset. “Alright, perhaps that’s enough of words. I only wanted to-” Now he was struggling.

Frustrated with himself, Aziraphale looked away for a moment to collect himself, but left his hand in Crowley’s to let him know he wasn’t done. This was part of where they didn’t always align. Aziraphale loved to express himself in words, Crowley in action, and the two didn’t always fit as neatly as they both would’ve liked. But that was just another interesting facet about the two of them together, something worth the extra effort to figure out.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter what I was trying to say. Not when I get to be here with you.” Aziraphale’s gaze found its way back to Crowley, only to close his eyes as he leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “It’s all I really wanted. All day, I only wanted to be with you.” 

“You've got me, angel.” Crowley cupped his cheek, gently guiding him into a proper kiss. Here, they knew how to give and take. And Crowley took the understanding, the quiet strength that was offered in the action and gave back the words when the soft connection broke. Whatever he'd been trying to say did matter, and Crowley would be the worst sort of annoying hypocrite if he didn't let Aziraphale have this. “I can try harder too. So if you want to talk, I'll stop getting in your way.”

Aziraphale shook his head and pressed closer. “You’re not in my way, Crowley,” he said, drawing him for another kiss, though couldn’t resist adding, “A speed bump, perhaps. Or an exceptionally crowded roundabout.” His own smile threatened to interrupt them, so he let his lips part and coaxed Crowley to kiss him deeper, before any of his Choice Words regarding his abhorrence of roundabouts tried to do the same.

They faded from Crowley’s mind quick enough anyway, letting amused annoyance go in favour of exploring his mouth. He knew it well now, but doubted he'd ever be bored with it. With him. So Crowley kissed him, letting the worry and tension he'd sat with all day fade as easily as those Choice Words. Crowley kissed him and didn't think of Aziraphale’s family, what they might've done that day or what they might do in the near future. 

Crowley kissed him and it was just the two of them, warming one another inside and out on a snowy Christmas Eve. He knew he was holding onto something brighter and more stunning than any Christmas lights, so held as close as he could and promised without words to never let go. Took that always and gave it back. 

Even as snowflakes caught in their hair and chilled their cheeks, they couldn’t feel the cold. Crowley was better than a mug of hot cocoa, sending spiralling warmth through Aziraphale’s veins that curled in and around him like a possessive snake. He wrapped his arms around his waist and shamelessly basked in his promises and everything he had trouble saying. This contact magnified everything Aziraphale had felt in the car, flashes of love going off like lit sparklers and filling him with colour and light, and oh, he could only hope he could give back to Crowley what he gave and gave and gave as their lips met again and their breath mingled as much as their hearts had entwined. 

They were trembling when the kiss slowed to a stop. Aziraphale eased out of it with a gentle nuzzle, their noses skimming one another as he couldn’t resist letting his lips caress over Crowley’s once more to savour the feeling of having him so close. He opened his eyes, admired the way dark lashes fluttered over pinkened cheeks and the red of his well-kissed mouth as his lips remained poised just in case Aziraphale was still feeling peckish.

As close to glowing as physically possible for a person, Aziraphale’s smile was full of tenderness and delight as he tucked this moment in his memory with all the care of a priceless piece of art. “I love you,” he said, because it was the only thing left that needed saying.

The simple words ricocheted through Crowley like a bullet, tearing him to pieces and leaving him breathless in their wake. When had he last heard someone say that? At fourteen? His grandad had been the only one Crowley had ever heard those words from in his entire life, and he hadn't heard them that last day. The night before, perhaps, when he'd knocked on his bedroom door. “Goodnight, kid. Love you.”

So casual and easy and familiar, he really could've been remembering any night. Any night before and never since. 

“Angel,” he rasped, voice cracking as he was put back together as quickly as he'd been torn apart. Though the words hadn't been entirely unexpected considering the start of Aziraphale's grand speech, their impact floored him. He nudged their brows together. “Aziraphale.”

“I’m here. It’s alright.” Aziraphale stroked along his back, then up to knead the back of his neck as he let him have his moment, holding him as he shuddered. “I love you, Crowley.” Now that he’d said it, he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want this beautiful man to think for a single second that he was unloved in this entire universe.

Crowley made helpless noises, not quite sure what to do and throat closing around any real attempts to try returning the words. He hadn't said them in longer than he'd heard them, and he couldn't make them form now. He wanted to kiss him again, bundle him into the Bentley and take him home, to bed if they could make it that far. Show him in every way he could that the same feelings were there. 

“You know,” he managed when he made himself meet Aziraphale's gaze. He was stunning, the Christmas lights colouring his hair and the beige of his coat. They shone and sparkled in his eyes right alongside the patience and, oh, so much love. All of that couldn't possibly be for him. “I can't- You have to know, angel.”

“I do.” It was his turn to frame his face between his hands and watch as his breath caught from the contact, golden eyes wide and vulnerable. “And it’s alright, dearest. You don’t have to say it back. That’s not why I told you.” He pulled him down a little and tilted his own head up so he could press a kiss to his brow. “I simply realised I didn’t want to keep it from you any longer. I couldn’t bear to.”

Crowley reached up, held onto his wrists. His heart felt so full, it ached, but that didn't mean he had to run, did it? Not from Aziraphale. “Sssay it again?” 

“I love you.” His heart felt flayed open and raw as he spoke the words against his skin, flowing from his lips so easily now that they’d been said. “Oh, Crowley, I love you so tremendously. I don’t want to go another day without saying it.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and shuddered as Crowley’s thumbs rubbed over his wrists, stroking his heartbeat as it sped up. “Forgive me?”

Crowley's lips found the pulse point of his throat, lingered on a soft hum. His own skipping pulse had him deciding he'd be just fine hearing it every day. “For...? You haven't done anything wrong.” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed, then he slowly shook his head and retreated a bit. He wanted to look at Crowley properly, his sinful lips as much of a distraction as ever. He took his hands instead and held them between his own. 

“Perhaps not wrong, per se, but… I feel as though I let my own fears get the better of me. You see, I’ve debated telling you for a bit of time now, but I was so worried it was too soon. Too fast. Too much.” He glanced down at their hands, so different and yet so perfect when they fit together. “But through all that worrying, I didn’t think once about how that shouldn’t have mattered if I felt it and meant it. My dear…” Aziraphale’s eyes were glassy and bright from the shine of unshed tears catching the glow of the Christmas lights as he looked at Crowley like he was the most precious thing in all creation. “I shouldn’t have been worried that it was too soon for me to say it. But that it’s been too long since you’ve heard it.”

And it had been a very long time. He'd never been looked at like that before and it had been such a long time he'd heard the words. “There's no reason for you to feel guilty about that, angel. My life isn't your doing.” Crowley lifted their hands, kissing the back of one then the other. “But if it makes you feel better, 'course I forgive you.”

“It's not meant to make me feel better,” he mumbled, but the sharp ache in his heart didn't sting quite so much, so he didn't really have it in him to argue. Perhaps it was a bit for himself, but he wanted Crowley to know just the same. “I love you.” He spoke the words one more time as he leaned in to rest his head against Crowley's shoulder. 

Crowley sighed, arms winding around him and taking a moment to revel in the words and the truth behind them. Absolutely worth waiting for, he decided, pressing a kiss to his temple. And after another moment, he gave in and whispered, “Thank you.” For loving him, trusting him enough to tell him, and for simply wanting to be with him. 

Aziraphale gave him a squeeze, letting him know that he heard him. No thanks were necessary, in his opinion. It was his pleasure and privilege to love him, but just as Crowley let him have his forgiveness, he let him have his gratitude. “Let's go home, dearest. I believe I'm ready now.”

“Yeah.” Crowley rose with him, lips quirking when they reached for one another's hand at the same time. Ridiculous. “Happy Christmas, angel.”

Lit up like an actual angel atop a Christmas tree, Aziraphale beamed at him as he laced their fingers together. “Happy Christmas, Crowley.”

Chapter Text

He'd been prepared to wake up alone on Christmas. Of the many, many things he'd fretted over waiting in the Bentley hour after hour the day before, waking up alone had been among them. It had been two months - how had it only been two months? - since he'd first been invited into this bed. And while Aziraphale was almost never beside him when he woke up in the mornings, he was still there. Fingers in his hair, soft lips over his or, sweetly, somewhere on his face, or even just the sounds of Aziraphale rustling about getting ready for the day had turned into Crowley’s alarm clock. 

He shouldn't be used to it, but around his eighth or ninth cigarette the day before he'd admitted to himself that he very much was. He was used to the big bed that smelled less like Aziraphale and more like them. He was used to the puttering about in the mornings. He was used to catching him, mussing him just a little for the unique pleasure in his tutting or fond looks or eye rolls or whatever reaction he incited. Every single one was burned into his mind and his heart and he'd told himself he had absolutely no business being in so deep after just a few months together. 

But on Christmas morning, he knew better. He woke up with new words stamped on his heart, wondered in that fuzzy space between sleep and wakefulness if he'd find them branded somewhere on his skin from how many times Aziraphale had whispered it. Better if it was on Aziraphale’s skin, though. Something for him to point at and show him, “It's here, I feel it too.” His vocal cords were betraying him on that front, but his angel seemed to understand. 

Thank Someone he understood. He understood what the way his lips and fingers had trailed over velvet skin the night before had meant. “Me too. I feel it too. I'm yours, I swear.” He couldn't exactly make the right words form in his own brain most of the time, but he knew they were there. He'd figure it out. Probably. Eventually. 

He drifted a few minutes more in that pleasant place where the words didn't actually matter, maybe he fell asleep a few minutes more, but Crowley let his eyes cautiously squint open soon enough. Then open further when he realized the shades were drawn and his tartan-pyjamaed alarm clock was still in bed. Turned towards him, blue eyes shut, and lips parted just a little. It was new and so much better than waking alone. 

Very carefully, enjoying the lovely peace of him very much, Crowley slid a little closer. He pressed his lean angles into the pliant plushness of him, no longer surprised at the way they fit. An arm slid around him, this quiet morning as uniquely intimate as the shower they'd taken together the night before, too tired and loose-limbed to do more than clean each other. 

Smile as soft as his touch, Crowley lifted a hand to his face to gently explore. The bow of his lips, the curve of his cheeks, the ridges of his nose. He traced the lines, the proof of his life, and wondered at how smooth he seemed in sleep. He wondered where they'd be if they'd found one another sooner, let himself wish and wonder on this holiday that wasn't his, but mostly just let himself be grateful. To Anyone who may or may not be listening, he was so very grateful to be there now. To watch sleepy blue eyes open, treated to the way Aziraphale stretched and mumbled but ultimately became alert far faster than Crowley tended to. 

A real morning person, the bastard. Crowley’s smile warmed. “Hi.”

“Good morning, dearest,” he hummed, voice soft as freshly fallen snow, smile just as bright. “Been awake long?”

“Long enough to admire the view.”

“Mm. Yes, well, I thought you deserved a present this Christmas. So there you are. Happy Christmas, darling.” Aziraphale grinned as he snuggled closer, bestowing a kiss upon the tip of Crowley’s nose. 

Crowley just barely smothered his smile, but it was still bright in his eyes as he gave him a fond squeeze. “As a first Christmas present ever, it's not bad. There are far worse gifts, I think.”

“Oh, stop. At this rate, you’ll make me want to get up and give you your gift straightaway.” Even if he was the one who started it. 

“Can't have that. You'll need breakfast first.” Crowley stroked a hand through his sleep-mussed curls. “Especially since I don't know that I'll see you the rest of the day after you get yours.”

Aziraphale captured his hand so he could brush his lips to his palm. “I must say, I share a similar concern for when you receive yours. Though I can assure you that I'll want to spend as much of the holiday with you as possible.” 

“Now you've got me curious, but I'd like to spend today together too.” Crowley squeezed his hand. He hadn't brought him home to avoid him. “If you want to go off with your present, I'll just have to tag along.”

“I suppose you must then.” Aziraphale kissed his wrist next, right over his heartbeat. “I love you,” he told him, because he could. Because it wasn’t a secret anymore and he’d be damned if Crowley went a single day forward without hearing it at least once.

Said heartbeat skipped under a garbled noise that was quickly abandoned in favor of getting those lips against his, to taste the words. He didn’t think he’d get used to them anytime soon, but hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t stop saying them. They did things to him - both heart and mind scrambling in a delighted, terrified sort of way. Aziraphale might’ve called it a tizzy, and Crowley was definitely not going to. “Two Christmas presents,” he mumbled against his mouth. “I’m getting spoiled and we haven’t even gotten up yet.”

“You certainly are,” Aziraphale laughed, then pushed himself up into more of a reclined position against the headboard. “And the best is yet to come. What do you think, my dear? Shall we venture downstairs and see what we can do about breakfast? At least get some tea in you.”

“Tea wouldn’t be a bad idea.” He rolled out of bed just for the novel experience of being the first one out of it for once and stretched. “What else are you in the mood for?”

With a happy wiggle, Aziraphale watched his muscles flex beneath his tee shirt, rather enjoying the sight of him moving about the bedroom like it was just as much his. As far as Aziraphale was concerned, it was. “What do you say to some smoked salmon eggs benedict? Christmas morning seems like a special enough occasion, don’t you think?”

“Since I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that in my life, sure.” He picked up his sunglasses, pushed them atop his head instead of over his eyes just in case a stray sunbeam tried to attack him or Aziraphale wanted to go outside for some infernal reason. 

Aziraphale gasped in unabashed horror. “Oh! My dear, well, let me tempt you to- oh. Well, I suppose that’s your job.” He gestured for Crowley to come to his bedside, which was essentially making grabby hands at him, then waited for him to get close enough before removing the sunglasses so his fingers could delve into his hair to see if it felt as soft as it looked. And possibly muss him up some, as Crowley was so fond of doing to him. “So tempting, yes. Can’t keep my hands off you.”

“I don’t remember saying you had to.” Crowley leaned down for a light kiss. “And if I ever make that mistake, don’t listen. It’s a lie.”

Aziraphale tutted at him, leaving his hair fluffed as he replaced his sunglasses atop his head. “You ridiculous thing. Don’t encourage me. You know it’s a dangerous combination cooking together and being distracted by you.”

He grinned. “Well, apparently it’s my job to be tempting. I shouldn’t slack off.”

“Take a well-earned holiday until after breakfast.” Aziraphale shooed him back so he could get out of bed himself. “Then you may resume fulfilling your duties as a formidable tempter.”

“Formidable, am I?” The look that garnered made him laugh. “Come on, love. I'll use my skills to tempt you into opening your gift,” so he could stop worrying over whether or not he'd like it, “but I'll behave until after we eat.”

He was true to his word, though Aziraphale did his very best to test his limits as he hummed around hollandaise and asked Crowley with fluttering lashes if he would be so sweet as to toast the muffins? But breakfast was a success and eaten in their pyjamas - “It's been years since I've had a proper Christmas morning where I wasn't expected to be dressed in my Sunday best.” - so Aziraphale was happy to make the most of it.

Breakfast was also surprisingly quick, as Aziraphale eagerly steered Crowley to the sitting room with their second cups of tea, their wrapped boxes sitting pretty in front of the fireplace and stockings stuffed with candies and satsumas and a Christmas cracker each. Even if Aziraphale had expected not to be here for Christmas, he'd still wanted to do something with Crowley to celebrate upon his return. He wasted no time setting a medium-sized rectangular box on the coffee table in front of where Crowley normally sat, wiggling with delight. 

“Come, dearest, let's exchange gifts on the sofa.” Aziraphale patted the cushion as he sat on the right side.

Crowley dropped down next to him, his own wrapped box set in front of Aziraphale. It was neat as a pin thanks to a few online videos and despite a massive battle with tape. He'd won in the end, but it may have taken a full roll. He wasn't going to think about the amount of wrapping paper he'd gone through either. “I've gotten plenty of gifts already, so you open yours.”

“Yes, but aside from your darling primrose, they were mostly for our mutual amusement.” It still didn’t stop Aziraphale from admiring the wrapping job and carefully, though very much eagerly, peeling back the corners. A gasp escaped him as he uncovered the edge of what appeared to be a book, heart in his eyes as he looked to Crowley fondly. “Oh, my dear, encouraging my bibliophilia, I see,” he giggled.

“Ngk. Kind of.” It had been something of a nightmare to get the words together and format them, track down pictures of them to get the right leather. He'd needed Tracy's help in getting the pattern right. He squirmed a bit when Aziraphale finally finished opening the package. Leather was folded over paper, but it was clear they weren't quite attached together. The intent, at least, was very clear. It was quiet for three seconds too long and he started to babble. “I know they're not exactly proper copies of Heyer's Instead of the Thorn and Barren Corn but... I mean- Y'know, listening to you, I knew what the - mngh - the dimensions needed to be for them and all. So you could-” He gestured helplessly. “I sure as Hell can't bind a book, but I thought- Ngk.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s hands were gentle as he cradled the leather that encased Instead of the Thorn, the title and Georgette Heyer’s name stamped into the cover. The spine had artful designs pressed into it as well, hardly distinctive from the dozens upon dozens of leatherbound books in his collection. “Oh, Crowley, you remembered… this is-” Blue eyes were brimming with gratitude and love as he reached for him, his hand slipping into Crowley’s to squeeze. “The ones missing from my collection. You really took the time to make these? To track down the texts and have them printed and- oh, thank you, dearest.”

“Well... Had to do something with my Sunday mornings. Tracy helped me find and tool the leather, but I did most of it. The ruined bits are still at her place.” Relieved, Crowley squeezed back and let his shoulders relax. “I just figured this'd work until you got your hands on real copies.”

“Oh, my dear, these are one of a kind. They'll be treasured beyond what's imaginable.” Aziraphale only let go so he could look through the pages, the paper chosen for them giving them an aged look to match the leather. Chosen by Crowley. Every detail had been chosen by him, regardless of his intent to match the original copies. It had still been him who did the research, made the effort, and created something just for the chance to make Aziraphale happy. “You're quite right, I may lose a few hours to binding them so I can enjoy them properly. I'd hate to risk all your hard work.”

“Told you. I thought I’d leave the hardest bit to the expert.” Watching him running his fingers over the inked words - he’d even researched the right font, had peeked at Aziraphale’s copies of her work with careful hands - made the hours of frustration and bitter whinging under Tracy’s encouraging laughter and arguing with printers both on the telephone and in person worthwhile. He might even go so far as to say it had been worth, “I had to read them to make sure it all lined up right and made sense, seeing how I had to piecemeal them. You’re going to have to give me one of hers that’s actually good or I’m going to seriously judge your collection.”

Aziraphale laughed as he tried to kiss him, a difficult feat when one couldn't stop smiling, but he managed just the same. “Oh, I really do love you,” he giggled. “My poor Crowley, you endured so much.”

“I absolutely did.” And it had been worth it for that reaction. He liked hearing the words, he decided, alongside laughter. “You’re welcome.”

He placed both books on the coffee table, then gestured to the rectangular box. Atop it was a golden bow with an envelope affixed to it. When Crowley reached for that first, Aziraphale’s hands fluttered in some sort of attempt to dissuade him. 

“Oh no, my dear. The box first,” he insisted, then clasped his hands in his lap to quell the urge to continue wiggling with excitement.

Arching a brow, Crowley picked at the corner of the wrapping and imagined Aziraphale had not used a whole roll of tape and the better part of a wrapping paper tube to wrestle this package into submission. “How overboard did you go, angel?”

“I believe one’s perception of the term ‘overboard’ is entirely subjective and can’t possibly be quantified.”

“Right.” He’d gone overboard, though Crowley didn’t know how just yet. “This isn’t even my holiday,” he protested.

“No, it’s mine. And I like to give as well as receive, so please don’t make a fuss, my dear,” Aziraphale tutted, impossibly fond of the ridiculous creature. “Please allow me to enjoy treating you, then you won’t have to worry about me getting you a single thing until July.” 

His attention shifted from teasing Crowley as the wrappings fell away to reveal a cardboard box with a black boombox printed on the front. It was a portable CD player, battery-operated, and had a pair of shiny silver speakers that almost appeared comical with how round they were on the little thing. It even had a handle, to carry it around by, and an antenna to pick up the radio. 

“So you don’t have to go out to your car whenever you want to listen to your bebop,” Aziraphale told him, gaze bouncing between the box and Crowley’s face eagerly. “Newton and Anathema assured me it was a good brand and model. Do you like it?”

It was bordering on cute, but it was exactly the sort of thing he’d expect from Aziraphale. And it was, cliched as the thought may be, the thought that really counted. Technology-challenged, probably didn’t own a cassette tape Aziraphale had bought him a CD player, a thing that meant Aziraphale’s records wouldn’t be the only music in their afternoons. He’d invited another change. “Dunno,” he said to be difficult, but there wasn’t anything less than delighted affection when he looked over. “Need to make sure it doesn’t make my favorite song sound like rubbish, don’t I?”

“Oh yes, of course. You can’t possibly know until you’ve tried it out.” Aziraphale nodded in understanding, but the expression Crowley wore tugged at his heart insistently. “Obviously the sound quality can’t compare to records, but hopefully it will be adequate for bebop.”

“You’re a menace.” Crowley was just as bad as kissing through his laughter as Aziraphale, but he managed just as well too. “The real test is ‘Do you have batteries?’ Because this doesn’t come with them.”

“Of course I have batteries. I bought them precisely for this occasion.” After checking with Anathema and Newt that they were, in fact, the right size and type of battery. “Really, Crowley. It wouldn’t be much of a present if you couldn’t use it.” If his tone was meant to be indignant, it was lost in his answering giggles as he kissed him back. “Can you imagine?”

All too well. It was Aziraphale and technology. “Not gonna go there. Should I go get a CD or open the envelope first?”

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked from the boombox to the envelope, still sealed and waiting with bated breath. “The envelope. I believe the CD can wait.” He pressed the envelope into Crowley’s hands.

“So this is the overboard bit,” he teased, distracted by the small weight in it. Brows raising, he opened it to find a simple note and a skeleton key. “‘Go upstairs,’” he read, amused. “You’re right here. You couldn’t have just said when I got the key?”

“I knew you were going to ask what the key was for, so I’d have to tell you anyway.” Aziraphale gestured to the note, only realizing as he did so that he’d been wringing his hands. 

What had filled him with butterflies and anticipation for the past several weeks suddenly felt very big and what if it was overboard? What if Crowley didn’t like it or thought it was too much? In any other relationship Aziraphale had, it certainly would have been. But this wasn’t any other relationship, he reminded himself. This was Crowley. He’d already told the man he loved him, for Heaven’s sake. This was just another way of showing it. 

Crowley caught his hand to keep him from wringing them again, dropped envelope and silly, pointless note on the coffee table before rising. “Come on, then. You can’t give me a mystery key and not show me what it’s for.”

He tugged Aziraphale off the couch, leaving their hands linked as they made their way to and up the stairs. Curiosity bubbled through him, as big and unbearably as it ever did. He knew the rooms all had keys, the doors all original to the house and Aziraphale happy to keep them all in a neat little box because, well, what did he need to use the keys for when on his own? When Crowley had joked about their arrangement turning into a Misery situation - accidentally copping to having read Stephen King, “Big spooky fan, me” - Aziraphale had tried to press one of the keys into his hands for his bedroom.

He'd laughed it off and brushed it aside then, before Aziraphale’s room had begun slowly becoming theirs. Now, he couldn't fathom the point of getting his own key. There was only one each, so it couldn't possibly be for the bathroom or Aziraphale’s room. His room was more a spot he stopped in when he needed to check on his plants - three having become four and five and six thanks to a few more trips to the florist. Seven was downstairs, the primroses too needy and too precious to Crowley to be too far out of his sight for long. The others were flourishing pretty nicely, though he'd never say that to their leaves. No use in boosting their egos. 

But what could Aziraphale possibly be hiding? Something so big he needed a key to access it? He genuinely couldn't begin to guess. “Is it safe to assume this one's for the other bedroom? The yellow one.”

“Well,” Aziraphale seemed to stop himself from continuing his thought, nodding instead. Even if he hadn’t, somewhere between them brushing their teeth and going downstairs, Aziraphale had stuck a little bow on the third bedroom’s door. “Go ahead, my dear.”

The lock clicked a few times before it gave way, the hinges opening smoothly as if they’d been freshly oiled. Normally one of the brighter rooms because of its color and two windows facing north and west, it had cooled considerably with several large changes. First, the room was no longer yellow. The wallpaper had been stripped from the walls and the chair rail that ran around the perimeter of the room had been painted black, along with the wood cladding between it and the floor. The walls above the chair rail remained wallpaper-less, instead painted a soft grey colour.

All of this could hardly be noticed though, given the second and third adjustments. The two twin beds and their trundles were gone, as was the dresser. The end table remained, but served as a plant stand in one corner of the room, while a console table and some shelves had been put in to provide ample surface space for what really mattered. Several new plants had been arranged throughout the room, vibrant and full of life and ready to be joined by the rest of Crowley’s collection.

A pot of purple Swedish ivy sat upon the dark mahogany of the console table, with the bright red of an Anthurium beside it. A Ficus Elastica and an Arboricola Schefflera were in opposite corners in their own large pots on the floor. Above them, hooks had been affixed to various points in the ceiling, ready for any hanging planters if Crowley saw a need for it.

If he hadn't been clutching the doorknob, his knees might've given up. His voice certainly did, his wordless noises almost wounded in how soft and wrecked they were. He was hurt, after all, heart so full it ached. Aziraphale was giving him a plant room. A whole room. He'd barely changed his grandmother’s house in twenty-five years, yet he'd done something so drastic. For him. He'd had to have done quite a bit of planning and organizing to get this done under his nose. The effort of it, the care and thought behind it, was overwhelming. “A-angel...”

“This isn’t to say you can’t have your plants in other spots around the house,” he hastened to explain, watching Crowley’s reaction while his love pulsed and swelled within him. “I rather do like seeing them pop up on occasion. But I thought, well, I have my library downstairs and we’ve been sharing a room for- gosh. At least two months now, haven’t we? It seemed fitting that you… you have a space of your own. To do whatever you like with. But I thought it might be nice to start with your plants.”

Aziraphale stopped his rambling, stepping closer so he could nestle against Crowley’s back, chin on his shoulder and arms winding around his waist to keep him from cracking open or buckling to the floor. “Is this alright?”

“Mm-nn-yu-nn, yeah. It's-” Crowley let himself lean into him, let himself be held and supported. “I didn't expect- D'you know how long it's been since I had a home?” 

Aziraphale nodded, dropping a kiss to his shoulder as his arms tightened to give him an anchor. “I think I’d rather like for this to be your home,” he murmured into the worn cotton shirt. “If you want it to be. If it’s not… overboard.”

“'Course it's overboard. I don't know how to handle half of what you make me feel, Aziraphale. It's terrifying, but I don’t...” He laid his hands on Aziraphale’s arm, plucking at the tartan sleeve. “I don’t want it to ever ssstop.”

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale loosened his hold only so he could turn Crowley, to frame his face with his hands and touch their foreheads together. He sought his gaze, both of their eyes brimming with the wealth of emotions threatening to overflow and spill across the floor. “You’re home. I’ve got you and I’m not letting go. I’m afraid I love you far too much to stop now.”

Crowley's arms found their way around him, hold as gentle as the quiver of a kiss he pressed to Aziraphale’s lips. “Good. I don't plan on slithering away. I want you to have me. S'long as you want, love.”

“That might be for a very, very long time, my dear.” Aziraphale brushed their lips together again, then again, all soft and sweet and cushioned with everything Crowley had been deprived of in his younger years. Things they’d both been deprived of, to an extent. “I want you with a love most ardent and all-encompassing… I can’t very well imagine my life without it. Without you.” 

The fingers of one hand stole into Crowley’s hair, scritching lightly at the base of his scalp and just behind his ear, his other arm draped around his neck as he stayed close. “‘Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light,’” he murmured, a poem so much like the ones Crowley whispered to him beneath the sheets in dulcet tones that left his skin singing. “‘The blue and the dim and the dark cloths, of night and light and the half-light… I would spread the cloths under your feet: but I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet.’” He kissed along his jaw, nosing the sharp angles he fell in love with all over again each time he explored them, pressing each word against them with his lips in the hopes Crowley would soak them up the way his plants soaked in sunlight. “‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’”[15]

“Ngk,” he managed, trembling as the words sank into his skin and swam to his heart. Each kiss plucked away his thoughts to leave him with sensation - velvet warmth pressed close, breath hot and lips gentle against skin, scritching fingers encouraging tingles down his spine. He couldn't handle it. How could anyone handle so much affection? So much love? “Aziraphale... Sss'like you're trying to kill me.”

“Quite the opposite, my darling.” Aziraphale smiled against his skin, kissing the serpent tattoo just in front of his ear before easing back. “It’s like taking a breath after nearly drowning or warming frostbitten fingers too quickly,” he did capture Crowley’s wrist so he could touch his lips to his fingertips, gazing at him through light lashes. “At times, it can be torturous to be reminded we’re alive. And, oh Crowley, I feel so alive in loving you.”

Aziraphale was definitely torturing him, but it wasn't in any way Crowley would call bad. It was just another new somehow, something he wanted to give back and didn't quite know how. He cupped his cheek, leaning in to brush featherlight kisses to each eyelid, his nose, the corners of his smile when his lips curved. “I like it. It's a lot, angel, but I like it.”

“Really?” Though his shining smile left little room for doubt. “I wanted to make this feel more like a home for you, as you said. Rather than simply some place you’re staying.”

“It seems to me that you've been doing that since the first day.” Just slowly. Building up to it. “Why'd you do this room? And not, y'know, the one you'd already let me use?” 

“Oh, well, I thought that one still suited as a guest bedroom. And it was far easier to get the two single beds out of here,” he pointed out, smile bordering on sheepish.

“Right.” Crowley stepped back, taking his hand to pull him into the room. It smelled right. Damp soil, clean air, Aziraphale - it was perfect. “Dunno when you even would've had a chance to do all this.”

“I might have called in a few favours. Do you recall when I had the pastor come by to collect my donatables for the holiday drive at the church? Well, he also took the beds and chest of drawers. Said he was certain he could find a home for them somewhere.” Aziraphale took it all in with a newfound appreciation, no longer a secret, but something to share in. He did rather like the look of Crowley amongst the greenery and grey, a space that suited him in the house. “It was rather thrilling sneaking about though. Even if it meant turning down a drive or two with you so I could paint without you getting suspicious.”

“Worked out well enough, then, you being sneaky.” He touched a leaf, thumb rubbing over the rubbery surface with a pleased hum. He could have fun with these, recognized every single one and already knew how he'd fit the rest in here. “You painted, though? Picked out the colour and all?” 

“You needn’t sound so surprised. I have painted before.” Aziraphale wiggled as he watched Crowley give the room a proper look over. “Unfortunately they didn’t have my first choice of colour.” When Crowley glanced over at him with a questioning sound, Aziraphale couldn’t fight the twitch of his lips. “Tartan. Obviously.”

“You'd embarrass my plants right out of this room. Or they'd die before I could get a word in edgewise.” Crowley crossed back to him and drew him close. “Bad enough the primrose has to be separated from the rest because of her pot.”

“I was under the impression you were going to repot her.” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow despite the pleased flutter in his chest that assured him Crowley wouldn't. Not unless he absolutely had to, that is.

Crowley kept up appearances anyway. “Haven’t gotten around to it yet. S’not my fault.”

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale brushed the backs of his fingers against Crowley’s cheek. “I came to the conclusion that aside from black, grey was a colour that would suit your… aesthetic, if you will, and that it looks quite lovely alongside the greenery. I also considered that it might be more forgiving for your eyes on those pesky migraine days.”

“If these things didn’t need sunlight, I’d probably barricade myself in here on migraine days.” Crowley’s hand slipped beneath his shirt just to feel the warmth of his skin. “You’ll just have to keep dealing with me zoning out under the coffee table.”

“Oh, however will I cope?” Aziraphale managed through a sharp intake of breath, his touch a few degrees cooler, but more than welcome as he pressed closer for a kiss. “Are you in a mood, dearest?” 

He grinned, fingers gliding a little higher. “You quoted Yeats at me and gave me a plant room. Might be in something of a mood.”

“You wily serpent,” he giggled, letting his hands smooth over his chest before batting his hands away and taking a step back. “I did not give you a plant room just so we could engage in coital relations.” Not that he was opposed, as evidenced by the way he toyed with the buttons of his own pyjama top, popping the one near the hollow of his throat. “I gave it to you because I love you. And the quote was for very much the same reason.”

“I hope you know that doesn't make me want you less.”

“My dear, I'm counting on it.”

Crowley’s laughter bubbled up and out, though he didn’t have any plans to let that be a regular thing around his plants. His new plants in a room decorated with him in mind because Aziraphale loved him. “In a mood, angel?”

“You were just fondling me under my night clothes. Obviously.” He wiggled, delighted by Crowley’s laughter as he always was. “But not in front of the plants, my dear. They don’t need to see what I’d like to do to you.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want them to be jealous that I’ve got you all to myself.” He reached out, quickly undoing the second button before those swatting hands could catch him. “We should get back to bed so I can fondle you without your night clothes.”

“Mm, yes, I think I should like that very much.” Aziraphale tugged at the hem of Crowley's tee as he backed out of the room, encouraging him to follow. “I would like to get my hands on you properly, as well.”

“Well, you've managed to completely outclass me with gift-giving, so the least I can do is let you have your way.” Crowley grabbed his hands, kissing the knuckles. “What do you want, love?” 

It was utter nonsense, the idea that Crowley had fallen short of giving him a gift. He truly had no idea just what he'd given to him this holiday season, what he'd given to him since he'd first arrived in Tadfield all those months ago. The love he felt freely for him still swelled and ached even now that it was no longer a secret kept locked away in his chest. It was bigger than his body could ever hope to contain, spreading it like imaginary wings that he could wrap around Crowley and himself, so they could nestle in all he was feeling. 

The kisses to his knuckles only served to remind of how far they'd come, so much like that first kiss to the back of his hand and the butterflies that came with it, but so, so much better. “Crowley,” he sighed his name as if it were his favourite word, “my dearest. I would love anything you could give to me, and that I could give in return, so keep that in mind. If you don't want… I know you haven't often, but… I should like to make you feel so very loved on. But only if you'd like that as well.”

Any nerves were waylaid by confusion and the fondness that quirked his lips. “‘Loved on?’” 

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Embarrassment crept up his throat as he attempted to clear it. “Yes, ‘loved on.’ I don’t know how else you’d expect me to put it.”

“Angel, are you asking for something specific? Because I've no idea what that means to you. You always make me feel... Mnngh. That. Believe me, I'm very fond of your hands.” Crowley squeezed them. 

It was enough to stop his huffing, though the colour didn’t completely recede from his cheeks, lips still pursed in a soft moue. “I’m trying to say… that it might be nice to try things… the other way around. From how we’ve been in the past.”

Crowley’s head tipped a smidge. “If you want to try something new, we can.”

“Yes, well, but it involves quite a bit of…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then squeezed Crowley’s hands. “Vulnerability, let’s say, on your part, my dear. So it’s not only whether I want to, but rather if we want to.” Which, apparently, this opened Aziraphale up to a different sort of vulnerability as well, if he couldn’t even get the words out clearly, in a way Crowley could understand. He wasn’t just teasing him or poking fun at him, he realized. “Oh, this is rather difficult to just come out and say. I’ve no experience doing it this way. Perhaps we should table it for now.”

Crowley stepped closer, releasing his hands to cup his cheeks instead. “Talk to me. Tell me what you want, and we'll figure it out. I trust you.”

“Oh, darling, I don’t doubt that we would figure it out. And your trust means the world to me.” Aziraphale’s fingers curled around his wrists in a gentle hold. “For all the words I have at my disposal, I’m at a loss for how to say I’d like to fuck you without saying it quite like that. I suppose it can’t be helped now.”

Of all the things he might have asked for - and all the ways there were to ask - that particular combination was probably at the bottom of Crowley’s expectations. Definitely a thing he hadn't done often, definitely a thing that would make him vulnerable, and... He didn't have an and. His mind was as broken as his vocal chords for a few noisy seconds. “You just said fuck on Christmas.”

“Yes, well… I did try not to say it,” he couldn’t resist pointing out, watching him process patiently. “Would you have preferred if I’d said I’d like to try penetration on your person? It didn’t seem to have the right feeling I wanted to convey.”

“Fuck probably doesn't either since you started with loved on.” Crowley shifted his hands, taking Aziraphale’s again. “Coulda said you want to try topping. Might've been easier.” Though it certainly didn't help his scrambling pulse steady. “You really want to?” 

“I believe I do.” Aziraphale thumbed over the thready beat he could feel in his hands as he gave him an encouraging squeeze. “I know I want to try. But only if it’s something you want as well. Don’t say ‘yes’ simply because I’m asking if we can.”

“S'not really why I'm thinking about saying yes. Well. It is a bit. Dunno that I'd be considering it for anyone else.” He'd told him, as vaguely as possible, about the two singular times he'd tried it, but it wasn't as if he hadn't tried things alone. He wasn't against bottoming, per se, but it was a nerve-wracking sort of thought. “You've never tried?” 

“Well… there was one time where I nearly… but er, I might have lost the nerve part way through. Not because I didn’t want to, but well, I hadn’t given much thought to the position, so when I was asked to... not be as ‘on top,’ I suppose it took me out of the mood entirely. He might have only meant it as a joke, but ah, never thought to try again. But I was young then, and he certainly didn’t make me feel anything close to the way you do. There’s so much I want with you. And it feels… safe to tell you what I want. I trust you, too, Crowley.”

Whoever that someone had been, he'd been an idiot. Crowley liked him over as much as under, the weight of him hardly an obstacle. Stepping closer, he fit their lips together and undid a third button of his pyjama top. “Then let's give it a go, angel.”

“You only need say so, and we can stop,” he told him, helping with the fourth and fifth buttons, tartan fabric parting easily for Crowley’s hands.^[16]

“I never worry about that with you, Aziraphale.” Crowley stroked over the newly revealed skin, familiar under his touch now but anticipation had a new edge. His mouth started a trail down his throat, a hint of teeth teasing a mark he'd left the night before. “Really hope you don't worry about it with me.”

“Never, darling,” he breathed, a sound of pure satisfaction spilling out under Crowley’s attention. “Come now, to the bed. I want us both comfortable as I love on you.” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his grin as he pulled away, undoing the rest of his buttons so he could slip off the top and fold it neatly on the dresser. 

“You're just going to keep saying it like that, aren't you?” Crowley shucked off his own shirt, letting it fall where it would, and then wrapped his arms around Aziraphale from behind, wicked fingers slipping beneath his pyjama bottoms. “Y'know, for the record, I don't really care about position as long as I can see you.”

Aziraphale rocked back into him purposefully, pressing his back fully to Crowley’s front. “Yes, you’ve made that fairly clear, but I do appreciate you saying so, sweet. Perhaps we can have you propped up against the headboard with some pillows, so I’m not entirely on you.”

“M'not sweet, but just how bendy do you think I am?” Crowley pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “You can be entirely on top of me. I'm being very serious when I tell you I want that. Besides, you're not exactly going to be pressing down during. Kinda hard to move that way.”

He hummed his agreement, hands skimming over Crowley’s arms, then down to his waistband as he slid his bottoms down to pool at his ankles. “It is an experience to look up and see only you above me,” he murmured. “To lose myself in your eyes, in the way you see me. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of that. It’s rather the whole point.”

Crowley shivered against him, kneading his thighs. “Is it? I'm usually just trying to make sure you feel as good as possible.”

“And you do.” Aziraphale nudged his pyjama bottoms away so he could spread his legs a bit, relishing the way clever fingers dug in and stroked along the plush, sensitive skin of his thighs for just a moment longer. “Mm, so good, dearest. But you also get this look of wonder and joy, and I can’t help but drown in it. Knowing you want me so much feels as sublime as the way you move inside me.” 

He turned in Crowley’s arms before he started to do just that, the wily creature exceptionally good at coaxing him to open up and blossom for him like any of his plants - though with far less shouting and threats, as that wouldn’t get the desired results either of them wanted at all, obviously. Aziraphale tugged down Crowley’s joggers, soft palm settling at his hip while the other trailed over the curve of his arse. “Of course, I do want to make certain you also feel as good as possible,” he added with a playful pinch.

“Ngk.” Crowley didn't have to do much to encourage his clothes to fall, a far cry from his usual denims. “I do want you. In every single way I can have you. S'just... Little sssurprising that you seem to want me just as much.”

Aziraphale leaned in and brushed a sweet kiss against his lips, slow and tender. “Which is precisely why I want to show you in every possible way that I do. Until it’s no longer a surprise, but something you can depend on.”

That was a terrifying sort of thought. There'd been no one to depend on in decades. He trusted Aziraphale, but dependence seemed bigger. “D'you have that sort of time?” he wondered, trying to make it sound like a joke. 

“All the time in the world,” he assured him, then kissed him again, deeper, to distract him from the terror and the urge to hide away from feeling so much.

It only worked because Crowley let it, that sunshine taste so much better to focus on than his own stressors. He’d probably end up facing quite a few of them before this was over, but he wanted to try. He wanted to let Aziraphale try. It was another surprise from him, that he’d want this, but as Crowley let himself get backed towards the bed, he couldn’t deny he wanted it too. Wanted to watch Aziraphale’s face, his eyes, as he experienced something new. And maybe Crowley really wanted to know what it could be like with someone who gave a damn about him, awed everytime those clever fingers worked over him like the leather on a book.

They traced aimless patterns across his hips, carefully studied each dip and divot between his ribs, and rubbed the pads of his fingertips against his nipples, all places Aziraphale had touched before, but with the same reverence he devoted to books on a second, third, tenth read, he catalogued each shiver and sigh as if it was the first time he was experiencing the story of Crowley’s pleasure. He paused only to undo the fastenings of his pants, tossing them and his socks aside so they could touch skin to skin with every inch of their bodies. A thigh settled on either side of Crowley’s, Aziraphale’s half-hard length brushing Crowley’s belly as he leaned down to kiss him. And kept kissing him, each one intended to drag him towards senselessness degree by degree.

“Oh, I do love you,” Aziraphale exhaled, breath ghosting along his jaw as he ducked his head to suck a mark at the base of Crowley’s throat, teeth scraping to reward the punched out gasp he drew out of him. “And you’re so good to let me.” 

His first attempt at a reply was a garbled mess, head pressed back to give Aziraphale full access, and his second and third weren’t much better. He usually tried to touch, taste, please first - a part of him had yet to let go of the idea that he needed to somehow earn Aziraphale’s affection. A part of him wasn’t sure that he shouldn’t be more active now, but his hands seemed to forget they were trying to do more than cling each time he reached for some part of Aziraphale. He found himself clutching at curls, hips, and shoulders over and over again as he was steadily taken apart. Aziraphale was breaking him down piece by piece, filling the cracks with a tender, overwhelming love, and all Crowley seemed to be able to do was writhe and cling and spill wordless rapture.

“Aziraphale,” at least, was easy to moan and, eventually, “It’sss so much. Dunno what to- to do.”

“Don’t you fret about that, darling. You’re doing just beautifully.” Aziraphale dropped a kiss to his chest, teasing a blushing nipple with the tip of his tongue, then reached for a pillow to settle beneath Crowley’s lower back. “There. How does that feel?” he asked, giving him a moment to respond, though his hands caressed over his thighs, stroking up and down and up again, close to the crease where they met his pelvis and close to where his arousal was stirring, twitching with each touch.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, but it did make Crowley hyper aware of the destination. Twin coils of nerves and excitement tangled in his chest, but the tantalizing strokes - touch me, touch me, please - and the care behind both the pillow’s placement and the question made it very hard for the nerves to win. He loved this angel far too much, but he still choked on those words and had to let something else squeeze by. “Sss’fine. Good.”

“Good.” Aziraphale wiggled a bit, shifting so he could let Crowley’s thighs part, still petting the quivering muscles. Kneeling between his legs, Aziraphale peppered kisses from his knee up to his inner thigh. All familiar things he’d done before, to steady them both as they approached this new thing. As much as Aziraphale wanted this, he also wanted to do it right. Just as he’d had some unpleasant experiences in his past, so had Crowley, even more so to the point where he couldn’t trust a single person to know him like this. To let go and give himself over to sensation. 

He sucked a matching mark high on the inside of his thigh as he slicked his fingers with lubricant, teeth and tongue an eager distraction. There was still tension in them, the nerves and anticipation coalescing lower now. Aziraphale softened his kisses to loving little nibbles as he took Crowley in hand, grip smooth as he stroked him with ease. He did have all the time in the world to devote to him, to love on him. There didn’t have to be a rush and though Aziraphale’s stomach swooped in giddy circles at the thought of being held inside Crowley, of giving him as much pleasure as he could stand, he would be patient. This was about Crowley.

“You’re gorgeous like this. I don’t believe I tell you enough, but I’m in constant awe that I get to have someone as stunning as you all to myself. You spoil me, dearest,” he hummed, free hand skimming lower to ease him into the touch.

He might’ve closed his thighs had Aziraphale not been between them, one hand buried in his curls and the other grasping bedsheets. His chest felt tight even as his hips lifted into the touch, trapped between wanting more or less. “Umghsh,” was the best he could do for the words, not sure what to do about the mind-melting rub against his perineum, another garbled sound said to the ceiling because every glance down made even more dangerously pleasant sparks pop off in his mind. He wanted to watch, yes, always, but it was so difficult to believe the pleasure Aziraphale seemed to be taking out of this and the evidence in his expression made his heart want to beat right out of his chest. “Yugh- You don’t have to- to sssay things like- like that.”

“I know that. I want to say them. You will indulge me, won’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale nuzzled his thigh, gazing up at him adoringly as he grazed his hole with the tip of his finger. “I want to read the lines of your body like the stanzas of my favourite sonnets, memorize it all from knuckles to kneecaps, each freckle and wrinkle. Everything that composes you.”

The light touch was unfamiliar from someone else. His memories on that were hazy and absolutely not worth dwelling on, especially not when another glance down entranced him. He couldn’t look away with those eyes on him, dark as they were with arousal when Crowley hadn’t even done anything for him, hadn’t been given a chance to. All his fingers could do was card through those platinum curls again and again or twist and flex in the sheets. He was going to suffocate from the tightness in his chest. Someone help him, he wanted to. “Angel- Aziraphale, please.”

The sound of his name in that wrecked voice and the tug at his curls had Aziraphale shuddering, heat pooling low in his belly as he muffled his own moan against Crowley’s skin. He pressed in, finger slipping past the tight ring of muscle and massaging in slow circles. “I’ve got you, Crowley. That’s it now, my dear,” he cooed, moving his hand from his length to pet his quivering stomach as his finger sank in past the knuckle.

Crowley’s hand left the sheets to cling to Aziraphale’s, needing an anchor while the rest of his world was rocked. Speed was what he recalled most from the past he didn’t want to think about. Not when faced with this slow, careful tenderness that made him want to squirm away, press closer, stop it, let it go on forever. He could only shiver and say Aziraphale’s name again, squeeze his hand in wordless encouragement. His angel had him. His angel, pupils blown with want for him, had him, could be trusted to have him. As the single digit slid further, Crowley let out a whimpering moan and a sizzling, “Yesss.”

Between the way he clutched at his hand and clenched around his finger, Aziraphale was completely captured by him. He laced their fingers together to give him that tether, somewhere to come back to as he rose to dizzying heights of ecstasy. “Oh, my dearest, you’re doing so well. Opening up so nicely for me. So I can relish in your rapture.” Praise spilled from his lips as easily as his kisses, traded between parted thighs as a second finger teased its way inside. His length twitched with interest when he pulsed around him. “There we are. How’s this?”

“Grrk.” It was hard to keep his hips still, all the praise breaching the jumble in his mind in new ways. He normally took it with pride and used it to continue doing whatever he was getting approval for. But he wasn’t doing anything for this. He didn’t have to do anything but let Aziraphale get him drunk on pleasure, the voice in his head that said he was undeserving drowning. His fingers flexed, not to escape but just to reaffirm the pressure was there. “Good. It- Your handsss. Want- ngk - I wanna move.”

“You can,” Aziraphale assured him, then scissored his fingers to stretch him when he felt as though he could take it. “Move your hips for me, sweet. They are quite lovely.”

Crowley couldn’t even pretend to work up a grumble for the petname, letting it join all the rest of the praise, another layer to smother the negatives and keep him high on sensation. Sensation that spiked when his hips lifted, rocked down on Aziraphale’s hand. His grip tightened on the other, head falling back on a low moan. “Aziraphale.”

“Oh, Crowley,” he gasped, his own hold on him tightening in turn as he curled his fingers in him. “Oh, if I could keep you like this…” Aziraphale lifted up and leaned over to nuzzle the hollow of his throat, bared to him as he endured his pleasure beautifully. 

He deserved this, to bask in Aziraphale’s undivided attention and love without having to feel like he needed to earn it. He didn’t need to earn anything, it was all given freely. Aziraphale wanted to give him everything. When Crowley tilted his head back down to look at him, Aziraphale captured his lips in a greedy kiss, hungry sounds lost between them. He worked him open more, pressing deeper as his own want thrummed beneath his skin.

Kissing back with a fervor, Crowley was quick to band his arms around him, pulling Aziraphale down even as he arched up to meet him. Skin to skin, Crowley wanted to lose himself in every curve and eagerly added the delicious, enveloping weight of him to everything else. And suddenly his fingers were digging into his back, his outcry muffled as the fingers inside found just the right spot. “Angel-! I’m- I- I need you, please.”

He needed him, too, so desperately with an all-consuming craving that licked at his insides like flames. Peppering soothing kisses across Crowley’s cheeks, Aziraphale eased his fingers out of him. His gaze roved over the flushed expanse of his lover’s body, the way his chest heaved and stomach quivered as the sensations left mere ripples in the wake of his touch. Red hair bright and fluffed against the pillows, golden eyes hazy and slitted pupils swollen as his gaze followed Aziraphale’s every move.

Aziraphale stroked over his hip to give him some contact in his sudden absence, a groan slipping out when a full-bodied shudder wracked Crowley’s lithe frame. “I’m here, darling. You’re doing so well,” he encouraged while his fingers fumbled for the condoms. 

It rolled on easily, cock already hard and pre-come beading at the tip, and he couldn’t help but rock into the warmth of his own palm as he slicked it up with more lubricant. Perhaps a bit too much, but one could never be too careful. He wiggled a bit closer, coaxing Crowley’s legs to band around his waist with trembling hands. He rubbed his thumb against the bone of his ankle to ground them both, the other hand finding his knee to squeeze. 

“Are you still…?” Aziraphale licked his lips and swallowed. “Tickety-boo?” His voice lilting on the question.

Hearing tickety-boo wasn't quite enough to throw Crowley completely out of his bubble of pleasure, but it was enough that he noticed the buzz of nervous energy under the stupid word. “M'good. I want this, Aziraphale.” More than he'd expected to. “I want you. Jussst go slow.”

He nodded several times, perhaps several times too many, and released a deep breath. “Alright. But do let me know if you start to feel floby-mobly or anything of the sort.”

“Soon as I can figure out what that means, sure.” Horrible, ridiculous, insane vocabulary. Crowley reached for him. “Come down here and kiss me, you overthinker.”

Aziraphale did without argument, pressing close all skin-to-skin as his lips all-too-eagerly sought Crowley’s. A contented sound slipped out as arms wound around him, surrounded now by both sets of limbs and soothed by the way they squeezed him. It was just like being beneath him, caught in the cage of Crowley’s body as he moved in and around him, whether he was over him or holding him from behind, clinging and constricting and ever-present through their pleasure. Blue eyes opened as the kiss tapered off and he gazed down at Crowley with quiet wonder. It was new, yes, but it was still very much the two of them making love, in whatever form that took. The look in his eyes softened as he was awash with love for him, and he kissed the tip of Crowley’s nose.

“I love you,” he told him, shifting only enough to slip a hand between them to guide himself inside. Slow, slow, slow. “Look at me, Crowley, yes. Just like that.”

It wasn't easy to look at him for once, eyes desperate to squeeze shut as he was stretched wider than fingers. It didn't hurt, though; it was just noticeable. A pressure he wasn't used to. “Mnngh...” It didn't become less so as Aziraphale so slowly, so gently filled him. Crowley’s fingers flexed against his back over and over again, watching his mouth form words more than actually hearing them. Watching wide pupils nearly swallow the blue. “You're ssso beautiful,” he breathed, barely aware of it. 

Aziraphale’s heart swelled, full to bursting and gaze brimming with it. He touched their foreheads together as he followed the push and pull of Crowley’s body, his heat enveloping him with the same tightness as the rest of him. He wanted to sink into it, burrow into Crowley and stay where someone he loved thought he was beautiful, where he was wanted and where he wanted to be more than anything else.

“Crowley…” His name like a prayer as he settled inside him, fully seated and soaking up the sensation of their joining. 

Limbs tightened around him, Crowley wanting to feel this - full, taken, linked - for just a minute. He mumbled something incoherent, face buried in Aziraphale’s neck. “Feels... It'sss...” His legs shifted, banding higher around his waist, and groaned as the shift in angle drew him just a little deeper. Made him feel just a little more full, a little more linked. Oh, nothing had ever been like this. Being vulnerable had never felt so safe, so incredible. “Aziraphale...”

“I know, darling.” Aziraphale petted his side, letting him have this moment. Letting them both have it. “You feel… oh, Crowley, you feel… oh, it’s ineffable.”

It was a far better word than what Aziraphale had nervously offered before, so Crowley didn't argue. One hand found his hair again, the soft curls fluffed into an absolute mess at this point. It wasn't an incentive to stop playing. His mouth trailed up his neck, across his jaw. He never wanted to stop kissing him, touching him, being filled by him. He never wanted to stop feeling the warm weight of him, the familiar rolls against his own skin as Aziraphale quivered above him. He never wanted anything else but this connection. Until he testingly moved his hips, and the sheer pleasure that crashed into him at that, the sound Aziraphale made above him - he never wanted to stop that. “Move,” he pleaded, breath catching on a greedy moan when he rocked his hips again. 

Aziraphale groaned helplessly, head falling back as he tentatively rolled his hips to meet him. “Oh, yes. Yes, Crowley, that’s…” Planting his knees and hiking Crowley’s thigh up higher, Aziraphale pulled out so only the head of his cock was encased in the sweet, addicting heat, then he slid back in to the root on a gasp. Oh, he needed to do that again. From the way Crowley’s hips stuttered, back arched, he could see he wanted it again, too. He built up a steady pace, in and out, deep and dragging over hundreds of nerves sparking with the delicious sensation. “Perfect, Crowley. Oh, you’re so perfect for me, dearest. Just like this.”

Crowley could only let out babbled, desperate noises. His nerve endings all felt like they were on fire, entirely exposed and at Aziraphale’s mercy even as he moved with him. But he didn't think of escape as he was overwhelmed this time, lost so much more easily in this world of buzzing pleasure where he could just take and enjoy what he was given. He understood what Aziraphale had meant now, knowing he was wanted being just as good as the motion. There was such focus on Aziraphale’s face beneath the rippling pleasure, so much desire and it was all for him. Given just for him, and Aziraphale had so much to give. 

Loved on, yes. Crowley would call this loved on. He shifted, ankles crossing higher on his back, wanting him deeper but also changing the angle. Oh, oh- “Aziraphale!” he called, hips jerking out of rhythm and muscles spasming tightly around him. He didn’t think he could come from that alone, but it was a near thing. Pre dripped onto his own abdomen, something else to rattle around in his pleasure-drunk mind. 

“That’s it, Crowley. That’s- oh. Oh, yes, yes-” Aziraphale’s thrusts quicked, trying to match the wild pace Crowley set, wanting more, wanting so much… “Lovely. You’re lovely, Crowley.” His lips babbled praise as they worshipped his skin. Damp kisses along his sharp jaw, up to his ear and down to his Adam’s apple as he licked and sucked the sweet salt taste from him, moaning as though he were the richest delicacy he’d ever indulged in. He told him so as his hips moved faster, harder, chasing the pleasure he got from being inside Crowley and the pleasure of watching Crowley fall apart at his hands. One curled around his length, spreading the pre-come to keep his grip slick and fast as he stroked him.

“Az- Aziraphale, angel, angel-” Crowley had thought he'd already been broken down, but it wasn't careful piece by piece this time. This was like a bomb falling, a high whistling ringing in his ears, and he bucked his hips between dueling contact - the firm strokes of his hand, the thickness of his cock splitting him open. Aziraphale’s mouth branding him by word and contact. He couldn't take it all at once, couldn't handle it, couldn't fight. The bomb went off, blinding him, head thrown back and eyes closing as his release streaked over Aziraphale’s fingers and his own belly. His body rattled, limbs and muscles tightening their hold as he came and came with Aziraphale’s name on his tongue. 

He stroked him through it, wringing out every last drop of pleasure before succumbing to the dizzying sensation of Crowley clenching around him. Aziraphale pressed his face into the curve of Crowley’s shoulder as he shuddered through another thrust, then one more, before he let the pulsing pressure surrounding him carry him the rest of the way, hips still as his release swept over him in crashing waves. Muffling his own outcry against Crowley’s skin, Aziraphale rode out the sensation until his thoughts felt like they were swimming through syrup and the hum of their bodies quieted. As much as he wanted to collapse as the sensations faded, he was mindful of Crowley beneath him - and around him, limbs and muscles clinging, clinging, clinging - and so stayed on his knees as he clumsily went from massaging his sensitive length to kneading the back of his thigh.

“Crowley?” he called out, to make sure his love was still with him. 

“Ngk.” He uncoiled himself a little, not wanting to separate just yet but be not quite as bent either, and tugged. “If you don't come down here right now, 'm gonna have a fit.”

Aziraphale made an ‘oof’ sound as he went, letting himself be tugged against Crowley, then hissed a bit when he shifted just slightly inside him before they settled. “You ridiculous thing,” he huffed quietly, but was too busy beaming and blushing with delight to really mean it. “Are you alright?”

“Probably.” Crowley kissed his temple, lips making a lazy journey across his brow to the other. He felt used, but in the best sort of way. He was used to a far different one, so basked in this. His thighs squeezed a little, pressed into yielding curves. If he could bottle this feeling, he would so he never had to go without again. “How’s it bein' on the other end?” 

“Oh, it was transcendent,” he sighed blissfully. “I could feel you everywhere and see the way I made you feel. It was like dining at the Ritz and experiencing all the world’s greatest works of art at once. You were stunning, my dear.”

Crowley mumbled as incoherently as ever against his curls, fingers tracing equally senseless patterns against his back. “Don't sssay that when I'm braindead. But what the fuck is floby-mobly?”

Aziraphale hummed happily, rubbing his palm over Crowley’s heart. “It’s intended to describe the feeling of not exactly being unwell, but also not feeling your best. I thought it a fitting term for any discomfort that might arise from being on the receiving end of lovemaking.”

“That's not in any dictionary. I refuse to believe it.” Ridiculous man. Crowley scrawled an I love you against his back. “It was... It was really incredible, though, all of that.”

“Did you feel very loved on?” he teased, tracing his own heart shape on Crowley’s chest in response to the unimpressed grunt which answered him. “But I am so happy to hear it. I wanted to make you feel how you always make me feel. Entirely wanted and cherished. Because you are, my dearest.”

Crowley gave his hair a little tug, getting his head back so their lips could meet. “If I make you feel even a fraction of that, I'm doing a great job.”

“You are. Flawless, even,” Aziraphale giggled, sinking into another kiss. Tired of fighting the urge to wiggle and snuggle, he shifted so he could ease out of Crowley, careful not to cause too much of a sting, well-aware of the aches that could be left behind, pleasant as they were sometimes. He tied off the condom and tossed it into the wastebasket by the bedside, then took a moment to shamelessly admire Crowley lax and languid on the bedsheets, drying come still shining on his belly. With a pleased hum, he bent his head to kiss his stomach and taste a little hint of him. “What shall it be, darling? A shower, or would you prefer a damp cloth and a bit of a nap first?”

“Shower, I think. I've got plants to torment and books to watch you bind.” There was some discomfort left behind, an unfamiliar ache and a stretched, empty feeling. It wasn't exactly bad, though, and certainly not enough to put him off doing it again in future. “I'm bringing my CD player in there, and you can't stop me.”

“That was the intention, my dear,” Aziraphale chuckled, brushing back his fluffed up hair and pressed his lips to his forehead. “Happy Christmas. Now, best get a wiggle on. You look far too lascivious lounging there like that.”

“Mm. I don't think you mind.” Crowley stretched, humming and knowing it only added to the look. “You seem pretty pleased with yourself, matter of fact.”

“A bit,” he admitted, shaking his head as he took his time crossing the room, an extra swing in his hips that wasn’t quite serpentine, but not at all innocent. “Perhaps I’ll let you see exactly how pleased in the shower.” 

That got Crowley out of bed, grin wicked and eyes bright with the things he couldn't say. The things heard anyway when he caught up and complained about wobbling legs and angelic hips not being allowed to swing like that. Not really complaints at all and just as understood. 

As far as first Christmases went, this one must've been pretty high up there.

Footnotes

^15. "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by William Butler Yeats↩

^16. Smut begins here, and lasts the rest of the chapter. Return to Smut

Chapter Text

On the first Monday morning of the new year, Aziraphale and Crowley slept in on their day off, blissful and bundled up in the warmth of one another while the snow fell outside, heedless of a plan that had already begun to tick.

On that same Monday morning in the heart of London, the heels of Michael Godric’s white, patent leather loafers clicked on the tiled floor of Arch & Angel LLP’s lobby, folio in hand and intimate knowledge of Anthony Crowley’s fifteen year stint in prison at the forefront of her mind.

After Aziraphale’s untimely departure and shocking revelation on Christmas Eve, she had taken the others aside to find out just what had gone so terribly wrong with their cousin and what this new employee had to do with it.

“Not one of you noticed that Aziraphale had engaged in a relationship with an employee?” Michael had demanded that night, leveling her cold stare on all three of them. 

“He denied it when we confronted him,” Uriel replied. “I didn’t think he had the gall to lie to our faces.”

“He’s being influenced,” Sandalphon added with a haughty sniff. “Speaking up more, going against our backs on purchases. I’m not surprised he’s started lying.”

Michael flicked her gaze from the two of them to Gabriel. “You know him best and speak with him the most. Did you notice anything strange?”

Gabriel balked at the question. “He’s always strange! Face it, Michael, you know as well as I do that he’s always been an odd one. Never really fit in with the rest of us. I learned a long time ago that the best way to deal with Aziraphale is to overlook any of his… eccentricities. And that’s worked out fine in the past! It’s this Anthony Crowley. He’s bad news.”

“No, he isn’t good for him,” Sandalphon agreed while Uriel nodded firmly.

“What do we know about this Mr. Crowley?” Michael asked, drumming her French manicure against her arm. 

“He recently moved to the area from London. Has a background in clock repair and car repair,” Gabriel answered.

“Interesting combination. Where did he work last?” When Gabriel said nothing and the other two looked to him for answers, Michael rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Did you not look at his CV?”

“That’s not my department,” Gabriel told her.

“No, but you’re the one who’s supposed to keep Aziraphale in line, and that includes who he’s hiring. It’s already bad enough he’s got the other side of the family involved.”

Gabriel already had his phone out, skimming through his email correspondence with Aziraphale until he found the secure attachment containing Anthony Crowley’s CV and copies of all his new hire paperwork. He opened the document, reading it for what appeared to be the first time, just as Aziraphale had suspected when he first sent it off to him. His eyebrows crept higher on his forehead, even as it took several minutes for it to fully click.

“What is it?” Uriel demanded when her impatience reared its head.

“He’s been tricked.”

“What do you mean ‘tricked?’” Sandalphon reached for the phone, but Uriel beat him to it. “What’s it say?”

“That he’s likely been out of work for nearly twenty years,” she told them. “If you don’t count the attempts at self-employment. He’s obviously filled in the gaps with fluff and Aziraphale fell for it.”

Michael held her hand out and Uriel passed it over. She’d gone over enough incriminating pieces of evidence in her career to agree that it certainly didn’t seem genuine. Like someone trying to cover his tracks.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel asked when Michael started tapping away on his phone.

“Forwarding this email and its attachments to myself. Clearly you’ve been too lenient with Aziraphale,” she replied, ignoring the way he bristled at her tone. 

Despite sharing a father, they might as well have grown up as only children, in separate countries as well as separate households. Her status as his older sibling - their father’s right hand and the firstborn of their generation - never failed to irk him. And she never failed to use that to her advantage.

“Give him some time to calm down, then try and make amends after New Years.” Michael handed his phone back once hers chirped with the received email. “Apologise. Reel him back in.”

Gabriel scoffed. “Why should we be apologizing? I’ll confront him about Anthony Crowley and convince him to let him go if he wants to save the reputation of our grandmother’s business.”

“Confronting him will only make him defensive. We won’t get anywhere if he thinks we’re at war with him. He’s got someone whispering in his ear, turning him against us. Anything we say at this point will be futile. Aziraphale will more than likely trust the venomous words of this stranger more than his own family. So soften him back up. It’ll buy us some time.” Michael rolled her eyes when Gabriel squinted at her in disbelief. “I’m going to do some digging into this Anthony Crowley and see what I can find. Innocent people don’t have things to hide and this man is hiding something.”

“He does wear sunglasses indoors to hide his eyes,” Sandalphon pointed out. “Suspicious.”

Suspicious was an accurate assessment, Michael discovered. Born to criminal parents, abandoned at birth, then raised by a grandfather who was approved for guardianship of him despite the man’s obvious failings in having raised a delinquent son in the first place, Anthony Crowley has hardly been off to auspicious beginnings. She wasn’t surprised to find his record started as young as fifteen, after entering the foster care system. Sad, yes, but expected with the sudden lack of stability and positive influences in his life. 

Of course, by the time she uncovered this information, her opinion of him had already been cemented by the headlines that had run earlier that year: “Wrongfully Convicted Man Released After Serving 15 Years For Murder Charge.” It didn’t take much digging to find out the details. Allegedly former gang member framed by two of his cohorts. How convenient that he no longer ran with them after nearly twenty years of association. While there may not have been evidence enough to justify his sentence for that particular crime, he did have a record. Theft and burglary might have been what he was typically caught for, but that didn’t mean his hands were clean of more violent offenses. 

Even if they were, it didn’t matter. His record was not only a blemish on his CV that he could never hope to cover up, but on his very identity. And that stain was spreading into the family business, into their good name. It was infecting Aziraphale, dragging him down to a level that didn’t bear thinking about because he didn’t know better than to not be coerced into a grey morality. He was so easily coerced, after all. They’d been doing it for years.

Still, Michael knew better than to go into an argument ill-prepared. She wanted an exact timeline, details on this Anthony Crowley beyond what he’d been caught red-handed for. The only names she could find associated with him were those of the cohorts he’d been charged with in the murder-burglary. Lionel “Ligur” K. Melion and Harold “Hastur” Tode were still serving their sentences at HM Prison Otherside.

Once in her office, she continued her search, printing out more items to add to her folio. She looked through the section on Mr. Melion and Mr. Tode, at the pictures she had of the two convicts. They wouldn't be getting out for good behavior any time soon, additional crimes against fellow inmates destroying any chance of redemption. They clearly didn't feel remorse, there wouldn't be any reasoning with them in what she considered a rational manner. No incentives she could offer them in exchange for information. 

Perhaps they were the type to be motivated by revenge. She couldn't imagine it sat well with them that their former colleague made it out, name cleared, fresh start. While they wasted away in their cells, left to rot.

Not only had Crowley made it out, but he’d dragged their names through the dirt on his way out of Hell. With the right angles and arguments, she was certain they’d give up more information on his character. Even if Michael had already made up her mind about him. Regardless of whether or not he was guilty of this particular crime, there were plenty of other offenses to hold him accountable for, and what had he done to deserve this clean slate? Or what nefarious schemes had he drawn their good, family name into already? Surely a criminal like this wouldn’t be content with her cousin’s dull lifestyle.

She made a few calls, went through a few back channels, arranged a meeting, and a few days later she was sat across from Lionel K. Melion in one of the interview rooms for HM Prison Otherside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Melion. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said out of a need for pleasantries. It wasn’t as though he’d had much of a choice thanks to her connections. 

He shrugged, light and easy, and somehow managed to avoid rattling the chain attaching him to the table. Even walking, he hadn’t made much noise, but he’d always been good at silently lurking. “Not often I get fancy solicitors sniffing at my ankles. What d’you want?”

Michael slid a piece of paper to him, a printout of a crime summary fact sheet with a mugshot included to jog his memory, not bothering with further chit chat. “What can you tell me about Mr. Anthony J. Crowley?”

“Crawly?” Ligur's lip curled. He didn't have to see the mugshot. His memory was just fine. “Who'd he fuck? Somebody in your family or one of your clients?” 

She ignored the questions, though a muscle just beneath her eye twitched as she folded her hands in front of her calmly and explained, “He’s become recently employed by one of my clients. I’m a commercial solicitor, so I work mainly with high profile companies. Some small and mid-range businesses as well. I need to know how much of a threat he is given that he lied on his CV.”

“A threat? Tch. The only things Crawly knows how to do are drive, fuck, and talk. He could talk the queen out of 'er jewels.”

Her eyes narrowed. Of course, he’d already talked his way into getting Aziraphale to cosy up to him. She couldn’t imagine it would be hard for him to feed him more lies and convince him to make poor business decisions that he could somehow twist into his favour. “Actually, I consider that to be very much a threat, Mr. Melion. So you’re saying he’s quite experienced in manipulating others and coercing them into situations they normally wouldn’t find themselves in?” 

He chuckled, something dark and low and humourless. “Could say that. I've seen that flash bastard talk shopkeeps out of dialing emergency while we was busy emptying shelves. When he shows up, he's good at what he does.”

“‘When he shows up?’” She raised an eyebrow. “Unreliable, is he?”

“S'a word for him. What he is is disloyal. Always looking out for himself. This.” He leaned forward and shoved the paper back towards her. “This barely covers it. He used to do whatever the boss told him. Call 'im Crawly on account of how good he is on his knees, if you get my drift. Then suddenly he gets too big for us. Wants to do things on his own. Whoever this client is of yours, Crawly'll slither into their bed and then squeeze 'em dry like the snake he is.”

It made perfect sense. It was the obvious play for someone like Anthony Crowley. Why else would he be interested in a tired little town like Tadfield? In someone like Aziraphale? As far as she knew, her cousin had been single for his entire life and he was as stubborn as he was naive. She couldn’t imagine the sort that would put up with that without taking advantage.

Of course, she did acknowledge that this information was coming from someone that wasn’t exactly a paragon of trustworthy behavior. “You didn’t think much of the idea of him as a threat. Are you downplaying what he’s capable of?”

“You asking if he'll off your client?” Ligur sneered. “Crawly's a coward when it matters. S'all mind games with him. Thinks he's cleverer than everybody else.”

“Is he?” she asked, though having the gall to lie on one’s CV certainly correlated with such a sentiment. “Would you consider him clever?”

He grunted, clearly not wanting to say something that could be misconstrued as positive. “Boss thought so. Kept him 'round way too long, y'ask me.”

“Did you think that was a mistake?” 

“'Course it was a bleedin' mistake. Crawly was good at bein' bad when he was around. We was doin' one-forty through London, right? Central fucking London. We get pulled over by Her Majesty's fucking finest and he talked his way out of the speeding ticket. Didn't even have to hand over ID. Bloke like that can't be trusted.”

His vehemence cemented his honesty in that as much, Michael had little reason to doubt most of what he'd said. “What would scare him off?” she asked. “Get him to leave town?”

Ligur had never completely understood what drove Crowley off in the first place, not when he always came back. Lucifer had always said he had a weak constitution, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. “Police, the mark knowing who he really is.” He smiled, the baring of his teeth more a threat than out of any sort of cheer. “The gang. Our boss always knew how to make Crawly listen, but that kinda favour don't come cheap.”

Michael’s manicured eyebrows rose high, expression impassive and unimpressed. “I imagine not. Though I wouldn’t say I’m in the market for that kind of favour.” Yet. She’d give Gabriel the information and have him show Aziraphale the true colours of his newest hire. It should be enough to twist him into compliance. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Melion. I’ll let you get on with the rest of your day.” 

“Right.” He watched her gather paperwork, turning a question over in his mind. “So where is Crawly? Know it's not London.” 

“Why?” 

“Maybe I wanna write 'im a letter.”

Michael stood, looking down at the convict still chained to his seat. “I’d save your postage,” she replied. “Good day.”

Though she took the information gleaned from one Lionel K. Melion with a grain of salt, it was enough to go off of and show Aziraphale his grievous error in judgment. Enough of what Anthony Crowley’s associate had said seemed genuine, in any case, his disdain for him hardly concealed. And she had little doubt that he wasn't clever enough to fool her. 

She made a call as she walked out and away from HM Prison Otherside. “I’ll send you what I’ve found. Then I trust you’ll take care of things. It’s worse than we thought.”

----

Aziraphale heard the chirp of the Ghost’s alarm outside the shop and dropped his bone folder. It hit the ground with a clatter that would’ve drawn everyone’s attention to him, had the familiar sound of Gabriel’s car not already done that much. It had been a quiet day in the shop otherwise, up until that very moment.

He’d been expecting to hear something from Gabriel as the first days of January passed. They’d made plans to go over the quarterly expenses when he returned from the States, after all, though that had been before their… disagreement. Aziraphale had been trying to ignore it, filling his quivering heart with his love for Crowley instead and the excitement of seeing his team after the holiday, celebrating the new year with friends, family that mattered, and the love of his life, things that felt so much better than the cyclone of anxiety spinning in his chest whenever he thought of his family.

Though he didn’t regret speaking up to them or telling them off, it didn’t mean he was freed from worrying about it. Not when the peace wouldn’t last forever.

Aziraphale glanced Crowley’s way, letting him see the concern knitted in his brow as well as the way he braced himself for the conversation at hand. Yes, he had reservations, enough to tie his stomach in knots, but he wouldn’t let them stop him. This was still his shop, his life. He wasn’t about to be made to feel poorly about any of it. He bent down to pick up the bone folder and set it on his work surface with a steady hand, then tugged on the hem of his waistcoat and straightened his bowtie.

As armoured as he could be, Aziraphale nodded to himself and turned to face his cousin as he stepped within the threshold. “Gabriel,” he acknowledged, conscious of Anathema’s eyes on him as well as Crowley’s, so was careful to hold his chin up and keep his shoulders squared, hands clasped behind him.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel returned, the warmer of the two even with his pinched smile. It broadened as he scanned the rest of the shop, offering the team a greeting as well. “Happy New Year, everyone. And merry Christmas. Hope you all had a fantastic holiday. Get everything you were hoping for?”

“Oh, I think so. I’d say I gave everything I was hoping to as well,” Tracy hummed, tucking a stray blonde curl behind her ear, and Shadwell blushed as bright as a New Year firework.

Gabriel immediately turned back to Aziraphale, the regret instantaneous. “Let’s talk a minute in private, Aziraphale.”

He almost had a mind to keep him uncomfortable and surrounded by people who would more than likely side with Aziraphale, to see how Gabriel felt when he was the one outnumbered and cornered and looked down on… but the bitterness bled out of Aziraphale on a sigh. He wouldn’t do that to his cousin. He wouldn’t wish to do that to anyone.

Not to mention it would be extremely inappropriate to put his team in that position, even if they did think it was justified on his part. “Of course,” he replied, crossing the barn to fetch his coat.

Gesturing for Gabriel to take his leave first, Aziraphale glanced back at Newt and Shadwell, then Deirdre and Tracy, Anathema, and then finally Crowley. He couldn’t see his eyes, but he could feel his faith in him and the unspoken assurance that Aziraphale need only ask and he’d do whatever was in his power to help him. He’d stand beside him if that was what he wanted. 

It was, but this was his battle and he had to be able to stand firm in front of his family on his own if he ever hoped that they would take him seriously. Aziraphale smoothed out his coat, nodded to everyone, and promised to be back in a tick. Then he followed Gabriel out into the snow, turning towards the house at first, only to stop around the same corner where Uriel and Sandalphon had confronted him weeks before.

He waited patiently for Gabriel to realise he wasn’t following him, that they weren’t going into the house. When his cousin turned around with an eyebrow raised, Aziraphale merely raised both of his in turn. He hadn’t invited Gabriel into his home, after all. His and Crowley’s home.

With a heavy sigh, Gabriel trudged back to him and tried not to look too put out about having to have this conversation in the cold. He didn’t do a very good job of it. “What’s this about, Gabriel?” Aziraphale asked, not waiting to be led around to the topic. “I’m assuming given that Sandalphon hasn’t joined you, you’re not here to reconcile reports.”

“Not this time. I haven’t had a chance to see Sandalphon since I got back. Something important was brought to my attention, and the family thought you should be informed in person.” His expression nearly reached concern. “We’re worried, Aziraphale. After all that... stuff on Christmas Eve.”

“‘Stuff?’” Aziraphale echoed, eyebrows still carefully arched as he stared at him. “I should think our last conversation consisted of a smidge more substance than simply ‘stuff.’ But I can assure you, and the rest of the family, that you needn’t have any reason to be worried.”

“Ah.” He held up a finger, head tipping briefly. “That’s where you’re wrong, sunshine. As the head of the advisory board, it falls to me to ensure that you have all the information you need to make smart choices here. Our grandmother’s legacy needs to be preserved, yes?”

“Yes, and I believe I have been doing exactly that for the past twenty-five years, Gabriel.” Aziraphale permitted himself to frown now. “You can’t say that I haven’t kept the shop in tip-top condition after all this time. And I- I believe I’m quite capable of getting the information I need to make these so-called ‘smart choices.’ I’ve looked into it, you see, and there is nothing inherently wrong with pursuing a relationship with a colleague or an employee so long as both parties are fully consenting and-”

“Ah, funny you should mention Anthony.” Gabriel’s briefcase popped open and a manilla folder was withdrawn. He very clearly would’ve preferred a table, but it didn’t stop him from flipping the folder open. “Or do you think he would prefer Crawly?” Gabriel flicked his gaze up, taking Aziraphale’s confusion in stride. He hadn’t expected him to know about the criminal history or the aliases, after all. “October 12, 1987. Arrested for truancy and underaged drinking. There’s some debate, apparently, on whether or not he was stealing a car when he was caught, but he only went to a Youth Offender Institution for the first two. That time. He was institutionalized within a year for driving a stolen car without a license with... marijuana on the passenger seat.”

Aziraphale’s heart stopped as he crumpled under the weight of Gabriel’s words, the implication of them. They’d gone digging into Crowley. Into his past. They’d found out. “Gabriel, I can explain-” he started, nerves creeping back into his voice. “That- that was all a very long time ago. He was young and he- he was all on his own-”

“Yes, we know. Found his grandfather dead at fourteen. I’m sure he told you the sob story. Did he tell you that at, ah, twenty-three he was arrested for stealing another car? Makes you wonder where he got that fancy Bentley. His prostitution wouldn’t buy him one.” Gabriel smiled tightly, pityingly. “He propositioned an undercover officer for cocaine, Aziraphale. But I’m sure someone with as much experience as him must be... interesting for you. He’s probably used to bodies like yours.”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, hands subconsciously folding across his middle protectively as his mind reeled. They knew everything. While the barbs against him stung, it was nothing compared to knowing that Gabriel had Crowley’s heart in his tight-fisted grip and could effectively crush it into a pulp at the slightest provocation. He could only picture the ruin of Crowley’s face if he were to hear Gabriel’s callous tone as he read his past charges to Aziraphale as if he was being convicted all over again.

“You need to leave,” Aziraphale choked out, fingers clenching in his waistcoat. “That’s- You have no business talking about him like that. I won’t have it, Gabriel.”

“I know it must be hard to hear, but it’s for your own good,” Gabriel replied, words far more sympathetic than his tone, as if he was reciting something out of a manual rather than soothing a family member. “He had three more arrests. Trying to steal from stores and murder. He’s been in prison for the last fifteen years. And, well, he may have been acquitted for that one, but considering the company he keeps...” Gabriel gave a minute shrug, letting that implication hang. That it had only been a matter of time before Crowley joined his fellows in something so heinous. “Listen to reason, Aziraphale. Anthony Crowley is a thieving, drug-addicted prostitute, and he’s clearly using you.”

He was wrong. He was so, so wrong. Aziraphale opened his mouth to tell him so, the words hovering on the back of his tongue, but he couldn’t lend his voice to them, eyes brimming as his throat closed up. Crowley wasn’t any of those things. Crowley was kind and sweet and had a wonderful heart despite being hurt time and time again and- and…

And Gabriel would never see that. None of them would. They’d never look at Crowley and see anything other than a criminal. He'd known that from the beginning, after all, hadn't he? That was why he'd tried to hide it. Like Crowley was right to be ashamed of his past. 

Pressing his lips together, Aziraphale shook his head in lieu of telling him off. “He’s not,” he managed to get out. “He made some mistakes in his past, yes, but he’s not any of those things and he wouldn’t… He- he cares about me.” Possibly even loved him, though he hadn’t said the words. He could feel it when Crowley pulled him against his chest and buried his face in his curls and stayed for long stretches of time, just breathing him in. Just recognizing that he was there at all. “But clearly you think that’s impossible.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel began, pity coating the word as he closed the folder and waved it as if that’s all Crowley was or could ever be, “people like this don’t care about other people. Your naiveté is charming, but it’s exactly why you need us. Michael managed to find all of this in just a few weeks, and you clearly didn’t even think to run a background check.”

No. No, he hadn’t had to. Aziraphale had seen a man offer to fix up a scooter in exchange for being rescued from the rain, then a clock to spare a boy from being in trouble with his mum. That same man without much extra to spend spent some of it on showing his gratitude and spent his time listening to a stranger’s troubles. He offered advice without the expectation that it be taken and he played along with childrens' games so as not to spoil their fun. There was no reason to run a background check when Crowley offered everything up freely. 

In the span of three days Crowley had shown him everything he needed to know about the man and it all still held true. Anything else he’d learned since was because he wanted to, not because he needed it for a job application.

“Michael doesn’t know him. None of you do,” Aziraphale said softly. “I’ve lived with him for over three months now. I should think… I think it would suffice to say I might know him a bit better than whatever Michael found on paper.”

Gabriel sucked a sharp, cold breath in through his teeth. “He’s been living in our grandmother’s house?”

Aziraphale flinched. “It’s my house. She left it to me.”

Clearly at a loss for how exactly to express his opinion without turning against their grandmother, Gabriel stared at him for a few silent seconds. “Aziraphale... It sounds as if you need to think about who’s more important to you: this criminal you barely know or your family. I don’t know if we can watch you ruin everything she left you.”

An icy grip of fear clenched around his heart as Aziraphale paled. He’d already started changing things. If they knew about the bedroom and all the plants-

But it was his house, he tried to reassure himself again; he had every right to do with it what he liked. There was no comfort in the thought, however, eclipsed by the notion of being cast out from his family. Of being wrong. What did he really know about his grandmother’s wishes? She’d never told him what she intended, as much as he pretended to carry on as she would have. She placed the responsibility on his shoulders and was gone, leaving the doubt and suppositions to gnaw at him.

Crowley hadn’t known her. Neither had Anathema. Not Tracy, not Shadwell, no one who assured him he was doing the right thing. No, the only ones who’d known her and what she might have wanted were the ones who were so sure Aziraphale was doing everything wrong. 

His breath hitched when the manilla folder was thrust at him, quivering in the space between him and Gabriel. Wide blue eyes lifted from the folder to find the hard stare of his cousin watching him, waiting for him to take it. As they stood there, Aziraphale realized with steadily mounting dread that he wouldn’t leave unless he took the incriminating paperwork. Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale tried to wait it out, but he was cold from so much more than the January air and with each passing second he wondered if this would be the moment where his family pruned him from their tree. A misshapen branch, ill-formed and infected.

It didn’t matter if he thought the tree itself was rotted through. Maybe he had been infected, if he wanted to stay attached to such a tree. Aziraphale took the folder with surprisingly steady fingers and watched Gabriel’s hand fall away.

He smiled a little easier, a child whose temper-tantrum had been rewarded. “I knew you could still be reasonable, Aziraphale. Study that, so you know exactly how far beneath the family he is and get rid of him.”

There was a shredder in the shop. For confidential documents, decades old receipts. Aziraphale waited until Gabriel returned to his car, the engine cutting through the quiet he left behind and watched the car pull away onto the road, then he went back into the shop with the folder clutched to his chest. He didn’t stop to take off his coat. He didn’t let go of the folder until he pulled the shredder out and plugged it in. Its grinding noise filled the shop as it tore through page after page until thin scraps of paper remained.

Then he carried the basin full of the file’s remains over to Crowley’s station. “May I borrow your lighter?” he asked, inflection flat but determination fueling every move.

“Dunno if the bucket's fireproof, love.” But he still slipped the tartan lighter from his pocket. “Might be better to empty that into the fireplace in the house.” Whatever it was. 

“It’s not going in our house. I’ll get a new bucket.” Aziraphale took it and the lighter with him back outside and set it down in the snow. It likely wasn’t very environmentally-friendly, he realised, but believed he was justified in this one instance. He’d make an extra donation to the Friends of the Earth organisation.

He took out one strip of paper to hold it against the lighter’s flame so it would ignite, then placed it in the bucket with the rest of them so they’d catch quickly. Smoke started to rise from the smouldering pages and he could pretend that was the reason his eyes were smarting instead of the simple fact that Crowley deserved so much better than someone who could only fight back when no one was looking. So he burned his copy of the evidence, so what? Gabriel didn’t know that, so it didn’t really matter did it?

Behind him, Crowley sighed. “You probably shouldn't stand that close, angel. The basin's gonna catch and who knows what that'll toss into the air?” 

“There’s a fire extinguisher in the barn. I’ll put it out when it gets to that point.” But he took a few steps back regardless, gaze still fixated on the billowing smoke as he offered Crowley back the lighter. “Thank you.”

“Mngh.” Crowley pocketed the lighter and tucked himself behind Aziraphale, arms wrapping around his waist, chin settling on his curls. “You going to tell me what that was?” 

Aziraphale clutched at his arms to keep him there and thought for a moment. “I don’t know yet,” he confessed. 

“Okay.” He could wait, would as long as required. Even if it was forever. “What do you need from me, Aziraphale?” 

His grip tightened as his breath hitched, then released him suddenly so he could turn in his arms to face him. Aziraphale hugged him fiercely, his face pressed to his neck and as close as they could possibly stand together. He could feel his pulse against his lips, heart beating steady and strong for him, all for him. He didn’t deserve to be dragged back down into the dirt by Gabriel and his family merely for the fact that he chose to associate with him. That being together could potentially cause him more suffering…

He still wouldn’t have it any other way. There had to be more good in them being together than not. There already had been so much good.

“Just you,” he told him, muffled against his throat. “I only need you. Only this. Please.”

“You've got me, angel. I'm all yours; you know that.” Crowley hugged him just as tightly, giving him what he seemed to be seeking. A hand slid up his back to steal into his curls, his strokes gentle. No matter what his family did or said, he was Aziraphale’s. He was never going to be anyone else's. 

Aziraphale exhaled, the tension locked in him since he first heard Gabriel’s car trickling out as Crowley held him for as long as he needed. He didn’t want to break the bubble of comfort Crowley was willing to let him have. It was so much easier than what he knew needed to be said. Even if Aziraphale burned the pages, it didn’t change the fact that Crowley had a right to know what Gabriel did. What they all did.

“They know,” he whispered, pillowing his cheek on Crowley’s sharp shoulder. “They looked into you… I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley stiffened in the embrace, fingers stilling. Even his breath seemed to stop for a few seconds that took hours to pass. He finally sighed, pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. “Well... Ngk. At least he didn't just blurt everything out in front of everyone? And you already knew. You know more than what's in the official records. So unless them knowing changes how you feel about me...”

“No!” Aziraphale lifted his head to look him in the eyes - well, to see his own shocked expression reflected back at him in dark lenses. “Of course not. But they're trying to use it to… I don't know to what end, but they don't want me to be with you. Or to keep you on. Oh, it was a mistake telling them about us, I shouldn't have brought you into it.”

Crowley didn't want it to have been a mistake. He didn’t want to stay a secret forever, even if it was only to Aziraphale’s family. He didn't want to have to dance around every meeting and make sure his things were hidden away when they came to visit. He never wanted to put Aziraphale in a position where he'd have to choose, but... 

But, for Someone's sake, he wanted to be chosen. 

“They're making it a them or me thing?”

“An ultimatum, yes.” Aziraphale rested against Crowley's shoulder once more. “I don't know what they'll do with the information they have on you. They're trying to… twist things. Saying you're some nefarious thing with hidden motives. It's terrible.”

“I don't know what they can do with any of it.” Aziraphale was still in his arms, still holding on. Saying they were being terrible. The damn hope stirred and he wondered if he was possibly being chosen? He didn't know what to do with that except attempt to get even closer. “More annoyed they're hurting you again, honestly. We could just not like each other in peace.” 

There was a crack as the plastic bin began to warp from the fire, so Aziraphale reluctantly pulled away with a sigh and went to fetch the fire extinguisher from within the shop. When he returned with it, he stilled to see Crowley had simply taken some of the snow from the ground and dumped it in the bin. The fire was still small enough that the snow was enough to douse the flames. Aziraphale hummed, then set the extinguisher down and clasped his hands together.

“I don’t believe they’re used to anyone… taking an interest in me. Or the business. I suppose they feel their standing may be threatened by you,” he sighed after some consideration.

“I think they're doing a fine job of mucking up their standing all on their own.” Crowley shrugged, cold hands in his pockets. “I haven't done anything to them.”

“No, but I have.” Aziraphale twisted his ring as he glanced away guiltily. “I’ve done things my own way before despite what I’ve been told to do, but… I’ve always taken a subtler approach than as of late. I suppose they might contribute it to your arrival seeing as we’ve become rather intimate and I value your opinion tremendously.” 

Crowley’s lips quirked. “Am I a bad influence, angel?” 

“Gabriel seems to think so,” Aziraphale sniffed haughtily. “And he certainly believes that you- that we couldn’t possibly be- oh, he said such horrible things.” His expression crumpled as he faced Crowley again, his cousin’s accusations ringing in his ears. “I love you. So very much. I don’t think it’s ruining anything…”

Crowley walked up to him again, reaching out to pull him into another embrace. He thought of being on the bench on Christmas Eve, of Aziraphale’s promises to try harder, to chip away at their control over him. His own promise to help. They could manage this first hurdle, couldn’t they? “Whatever he thinks about me and us is bollocks. They know a criminal record, fine, but they don't know me. And they pretty obviously don't know you either if they think I'm the source of your rebellion. It took months just to convince you to get a laptop.”

“Only two,” Aziraphale huffed, banding his arms around Crowley nonetheless. “I know they don’t know me or you at all, but I still don’t like to hear such base assumptions made about you based on your past record. Without any context. I can’t help it, my dear.”

“Can't be mad about having my own guardian angel, can I? Besides, I don't like that they're digging into my past and trying to use it against me. It's just...” Crowley nudged his sunglasses down and nestled their brows together. “You know what I've done because I trust you, and you know what I'm doing now. So as long as you know the difference between their assumptions and reality, I'll be alright. You're the one who matters to me, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale basked in Crowley’s gaze, a sun all his own drawing him near with the promise of warmth and light. In his own eyes, it was reflected back to him like sunbeams glistening off the surface of a swaying sea. “I don’t doubt your heart, sweet. I’ve known it too well.” But he would try harder to be a true guardian angel, to not founder under Gabriel’s heel and let him get away with slandering his love. Crowley deserved that kind of protection, an umbrella for the storm of his past. 

“Ngk,” he protested, still not used to the endearment. But as long as he was still using it, as long as Aziraphale still loved him, there was nothing his awful cousins could do to hurt him.

Or so Crowley thought, underestimating them as much as they did Aziraphale. Gabriel had failed to get Aziraphale back on the family’s side, much to his shock when he’d called a few days after his visit. He’d expected apologies and some kowtowing, but had learned that Crowley still lived and worked on their grandmother’s property and wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Michael wouldn’t have said she was surprised, exactly, but there was certainly some displeasure as she strode through prison hallways to meet the sneering man who called himself Ligur. “Back again?” he greeted, voice gruff and low.

“It appears your friend, Mr. Crowley, has entangled himself quite thoroughly in my client's business ventures,” she replied, her stare cold and hard. “He's used that silver tongue of his to turn him against the better judgment of myself and the advisory board.”

“Did tell you he’d slither his way in, didn’t I? S’what he’s good at.”

“Yes. It's just worse than we thought. We need him out as soon as possible.” Michael kept her tone even, not wanting to give him more leverage than was necessary.

“Could do that. Could arrange to get him gone real quick like.” He blinked at her slowly, like a lizard on a log. “What’s in it for me?”

“I can't imagine it sitting well with you that Mr. Crowley made it out and is living free of charge while swindling an establishment that contains thousands of pounds worth of merchandise,” she replied smoothly. “An antiques restoration shop. I don't know that he's deserving of such a prize. Would you agree?” 

Yes, he’d agree, but, “I don’t give a fuck what happens to your fancy antiques, and just ensuring Crawly suffers? S’not enough for me.”

“I can arrange for some of your privileges to be reinstated. I’m under the impression that you’ve had quite a few revoked in recent years.”

And he’d have them revoked again. “What else?”

She leveled him with a stern look. “I don’t have the authority to get them to reduce your sentence.” And she’d never consider it even if she did, not that she’d tell him that.

He smiled that same threatening way he had at her first visit, though it was clear enough that it was just the way his lips insisted on curving. As if he didn’t have anything more genuine in him than malice. “You’ve got a pristine sort of record, y’know. The sort that can convince people in places like this to... do stuff for you. Like lowering Custody Levels.”

“I could. Though that might put quite the sordid spot on my pristine record,” she replied, not put off by his expression in the slightest, as put off by him as she would be a spider on a vaulted ceiling. Annoyed and vaguely disgusted, but ultimately out of her hands. “I’d need assurance that the Mr. Crowley issue would be taken care of if I was going to take such a risk.”

“What kinda assurances?” he asked, his smile darkening in something almost like pleasure when Michael arched a single fine brow. It gave off just the sort of ruthlessness he could get behind. This could be fun.

----

“Crawly, Crawly, Crawly... What have you gotten yourself into?” Ligur steepled his fingers together, waiting with that same wicked smile on his face until uneasy guards came to bring him back into the pits of prison. 

Hastur sat down beside him, inhaling a cigarette he'd punched someone for. How he'd lit it when he was forbidden from having a lighter of any sort was his business. “What was all that then?” 

“S'about Crawly.”

“Same posh bird as before?” 

“Yup.”

Hastur sneered. “What about him this time?” 

“Seems like he's taken up with some book restorer.”

“Never liked books.” They shared a snarl and Ligur withdrew a slim cigarette from somewhere or other, Hastur using his to light it for him. 

“They're in some tidy sounding town in Oxfordshire. Called Tadfield.”

“So?”

“Posh bird wants him out.” Ligur watched the smoke from his own lips plume, listened to Hastur grind his teeth, and decided not to tell him about the offer she'd made him. Not like he'd miss the bastard. 

“What's that got to do with us?” 

“Wants me to call Lucifer, so they can go... scare him.”

Huffing, Hastur scratched at his grimy cheek. “Lucifer doesn't settle for scaring people. 'Specially not after what that flash bastard did. Sellin' them out. Abandoning them. They hadn't done nothin' to him.”

“Yet.” Crowley had been very, very close to leaving the gang. And not on his terms. And not necessarily with all his limbs attached. The betrayal had made everyone wonder if he knew. The way he'd answered the phone when Ligur had called, however, said something different. 

If only Lucifer had answered the phone when Ligur had called, bloody knife in hand, the stolen goods already shut in the Bentley's boot for temporary safekeeping. He hadn't locked it back up. The idea of adding Crowley to it had been an enticing one. But Lucifer hadn't answered, so they'd left. Forgetting the stolen shite had been an accident, not that he'd ever admit it aloud. They hadn't been able to kill their liability, but they'd been able to ruin him in a different way. 

The idea that he was out now, playing house with some old book-boy, was infuriating.

“Nope, but they don't want the book-bloke to get hurt. Not physically, anyway. Against their morals, she said.” More sneers were shared. “She wants a smash and grab.”

“Oh, I miss those.”

So did Ligur. 

“You gonna call?” 

Ligur grunted. It was a good enough response for Hastur, his smile more akin to a horse baring its teeth. Seemed like they weren't done with that smarmy prick after all, so Ligur wrangled telephone time later that afternoon and this time got an answer. 

“Beelzebub. I need to talk to Lucifer.”

Chapter Text

It was February when Aziraphale heard from his cousins again. From Gabriel. 

He called the house phone on a dreary day, the air like ice and no fresh snow to cushion the sharp sting of it. Aziraphale and Crowley had just sat down to lunch, the phone’s shrill ring silencing them mid-conversation. 

They’d never gone over the last quarter’s numbers in person, as agreed. Instead, Sandalphon emailed Aziraphale his quarterly charts and graphs, highlighting their projections for the new year in red. Aziraphale responded with his own numbers, meticulously kept in his binder and scanned to the laptop courtesy of Crowley’s mobile which apparently had a scanner app that Anathema introduced them to. He cc’d both Sandalphon and Gabriel and wrote his own strongly worded email detailing how they were doing just fine and that he predicted an increase once they came into spring. Spring cleaning was notorious for bringing in clients who found heirlooms and treasures by going through their things or the things of relatives. 

They didn’t answer his email and he was quite alright with that. They also didn’t say anything about the contract he’d reinstated with Mr. Mackinnon before the end of the year. No. It seemed the unearthing of Crowley’s past had distracted them, at least, from that.

January had been a plucked string, quivering as it wondered when the vibrations would cease and if stillness would ever come. In February, Aziraphale took a breath and held it in the hopes that it would buoy him up and keep him free from the wonderings of what his cousins were thinking. Of wondering if they’d already cut him from the tree.

Dabbing at his lips with his napkin, Aziraphale cleared his throat and rose from the table to answer the phone. He wasn’t expecting a call from his cousin, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach as he ventured into the sitting room, each step heavier and each breath more shallow.

“Hello?” he answered, the lilt in his voice losing air like a deflating balloon, only to rise back up at the very end.

“Aziraphale. Good. Glad I caught you.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale’s jaw tightened, his grip on the old handset shifting as he straightened his shoulders and kept his voice low. “What do you want?”

“What? No pleasantries?”

“Do you plan on being pleasant?” Aziraphale asked with a tip to his head and received an exaggerated sigh on the other end. “Well, I believe that answers things, then.”

“Is he still there?” Gabriel took Aziraphale’s silence as answer enough. “Aziraphale…”

“You can’t change my mind,” he cut off whatever disappointed platitudes he had to say, quick and sharp.

“You don’t understand what you’re dealing with. Listen to reason,” Gabriel urged. “He’s a dangerous criminal. And he’s playing you for a sucker.”

Aziraphale swallowed past the tightness and rolled his eyes, catching sight of Crowley lurking in the doorway just to check in on him. “We’re not having this conversation. I’m hanging up now.”

“He’s taking advantage of you, Aziraphale-” Gabriel said hurriedly.

“Good day.” Aziraphale forcibly lowered the phone into its cradle, then closed his eyes and released a long exhale, the tension in his shoulders and neck expelled with his breath. “Nothing to fret about, dearest,” he said after a beat, then turned to smile at him. “It actually felt quite satisfying to be the one hanging up on him for a change.”

Until the guilt came back. Not every day was burdened with it. Most days, really, it was business as usual. But some days... Crowley had wanted to be chosen, but he hated the days which weighed Aziraphale down. He hated to see him hurt over them. 

Crowley crossed the room and cupped his cheeks, their lips meeting in something far more tender than Crowley’s quip of, “He shouldn't call during a meal if he didn't want to be hung up on.”

That got a half-laugh out of him. “An excellent point, my dear. Which, speaking of, I’d like to get back to-” The phone rang again and Aziraphale moved to answer, but hesitated as he pieced together who it likely was. After all, he couldn’t see Gabriel being too keen on being hung up on. “We’ll just… let it ring,” he decided, waiting out the cycle with a tug on his waistcoat. “Don’t want the lunch hour to get away from us, after all.” He took Crowley’s hand and led him towards the dining room, but then the phone rang again and Aziraphale glanced back with a frustrated huff.

Crowley rubbed his thumb against the back of his hand. “I could answer? He'll probably just hang up on me and be satisfied.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to refute that, but stopped himself and considered it. “Well, it is your house, too. Obviously you would answer the telephone on occasion. And it isn’t as though we know for certain it’s Gabriel.”

Not knowing who was on the other end was usually more than enough to keep Crowley from answering when the phone did ring, an irrational fear he didn't particularly enjoy having. He liked the safety of caller ID and answering machines, two things Aziraphale’s antique telephone definitely didn't have. “Right. May as well find out.” Crowley squeezed his hand once and returned to the phone, plucking the receiver up mid-ring over the tightness in his chest. “Anthony,” he greeted, automatic, the same vaguely bored tone he'd use answering his mobile. 

As predicted, there was a static-filled silence on the other end for two breaths before the caller hung up. Aziraphale wandered up to Crowley, hand pressed to his back as he watched him lower the phone. It didn't ring again. 

“He's being ridiculous,” Aziraphale sighed, but didn't stop rubbing between Crowley's shoulders. 

“Almost wish he hadn't hung up so I could tell him off. There's no reason to do this to you, angel.”

“Nor to you. Honestly.” Aziraphale shook his head. “I could call him back for you to do so. I have his telephone number, after all.”

“Nah. Might stumble into a chance to do it, who knows?” Though Crowley wondered how Gabriel was spinning his answering the phone. Probably thinking the big bad criminal was taking control over something in Aziraphale’s life. Flexing his power over him or something. It was an exhausting thought, demeaning to them both. 

He turned and slipped his arms around his angel. Crowley just wanted to hold on, press a kiss to and bury his face in soft curls. Aziraphale’s family couldn't hurt him, but Aziraphale could. As much as he wanted to trust him, a fearful sort of doubt had tangled itself around Crowley’s love for him. It made the words even harder to say, and he was at a loss for a solution. “Should get back to lunch.”

Aziraphale hugged him back, letting him hold on, letting them both. “It would be a shame to let someone like Gabriel spoil our appetites. And for no good reason at all.” He pulled back only to cup Crowley's cheeks, framing his face with his hands as he kissed him. “Thank you for answering the phone, dearest. I know it isn't easy.”

“S'fine. I knew who it'd be. And his breathing sounded annoyed, so I'd call it a success.”

“Well, that is some good to come of it.” Aziraphale kissed him again, then linked their arms. “I suppose I’ll have to think of something to deter them from bothering us though. To somehow get them to- to accept that this is just how things are going to be. You and me.”

For all of Crowley’s imagination, he couldn’t fathom what would make them back off beyond Aziraphale breaking every tie with them in no uncertain terms. But he doubted he was completely ready for that, still trying to have both even with one side vehemently against it. “Maybe just time?”

Aziraphale gave his arm a pat. “Perhaps, my dear boy. After all, it isn’t as though we’re in any rush.”

----

“He ztill haz that car.” 

“They should've turned it into scrap metal...” Dagon's smile was as sharp as ever. “He would've cried about it.” 

Lucifer rolled his eyes and stepped out from the treeline, adjusting his coat just so. “Just shut it and stay here. Once I'm inside, handle the house.” 

They hadn't seen any cameras or even floodlights when they'd lurked about the grounds the night before, but it was always better to check in the daylight too. It was an old routine, though the three of them rarely got into the game anymore. It was much more fun to sit at the head of a table and threaten and be heard. Lucifer had always enjoyed that over fighting. 

If that was because he usually lost physical fights, that was his business. Other people could, had, and did fight for him. 

This, though, was personal. There was respect in being uncatchable, there was legend in being undetectable. He'd lived more than half his life caught between his very wealthy parents and the dregs of alleyways without his family catching on. Yet his unblemished record had been ruined by the lanky-legged queer Jew. He had police contacts, and he'd heard that anonymous call. He'd recognized that voice, and Lucifer did nothing as well as he held a grudge. They'd do their little smash and grab, sure, but in their way. And when A.J. ran off like the coward he was, they'd pick him up. 

No one would ever have to worry about A.J. Crowley ever again. 

The thought put an easy, charming smile on his face as he strolled across the street and beyond the unlocked gate. It was an easy hop over at night, even at fifty, and wouldn't pose a challenge. From what they'd seen thus far, none of this would pose a challenge. Hell, maybe they'd hit a few of the storefronts in town after disposing of good old A.J. It'd be devastating to a little village like this. 

Devastation was a business Lucifer found very profitable. And, admittedly, thoroughly enjoyable. 

He glanced at the sign - Divine Restorations & Repairs. A low chuckle escaped, and he opened the barn door. Old alarm, single stationary camera, padlock, handful of work tables riddled with antiques, shelves of tools and supplies - he took it all in in the few seconds for him to cross from the door to the pudgy, white-haired bloke who rose and removed his spectacles the moment the door had opened. He was the only one who did more than glance his way. 

Lucifer smiled genially at his target. “Hello, there. Sorry about barging in. I'm looking for a Mr. Fell?” 

“Ah- Hello!” He smiled far too warmly, not an air of suspicion to him as he tottered over, adjusting the ridiculous bowtie at his neck. “That would be me, my good fellow. How might I be of assistance?”

“Well, it might sound a little silly.” He ran a hand through his hair, already delicately tousled and no worse off for it. “I'm headed to Oxford on business, and my daughter found this place on Instagram. Been looking for someone who could fix a clock for my wife, though. I've only got pictures. This is...” He laughed and waved a hand, the dull gold band on his left hand ring finger stolen from somewhere or other. “It's kind of impulsive.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s silly at all,” he assured him, easily charmed. “We welcome walk-ins, though I’m afraid our clockman is out on a delivery at present.” He looked all-too delighted for an excuse to bring up said clockman, beaming at the mere mention of him before reining himself back in. “But- ah, I’m happy to take a look at the pictures, get a general sense of the scope of work that needs doing.” 

“Sure.” He slid a phone which had not belonged to him the day before from his pocket. “Any idea how long he'll be out? I'm already going to take some heat for being late for my meeting.”

“Well, he only just left. I don’t expect him back for half an hour, at least. He and another one of my workers have gone to the next village over to deliver a vase for an older gentleman. His children all pitched in to have it repaired for him as a surprise, but he wasn’t able to come in to pick it up, you see. Oh, I beg your pardon, you’ve already said you’re running late and here I am going on. I have a decent idea of what projects he likes to take on, he’s very skilled, you know.” Mr. Fell bounced on the balls of his feet with a little wiggle, then remembered to fetch his reading glasses from his desk. “Why don’t I look, and then we can perhaps attach the pictures to an email so he can have a look himself? Then we can follow up with you via digital correspondence; that way you don’t have to be late.”

“Like I said, this is all impulse. But the anniversary's coming up. I'm sure you know how it is.” Lucifer smiled easily, pulling up the gallery as he spoke. The clock in the photographs hadn't belonged to him before the prior day either. To him, it was just a grimy mantel clock. To Crowley’s trained eye, as he'd tell Aziraphale later, it was a golden baroque-style piece from somewhere around 1880 that was in desperate need of cleaning. “I'm afraid it fell off a shelf - roughousing teenagers - and it hasn't ticked since. How good's your man, Mr. Fell?” 

“Exceptional, my dear fellow. I've yet to work with a horologist with a keener eye than he.” He wiggled as he adjusted his spectacles, peering closely at the photos. “I have every confidence that he can take care of your wife's treasured heirloom. It looks quite stunning, I must say. Just a touch to freshen the lovely thing up. If you don't mind emailing the photographs, we can get back to you with a quote by tomorrow end of day. Once Crowley knows the extent of the damages.”

Lucifer nodded, opening up the email app and wondering what the fuck A.J. saw in this prissy, pudgy loser. He'd always had weird tastes, but this seemed a little desperate. That he hadn't hidden his name was sloppy, but stupidly like him. Lucifer dutifully input the shop's email address into the bar, smile as casually charming as from the start. He knew how to be nice. He knew how to be a lot of things. “If this is too personal, I'm sorry. But are you two... together? It's just that, ah, I'm a psychologist. I notice things, and you just seem so happy every time you mention him.”

The man stilled and a woman in a gaudy red wig finally glanced their way, lacquered nails tapping against worn leather, but she didn’t say anything as Mr. Fell stammered and blushed through his response. “Oh? Is it that obvious?” His smile returned, albeit a bit more sheepish, as he removed his spectacles for something to fiddle with. “Well, ah, yes. I suppose you could say we are.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say it's obvious to everyone under the sun. My field is queer studies and it's what my meeting is on, so it's on my mind.” He shot off the email and a quick message to Beelzebub, warning her he was heading out. She and Dagon would scatter if they knew what was good for them. “It must be nice having your partner around so much. Traveling can be a pain.”

“I can certainly imagine. Though it does give you the opportunity to appreciate having someone to come home to, I’m sure.” He tucked his spectacles away, at ease as soon as he heard the term ‘queer studies.’ “Well, I wouldn’t want to play a further part in any potential tardiness. We look forward to doing business with you, mister…?”

“Dr. Masters. Luke, to most.” To very few. The second name and certainly the title was a lie, but the first he gave just to see. Would this doddering old fool pick up on it? Had A.J. mentioned them at all, let alone by their given names? He held out a hand, smile warm, eyes crinkled at the corners. “It's been a pleasure.”

Mr. Fell shook his hand, the light in his blue eyes never dimming. There was no recognition in the name, no trace of suspicion. As far as he knew, this was just a loving family man who was open-minded, educated, and polite. Just looking into getting his clock repaired.

“Have a safe and pleasant drive into Oxford, Dr. Masters. We’ll be in touch!”

“I'm looking forward to it.” His new phone returned to his pocket and he turned away to walk out as easily as he'd walked in. The nerd in the glasses would be as easy a mark as Mr. Fell and the blonde near the door. The old man who narrowed his eyes at him seemed touchy, but with the right angle maybe. The bint in the wig would be an issue. Where Crowley saw them and could think second chances, Lucifer saw them and thought soft failures. 

There was such hard work happening in this old barn from all of them, though. He could hardly wait to come back and make it all a waste. 

For the moment, he closed the door behind him with careful politeness and strolled right back out of the gate. Beelzebub and Dagon emerged from the treeline out of sight and flanked him. “Well?” 

“There'z nothing on the houze in the way of szecurity. All of the windowz have heavy curtainz, even during the day.”

Lucifer sneered. Probably for A.J.'s freaky eyes. “What about inside?” 

“Nothing. The front lock was bazic.”

“Took three seconds to pick it,” Dagon said proudly. “It's crammed to the gills with fancy shite. Who knows how much of it's worth anything?” 

“He had lotz of bookz.”

Not their scene so much, but they hadn't been told to steal from the house. They would, of course, given the chance. It would depend if the couple was in there or not when they got the official call.

Well. If only one was inside, they'd probably go in anyway. Mr. Fell could be... collateral damage if need be. He was obviously harmless enough to be an easy target. So fucking trusting. 

“Fine. Any of A.J.'s shite in there?” 

“Coat hanging on the rack seemed to be his. Nicked this from it for a lark.” Dagon slipped a small tartan-patterned lighter from her pocket, briefly showed it off before it disappeared again. Most likely, he'd think it was just misplaced. It was a mild sort of chaos, a little frustration they'd subjected him and each other to a thousand times. 

“Matches Fell's obnoxious bowtie.”

“The black coat waz a zmaller szize than the other coat on the rack, so it waz definitely Crawly’z.”

“Alright. Fell's fat anyway. A.J.'s type never did make sense.” Lucifer waived a hand. “Nothing else looked like his?” 

“Just the plants everywhere.”

Sounded like him. It was almost a shame to be doing this to A.J., really. He'd shown such promise in the early days, but Lucifer had never quite been able to reel him in after he'd spent a few short years away from them. Oh, he'd do what he was told, but he'd skirt the edges. Never made a full commitment. It was a failure Lucifer didn't like dwelling on and just another reason to ensure A.J. had a little... accident.

Those plans were best left in the privacy of their stolen car, all three of them pausing on the sidewalk when they noticed a man and a small sausage dog circling it. In no way was he police, though, so they trudged ahead. Naturally, Lucifer took point. 

“Can I help you, sir?” 

“Help me?” Belligerent, the older man gestured to the automobile with a deep scowl. “Is this your car?” 

“I'd say so.” Just until the next town. “Something wrong?” 

“You're parked in a No Parking zone!” He pointed to a sign just a short ways down, something they hadn't noticed but would have ignored regardless. “Now if you think you can get away with such flagrant disregard for the law under my watch, you've got another thing coming!” 

Beelzebub and Dagon were encouraged by a wave of Lucifer's hand to get into the vehicle. The less they were seen and identifiable, the better. Especially if Dagon did something stupid like smile. “So sorry about that, really. I'm afraid I just needed to have a short word with the restoration team up the road. I'm on my way to Oxford for work.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “Just passing through, are you?” 

“Yes. My daughter there,” and he didn't give a damn which he believed to be her, “saw their little website. Thought we'd get a clock restored for her mother.”

He seemed to roll that through his mind, Lucifer's smile not losing its genial sheen. “Well,” he sniffed, “their clockman may be a Londoner, but he seems to know what he's about. Well enough anyway.”

“Do you know him well? We didn't get a chance to meet.”

“Well, he's dating the owner,” he replied with all the pomp of a man delivering vital information. “And he never removes his sunglasses. A rude young man, I should say, but he knows his work.”

“Mmhm.” A pity they didn't have more time to engage the old coot. It wasn't as if they needed more details about the shop, though, and he heard the engine roar to life. Beelzebub must've touched the wires together. Good. “Thank you, then. I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Sorry again, old chap. Let me just move my car out of the way. I can promise I'll be more mindful of where I park in future.”

“See that you are,” he snapped, placated by the politeness and apologies. Not to mention the chance to spread some gossip. “This is a respectable town.”

“Of course, sir.” Lucifer side-stepped him and slid behind the wheel. “Have a good day.”

He harrumphed as Lucifer pulled away from the kerb, and Dagon grinned her sharp grin in the backseat. “What an idiot.”

Beelzebub hummed. “Idiot or not, we need to ditch thiz car in the next town.”

“Wisdom like that is why you're an indispensable woman, Bee.”

They frowned, but didn't correct him. Especially not when the deceptively casual grin Lucifer aimed at them dared them to say a word. They weren't about to be where Crawly was, the fool snake. The traitor. “Right.”

----

Another thought wasn’t given to the appearance of Dr. Masters after a very basic quote was sent his way. At least not by Aziraphale, who didn’t have a suspicious bone in his body, or Crowley, who hadn’t seen the man. R.P. Tyler had complained at length about him and the women with him - specifically one of their sets of peculiarly sharp teeth - to his wife, and Tracy had told Shadwell he’d seemed rather untrustworthy. A woman with her background knew how to spot the violent ones lest a nice evening turned awful, and Tracy liked her trouble to come without bruising.

Mrs. Tyler convinced her husband not to bother that nice Mr. Fell with suspicions over his clientele, and Tracy decided she’d keep it to herself unless the man came back.

The night before Valentine’s Day, he and his cohorts did.

----

Crowley’s mind wasn’t on anything but the date when he awoke that next morning. It was Valentine’s Day, their first together and Crowley’s first with someone to share it with. It was his first with plans, though he’d have to sneak out whilst Aziraphale was at church. There was a cake to collect and embarrassing chocolates he'd ordered from Paris to tuck away somewhere Aziraphale would see them so he wouldn't have to really embarrass himself by handing them over. Easy enough, but he knew as he watched Aziraphale tying his bowtie that he'd spend the whole morning tied up in knots until he came home. 

Thank Someone this day only came once a year and there wasn't another like it. 

He sat up in bed when Aziraphale, dressed in his Sunday best, came closer. His chosen jacket had a breast pocket and Crowley couldn't resist plucking at the red pocket square poking out. “This isn't normally your colour. Special occasion?” 

Aziraphale caught his hand, lips pressing to his knuckles just to make him squirm a little. “Perhaps,” he hummed upon releasing him. “Though I’ll leave the reason behind the colour to your imagination.”

“I do have a good imagination.” Crowley didn't want to hide his hand beneath the blankets like an idiot, so he let himself do the embarrassing thing and rubbed the spot. “D'you want to do something tonight? Take a drive somewhere.”

He didn’t even try to suppress the delighted sparkle in his eyes, unashamed in his angelic glow. “Really? Oh, that would be lovely, my dear. Did you have somewhere in mind?”

Of course he did. “Might. You'll have to wait and see.”

“Now that’s just cruel,” he teased, then leaned down to claim a proper good morning kiss. “How am I supposed to devote my full attention to the Lord if I’m wondering what nefarious schemes you have up your sleeves?”

“S'pose you'll just have to rise above.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he adjusted his bowtie, but it was hard to be annoyed with the promise of a night out on Valentine’s Day. It didn’t help that he had plans of his own to pick up a new pot plant and a lovely floral arrangement he’d had customized especially for Crowley that he’d surprise him with when they met for brunch. Nothing too overt or ostentatious, at least in Aziraphale’s opinion, but very clearly a token of his affections to celebrate this day of love. Perhaps it was a bit overly commercialized, but if it was for a good cause, Aziraphale didn’t see anything wrong with being encouraged to show someone you loved and appreciated them.

“Better get a wiggle on, my dear. I used the last of the old milk this morning, so you can start with the fresh carton for your tea.” He cupped Crowley’s cheek with one hand and angled him so he could place a kiss to the opposite cheek. “Oh, and happy Valentine’s Day,” he couldn’t resist tacking on, then slipped out of the room. “See you for brunch!”

Ruddy mortifying thing. Crowley rubbed a hand against his cheek, pleased nonetheless. He didn't think he'd ever quite get used to the little shows of affection, but he'd be happy if they never stopped. He skipped getting dressed for the moment, taking a minute to brush his teeth before heading downstairs for tea. He slipped his sunglasses on as he reached the foyer and the front door swung open.

That wasn't normal. The expression - shock, confusion - wasn't normal at all. Crowley’s first thought was that his family had decided to come stage some sort of intervention, but it was early and he couldn’t actually imagine them bothering. “Angel?” 

“The barn door’s open.” His voice was only just above a whisper, and he didn’t look like he believed his own words. What he’d seen. “The barn door’s open, but I shut it last night. I locked it, I always lock it.” Shaking his head, Aziraphale turned around, leaving the door open as he marched across the property to check again. It didn’t matter that he’d stared at it for a solid minute struggling to comprehend that the doors were wide open when they shouldn’t have been.

“Angel- for fuck's sake,” Crowley muttered, yanking on his boots and snatching his jacket before racing after him, grabbing his shoulder. “What you're not going to do is walk in there on your own.” Though any thieves worth their salt would've been long gone. If it had been thieves, he amended quickly. Could be harmless. Locks failed sometimes. It could be Shadwell, honestly. Crowley had watched him try and fail to teach Newt how to pick a lock on the antique dresser he was refurbishing so knew the man would probably be able to slip into the barn. Why was the mystery, and Crowley didn't really believe any of those theories anyway. 

Especially not when they reached the barn and could peer inside. 

It was chaos. 

When everyone had left the day before, there had been finished or nearly finished projects at each station with a protective sheet draped over the top. Every sheet was missing but one, Crowley swallowing when he noticed his own station looked almost untouched.

He ignored it, attention continuing to Aziraphale's. There had been a book in his antique press. They could see the broken thing on the floor far away from his station, right by the formerly packed shelves as if it had been thrown there. Boxes and buckets of supplies were scattered, contents picked through and discarded like rubbish. In the middle of the floor, the same dresser Shadwell had practiced his lockpicking skills on was on the floor, the middle of the back smashed open as if by a sledgehammer. Too big to steal. The other little projects were not, apparently. 

The lone security camera in the corner was on the floor, shattered and useless, and the alarm... It certainly hadn't gone off. They would've heard it. They'd been so close, tucked in a corner of the living room, playing an evenly matched game of chess. The music had been on because there was always music in the farmhouse, but they still would've heard the alarm. 

“Shit.”

“Oh…” It was so soft, barely a word, barely a voice at all. Aziraphale inhaled sharply as if he’d been punched in the stomach. It certainly felt like that, possibly worse than that. 

In the moment, if he’d been asked, Aziraphale would welcome a blow like that if it meant he could be spared this sight. So much hard work destroyed, other people’s priceless heirlooms gone, and the chilling knowledge that someone with such cruel intent had invaded his space - his - right under his nose. He’d been home all night. He could’ve looked out the window, stayed up late to read, just gone out to check.

Aziraphale blindly reached behind him for the wall, using it to support himself when the shock traveled down from his head to his knees. “I think I’m missing the service today,” he said weakly, possibly to Crowley. Possibly to God.

“Ngk,” Crowley agreed, anger bubbling under his skin. He'd never liked the smash and grabs. They'd always been senseless and wasteful, and the fact that someone had hurt his angel... And he'd known how flimsy the security was. He'd known from the first day how easy it would be, yet he hadn't said anything. Such a small town, so peaceful and so quiet. Who would ever come here and do this? Who the Hell had touched something his angel cherished?

His hands were deliberately gentle when he reached out, slid a supportive arm around Aziraphale's waist. “We'll call emergency, angel.” As many times as he'd been on the wrong side of the law, this had to be fixed. “It's too messy for them not to have left plenty of evidence.”

“It’s not just a mess, it’s a disaster,” he moaned, covering his face with his hand, but he could still see it. The shattered wood, the overthrown stools, the gaps in the shelves and on tables where things had once been and now were gone. He lifted his head to look at Crowley, fingers curling against a trembling chin. “Who would do something like this? We’re just a small shop. Why-? Oh, dear Lord, do you think they hit anyone else in town? I mean, it had to be people passing through, I can’t imagine anyone in town...” Though to be honest, he’d never imagined anything like this at all, and perhaps that had been naive of him. He’d had a security camera, an alarm, a padlock, and he lived just metres away. He thought that had been enough.

What other person would have a single thought about the rest of the town? Certainly not Crowley. “It wouldn't be a surprise,” he snapped, unable to contain his anger completely. “No one in this bloody town has decent fucking sssecurity. You included.”

Aziraphale winced, shame curdling in his belly as he hid his face again. “I didn’t-” Think for once, you don’t have the sense to run a successful business, that’s why you need us. No. No, he could run a successful business. He had for twenty-five years. 

But a chilling realization swept through him like the first winds of a storm. He was going to have to tell Gabriel. He was going to have to tell them all. And all the customers, all his clients who thought their precious items were safe with him - who’d placed their trust in him - and his employees who’d put in so much time and effort and now were missing supplies on top of everything. 

And with every passing second he spent wallowing was another second wasted in trying to find whoever was responsible for ransacking an antiques restoration shop. “There’s no excuse,” he finally got out, voice thick and low as he pushed away from the wall and left the comfort of Crowley’s arm to back out of the shop, wary of stepping over any evidence. “I’ll call- get law enforcement here at once.” 

“Fine, great.” Crowley yanked his phone out of his jacket pocket and offered it, but he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut as anger merged with fear. What if Aziraphale had been in there? “You need to take whatever insurance payout this is gonna net and get better fucking security. A padlock needs ten seconds and bolt cutters. Your damn camera doesn't even move and it didn't cover the door. Keep against the wall, knock it down, easy.”

“I thought I put it high enough out of reach.”

“With all the - ngk - brooms and shite in there?! How easy is it to knock a fucking camera off a wall?” 

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve not tried to,” he retorted, bristling at the language. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take that tone with me, Crowley.”

Shaking his head, Crowley ignored that. What the hell did his tone have to do with any of this? What if Aziraphale had been in there? “Well, news-fucking-flash, I have and it's easy. Not to mention your alarm. What good that did. Christ. The code's probably the address or the last four digits of the very easily found phone number.”

“That’s not-” Aziraphale blustered, but Crowley kept going.

“Or, hell, you take off the cover and snip some wires. Even if there's a backup, something like this barely takes an hour. The stuff that'll sell fast obviously right under the sheets, the stuff that's too big to move easy, well, may as well destroy it, what good is it, and what if you'd been in there?” 

“That’s enough, Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped, his own anger igniting as every criticism hammered another nail of guilt and regret and might-have-beens into his heart. “Believe me, I’m more than aware of my failings here now, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shout them at me!” The shock vanished and left him reeling as he blinked back furious tears. “And I wish I’d been in there because maybe I could’ve stopped them! If the light was on that might have deterred them! But none of that’s going to change anything, is it? It’s already done!”

Part of Crowley registered the hurt, knew he was only adding to it, and that part tried very hard to be quiet. But the fear was so much stronger, clouding and smothering everything else. This was the best person he'd ever had in his life, and just the thought... What if he'd been in there? “No. But you get better fucking security in case it happens again. Because a light wouldn't deter the sssort who does that.” He gestured roughly towards the opening. 

“You don’t know that!” Aziraphale argued, still thoroughly humiliated and angry by the entire situation, though he stiffened when Crowley stalked towards him.

“No, you don't know! You’ve no idea the sssort who does this! You don't know my sort. Robbing this place would've taken ten minutes. Take everything not nailed down, leave. Taking the time to sssmash things and tear into them- Those are the violent ones.” The Hasturs and Ligurs. His heart was beating too fast. They'd stabbed her, they'd- If Aziraphale had been in there, they could’ve- “This isn't supposed to happen in fucking Tadfield. I can't lose you too!” 

Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut, prepared to say his piece, but not at all prepared for that to be what Crowley said next. “What?” he sniffled, confusion calming the devastation their arguing had wrought, and he could see a little clearer the way Crowley’s hands were shaking. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“You work late in there all the damn time, and thisss town- What you had should be enough for this town. If you'd been in there- I've seen what- I've seen it.” They'd stabbed that woman over nothing and the shop had held so much more than nothing. “If you'd been in there-” 

“I wasn’t.” Aziraphale’s breath caught and he erased the gap between them so he could cradle Crowley’s face in his hands, so he could feel him. “I wasn’t, Crowley. I was in the house with you. Safe with you. So none of that now. Don’t think of that, dearest, I’m fine.” 

“I know.” Crowley lifted his hands, holding onto his wrists and letting the touch drag him away from memory and into the present. Away from the what-ifs. “It should've been enough sssecurity for Tadfield. It has been for years, so it didn't ssseem... For the love of Sssomebody, please just tell me you'll get something better.”

“I’ll get something better.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead, to the worries and fears and memories that haunted him still. “I promise. You can help me pick it all out. Because you’re right, I don’t know this sort. Not a single one,” he said pointedly, letting him know he didn’t miss what he’d slipped in. His sort, indeed. “But clearly I could use your valuable insight. If you’d be willing, that is.”

Crowley didn't think he could possibly love Aziraphale more. “Yeah,” he agreed after a moment. “Could do that. I'm-” Sorry. “I shouldn't've... Sss'not your fault.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale agreed, nudging their foreheads together. “But I forgive you. This is… quite a shock. Neither of us were prepared for something like this. Just take a moment to breathe, my dear, while I call the authorities. Then we can… go from there, yes.”

“Right.” He had to get over it if he was going to be any help. “Right, yeah. Yesss. We'll get it taken care of, angel. Clean everything up again, fix what we can.” And he'd still take Aziraphale on that drive, get him out and away for a little while so- He froze, pulse skipping all over again. “I need to check the Bentley.”

Aziraphale paled, eyes wide as he nodded wordlessly and released him. Dear Lord, the Bentley. Oh, nevermind him forgiving Crowley, how could Crowley ever forgive him if something had happened to that precious car. The last connection to his grandfather, his family.

“Yes, of course, go,” he urged.

Crowley didn't need more permission than that to hurry around the building, already making plans. Windows could be replaced, dents and scratches buffed out, paint redone, but was it there? The gear system was a pain in the arse for anyone unfamiliar with it, but it was still drivable. It was still- 

Crowley almost choked on his gasp of relief when he saw it parked right where he'd left it. It was short-lived relief anyway. It hadn't gotten off scot-free, though only the boot seemed to have been affected. It was open. Had they taken some of his tools, then? Run out of time or energy before they'd had a chance to destroy it? Or... 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Crowley turned around and walked away before his knees could buckle. He walked right past Aziraphale, ears ringing too loudly for him to know what he was saying to the dispatcher on the line. He had to get away, couldn't deal with it again. Not again. 

He stopped at the side of the house, staring at the eastern wall and digging his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Something for his nerves, something to do with his hands. 

They were shaking and he couldn't make them stop. The jewelry box had been bloody. Filled with fakes because it had been a poorer woman who really hadn't had much worth stealing. That's why Hastur and Ligur didn't get to pick the jobs. They sucked at it. They'd always sucked at it. They were easily tricked when it was just the two of them, Hastur often too literal-minded and Ligur so determined to be as evil as possible at every turn and still look cool. They were idiots. 

So they'd killed her for scraps, had left the evidence in the Bentley, and now-

The ceramic bowl Anathema had been fixing for Mrs. Jenkins was in smaller pieces than when it had been brought in. The simple coat of veneer and touch-up Deirdre had been doing on a family portrait for Mr. Price had an enormous hole in the middle. The old wooden, paddling duck toy he himself had gotten working again with Newt replacing a wing and giving it a truly stunning fresh coat of paint - wingless again, head gone. They'd put it in a sink just the day before, grinning as it wobbled across the water's surface. 

Crowley swallowed that down, fruitlessly searching his pockets for his tartan lighter. The pillows Madame Tracy had made for a gender reveal party were shredded. And the book Aziraphale had left in the press the night before - pages ripped out, probably in half, crumbled. All in his boot. 

And in the shop, so much damage. The antique press his grandmother had owned, that he'd been so proud of, was broken. Everything Aziraphale was so very proud of had been ruined or hurt in some way, yet... 

Yet the clock he'd been working on was still at his bench. His entire station looked untouched, even. He knew the picture it made. He knew what it looked like. He knew what the police would say, what they'd do. He could almost feel cool metal closing around his wrists all over again. He had a history and he'd just got done shouting exactly how to go about doing it. Practically bragged about the ease, hadn't he? Like a fucking idiot. Suspect number one. 

The pack of cigarettes fell from his trembling grip when he heard his name, just a soft question of it that made him jerk. He whirled but he didn't want to look at Aziraphale and see questions, accusations, suspicion. 

He looked anyway. 

There were questions in his expression, but they were tangled with concern. Love crashed into Crowley so hard, it hurt. It was too big not to hurt and it only seemed to get bigger every day. It had seeped into every part of his life now, of his being, and had taken over and added a shine to every piece of his days. And it was all Aziraphale, the freedom the man gave him to just be and to be that way - himself - without any judgment. Hell, Aziraphale loved him too. Told him every day. 

Just the night before, he'd cut off Crowley's annoyance at the loss of his queen with a smiling, “Oh, I love you.” As if he'd just remembered again, just fallen in love all over again during his irritable grunting.

It had cleared away the annoyance, though he'd played the game anyway. “That's cheating.”

“I would never,” he'd replied, in the holier-than-thou way Crowley loved so fucking much. 

If he lost that- Well, how different would things be? He’d lost everything else, hadn’t he? Everyone else. He should expect it. Nothing was guaranteed. No promises. No talks of tomorrow from either of them besides little plans, little trips they wanted to take together.

He didn't know when it had happened, but he couldn't imagine losing Aziraphale, too. 

Crowley wasn't sure what to do with his hands, how to make them stop shaking, how to swallow the memories and the fear and put them away where they belonged and pretend that it didn't feel a little too familiar. They couldn't have found him. They couldn't have. There was no reason-

“Angel,” he heard himself say, voice sounding so far away even when he felt his throat trying to close. But he had to get it out, had to explain that he knew how it looked. He knew. He'd seen it before. And, just as before, he was innocent. He hadn't been involved, and if he could just make Aziraphale believe him... “Angel, I didn't-” 

Aziraphale hushed him, bundling him in his arms before he could try to say another word. His fingers carded through the tangles of his bedhead hair as he pressed his face into the crook of his neck to let him hide, to let him have his moment, and to make sure he felt completely surrounded, cologne, collar, and all. Aziraphale made another shushing sound, careful with the comfort he offered, as careful with him as he’d be with any of the delicate pages of his old books. 

He held him close, held him tight, and whispered, “Of course you didn’t, you silly thing. You would never.”

For Aziraphale, he kept his comfort gentle. Soft, breakable, always giving him the choice to take more or leave. Crowley wanted the pressure of a promise, the grounding of something firm and solid. Someone who wouldn't let go because maybe, deep down, there was still enough of a good person in Crowley who made him worth holding. 

Aziraphale may have been soft, but he was strong enough that melting into the softness and holding tight wouldn't break him. All the love - all the stunning, bright, blinding love - wouldn't overwhelm him. It could and would be met equally. He knew that just as he knew Aziraphale had already read his heart. The words he didn't know how to make form had already been understood. 

It had been so very long since there had been someone to say them to. Someone safe enough.

He could feel something in him crumble as Aziraphale held him as tight as he needed without needing to be asked, a wall crashing down, a last barrier he'd erected to keep himself safe from everything. From loss and grief and the fear that if he acknowledged everything in him, it would be taken away. But no one would take this, no one could. It was too big, too fierce and untouchable. And soft, strong, sweet, stubborn Aziraphale... 

Crowley trusted him, could depend on him. It was terrifying. There'd been no one to depend on as long as there'd been no one to love, though he'd at least tried to try and find someone who could be leaned on. He'd had that rug pulled out from under him over and over again. It was harder to do that, he'd discovered, than it was to love. Harder to believe that there'd be a tomorrow, a next week, a next year, a rest of their lives. 

Though it would be so easy to love this man for the rest of his life. This silly, embarrassing man who was terrible at magic tricks but still tried so earnestly. Who clapped at the end of the movies despite - or, more accurately in spite of - knowing it was embarrassing. Who talked so cheerily about characters in books as if they were real people, especially when they were well-worn copies. He could quote Shakespeare and Georgette Heyer and A.A. Milne.

He could and liked to tease as good as he got, matching Crowley beat for beat. He was clever and charming, particular instead of fussy, cluttered but neat. Decadent when he hummed over whatever meal was deemed worthy of his attention. Happy when he could settle in his favourite chair with a good book, a good glass of wine, a good record on his phonograph. Clever when they shared quips and playful teasing and chess moves. Peaceful in the few times Crowley had awakened before him in the mornings, when he was warm and pliant from sleep and so easily kissed awake. Stunning when lost in passion, when he let Crowley take him to mindless places of sensation. Smart when he hunched over his workbench late at night, only stars and Crowley peeking into the little world he created between him and every book he preserved. Positively angelic when he'd been haloed by Christmas lights, sitting on a bench they'd had to clear of freshly fallen snow, saying he loved him. 

And strong now, holding him tight while he shook and knowing so steadfastly that Crowley had nothing to do with the damage. He hadn’t needed to be told that anymore than he needed to be told how Crowley felt. He just knew. He understood.

He probably deserved a better confession in turn. Something overly romantic, lifted from the pages of the romance novels he liked to read. He'd probably imagined it that way for himself when he let himself think about it. And Crowley would give him that, too, but right then-

Crowley’s hands stopped shaking when he lifted them, curled them in Aziraphale's jacket, and finally whispered, “I love you.”

Aziraphale's grip tightened, his chest hitching as he inhaled sharply. He knew, of course he knew, but he hadn’t heard it… “Oh, Crowley.” He tried to press closer, two beings melding together in the middle of a field on a February morning, but he wanted this good thing - this one spark of a beautiful thing - to carry in his heart as long as it kept beating. “It’s alright, my dear. I’m here. I’m here and I love you, too. So much.”

He was there, there and his. Crowley pressed a kiss to the hiding spot in his neck, then shifted to press another to his lips. It was too bright in the morning light for him to take his sunglasses off, but he still nudged them down so their eyes could meet. So he could see as well as hear, “I love you, Aziraphale.”

A weak shiver ran through him, and it was Aziraphale who had to hide his face against Crowley. Oh, the way he looked at him sometimes. He’d seen it in his eyes before, but it almost felt like too much to have more than one of his senses awash with the feeling of love. Crowley’s love for him. 

Crowley loved him.

It fully sank in. This man, still in his joggers with jacket thrown on over a t-shirt and boots so loosely laced it was a miracle they hadn’t slipped right off his feet, had known instantly that something was wrong and hadn’t hesitated to follow him out to the shop even if he wasn’t fully dressed. He held him. Yelled at him. Hurt for him and feared for him. All the parts of love that weren’t very pretty, but Aziraphale craved anyway. Well, perhaps less of the shouting, but in this case even that had been out of a place of love.

Aziraphale clung to him and thought he understood now why Crowley had asked him to say it again when he told him he loved him the first time. He didn’t think he could ever hear it enough. Now that he had a taste, he only wanted more.

“Crowley,” he started, the plea in his tone and if he’d looked up, Crowley would see it in his eyes and the arch of his brow. 

A hand delved into his curls to stroke and soothe. He'd always been happy to indulge his angel and finally could in this too. “I love you. I love every ridiculous, brilliant thing about you.”

Aziraphale lifted his head to kiss him, as if he could taste the words on his lips. “I love you, too, wily serpent. Even though I believe the ridiculous is better suited to you most days.” He took advantage of being able to see his eyes over the tops of his sunglasses and held his gaze. “You must know by now that I trust you implicitly. Besides, I hardly think recreating the scene of the crime that unfairly condemned you would be your style. You’re far more creative than that.”

He knew he was, but it had been such a shock to the system. Like stepping into a column of fire. “Does feel like a recreation,” he murmured, nudging their brows together on a soft nuzzle. “It's not going to work this time, but we both know I'm going to be a suspect.”

“I won’t allow it. Besides, you have an alibi.” Aziraphale tapped the back of his neck to punctuate his point. “Quite a strong one, too, if memory serves. We played chess, so I could clearly see you in front of me, and shortly after that, I - as the victor - collected the spoils of my winnings which involved quite a bit of you as well.” A blush tinted his cheeks, but he stood firm and challenged anyone - even Crowley - to argue with him. “And then you fell asleep. When would you have had time to do any of that?”

So very strong, he thought again, kissing him again. Fierce and hopeful and so very full of love. “There. That's why it won't work again. Now I'm going to get dressed before they get here and start pestering us with questions.”

“Good idea. Might not be time for a shower, but I’m certain you’ll be more comfortable in those tight trousers of yours. Somehow.” Aziraphale stepped back, releasing him from his hold, but watching him in case he needed to be steadied. 

He’d been so afraid when Crowley had walked past him without a word, when he didn’t hear him call for him. He’d thought for certain something terrible had happened to the Bentley and rushed to see - fully expecting it to be torn to pieces and plundered for valuable parts. It took seconds before Aziraphale realised just what he was seeing, what Crowley had likely seen when he looked at the boot of his car, and he knew he needed his support more than anything. An arm to steady him. He’d be that for him, if he needed it.

“I’ll put some more tea on. Heaven knows we’ll need pots of tea to get through this,” he sighed. “Oodles of tea.”

“We will get through it, though. Just vandalism is easier than robbery.” It still left a message, one he knew he'd have to think on sooner rather than later. “It'll take a bit longer on some of it, but things'll get fixed.” He'd already been steadied, but he did take his hand in a give and take of the support they both so readily offered. “You've got quite the team.”

“Yes, I do.” The contact was a tether for them both, Aziraphale grateful for it as he envisioned the state of the shop and his stomach roiled against the memory. “I must make this up to them somehow. All their hard work destroyed on my watch.”

“None of them are going to blame you, angel.” Crowley tugged him back towards the house. “If it's who I think it was, you've all got more reason to blame me.”

It was hard to fret with one hand when you couldn’t wring it with the other, but Aziraphale somehow managed nonetheless. “Do you think it is?” he asked after a beat. “I did wonder. It’s much too coincidental, unless you happen to have gained some sort of cult following, like that Charles Manson character. Not that either of those options would place the blame on you, Crowley. That’s absurd.” 

“Blaming you's just as absurd, then, but yeah. I think it's them. It's too... It's a message, isn't it?” He immediately answered his own question. “Must be, it's obvious. The damage is their bloody style.”

Aziraphale's brows knitted together in concern. “Do you think perhaps word got out that this is where you've been working? Oh, perhaps we did too good a job of advertising your clock services.” He couldn't think of anything else, it was the only logical explanation. It was too lucky of a guess otherwise. 

“News like that doesn't reach those bits of London, angel.” He might have to take a trip, see who would talk to him after all this time and get some answers. “And I don't know why they'd come 'round. They can’t still be angry with me or want me back in. What would be the point?” 

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, then shifted his grip so he could tuck his arm in the crook of Crowley’s. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand why out of all the shops and all the people to target, why it would be the two of them. Well, he supposed that was what the police were for. Hopefully, they’d see something in the wreckage that would shed some light.

Chapter Text

They dealt with the police first. They took their pictures, asked their questions, and made Crowley feel like a very suspicious bug under a microscope. Aziraphale’s support didn’t waver, his soft angel quite the stubborn pillar when their questions started with things like, “Are you sure?” He was very sure, thank you, and Crowley loved him far too much.

When they left, reports to file and an investigation set to begin, there was still a mess to clean up and things to fix. “D’you have a spare padlock? I’m gonna clear the boot.”

Aziraphale nodded. He kept a spare in case of corrosion or if he ever lost the key to the current lock. Well… the old lock, now. He fetched it from the old toolbox and replaced the key on his keyring. Looking at the small thing and the latch for the lock, it hardly seemed like any protection at all. Perhaps he’d look into installing a new door entirely, one that had its own locking mechanism built-in.

He’d have to make a list, figure out an estimate for the costs of completely upgrading everything and what the insurance would cover. After he helped Crowley move everything back into the barn, he’d start on it. And call Gabriel, of course. He needed to report the… incident to Michael. As their legal counsel, she’d be their liaison between them and the insurance company. But of course, given how busy she was, he’d have to go through Gabriel first. Not to mention, he didn’t want to consider the conversation that might arise should he go around Gabriel, only for Michael to tell him later. No, it was better to get it over with himself.

They collected the shards from the ceramic bowl, Crowley picking out each piece from the bottom of the boot. Aziraphale carefully compiled the torn pages from the book he’d been restoring, assuring Crowley that he’d repaired worse when it came to books. Even for the pages ripped in half, if he couldn’t tape them back together, then he could see about reproducing the pages on new paper. It was days of work that would need to be added to an already time-consuming project. Days of work was better than the alternative though. Unsalvageable. Gone. 

Aziraphale placed the remains of the book at his desk, tidying it up only enough to locate his ledger and a pen while he dialed Gabriel’s number. His chest tight, heart fluttering, he watched Crowley set Deirdre’s art piece down at her desk as it rang and rang. 

And rang.

Gabriel’s voicemail picked up and the tension wadded up and stuffed in his chest loosened a bit. “Ah, hello Gabriel, me old mate,” he blustered. “It’s ah… it’s me, Aziraphale. Listen, there’s been… well, something of an incident at the shop. A break-in. Yes, um. I’m going to need to report the damages to the insurance company, so I would, ah, appreciate it if you could connect me with Michael and see if we can’t get things sorted out. Yes. That’s all. Thank you.”

It wasn’t great, but it was one less thing to fret about for the moment. Aziraphale rubbed his palm over his face, then sighed heavily and surveyed the mess. The sooner he went through it all, the better, but…

Gosh, he simply didn’t know where to start.

Crowley set the broken duck pieces on his station, watching Aziraphale. He had ideas of where to start. Cleaning had always been a stress relief for him, so a checklist was already writing itself in his mind. He put the proverbial pen down and approached his angel instead, reached a hand out. “Come on. Dunno about you, but I have something to pick up in town and could use a walk.”

Aziraphale blinked at the offered hand, then up into his face. “Oh… but, there's still so much to…” He recognized the out for what it was though, softening as he took Crowley's hand. “I do have a stop of my own to make, I suppose.” 

“Wouldn't happen to be Valentine’s Day related, would it?” 

“And if it was?”

“Mine might just be.” Crowley smiled, pulling Aziraphale up and into his arms. “They took our morning, but they're not getting the whole day. I want to give you an embarrassing present and take you to dinner. Then bring you back home and make love to you until you forget there's anything but us and that bed in the whole world. We'll clean up in here tomorrow.”

Part of Aziraphale wanted to argue, say that he couldn’t possibly leave the shop in absolute disarray for an entire day, but it was the part that was still used to only having things to fill his life with. As important as the shop was to him, and always would be, it was still only a thing. A thing that could wait a few hours before he was in the right frame of mind to tackle the disorganization. Because another part of him, a louder part thankfully, knew how important it was for them to spend the day together, to assuage their respective worries and insecurities. 

And Crowley had said that he loved him. 

Oh, Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t want to feel more of that love, especially when they did have plans. “It would rather be like letting them get the better of us if they derailed our plans entirely,” he mused, making a show of letting himself be tempted into the idea, even if he was already on board and hugging Crowley back.

“Exactly.” Crowley kissed the corners of his mouth, feeling the smile threatening. Better. “I'm not letting them take another day away from me.”

“As you shouldn’t,” Aziraphale agreed, very adamant on that. “Well, I can’t argue with that. And a walk would be rather lovely, I think.”

“Let's lock up, then. They're not taking any days from you either.” Crowley drew back just far enough to take his hand to lead him out. 

While unlikely anyone would try to come back and make a mess of things in broad daylight, Aziraphale still made sure all the windows were secure and the new padlock tightly latched before leaving the shop. Without a functioning alarm system or camera, it was unsettling to leave it on its own, but he had faith that things would still be alright upon their return. And they would be. 

They fetched their gloves and scarves from inside, bundling up for the February chill. It had been some time since they’d walked into town together, and Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling nostalgic about the whole thing. “Where do you need to stop?” he asked Crowley as they drew closer to the center of town.

Arm slung loosely around Aziraphale’s waist, Crowley smiled. “Bakery. You?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale wiggled with interest, even as he cast Crowley a cheeky smile of his own. “Florist.”

“Either we're very predictable or we know each other very well.” Or, most likely, it was a combination of both. “I hope the florist appreciates you single-handedly keeping them in business.”

“I believe that’s you, my dear,” Aziraphale teased gently. “After all, most of the plants you’ve accumulated were hand-picked by you. I’ve only made a few additions myself.”

“Nah, you’re always the one who tells me to get them. S’obviously your fault.”

“So you’re saying that you have absolutely no say in the matter? No choice?” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “Fancy that.”

Grinning unashamedly, Crowley gave him a fond squeeze. “You’re determined to have greenery about now that you’ve got someone ‘round who knows what he’s doing.”

He was determined to have things around the house that brought Crowley happiness. That reminded him he was free to bring home whatever plants he liked, that he could leave his mark in their home. Since Christmas, Aziraphale rarely thought of it as anything else.

It was their home, farmhouse and shop included. Aziraphale knew Crowley felt the sting of the shop’s infiltration just as keenly. It wasn’t his entire livelihood, no, but it was still very special to him. It gave him his fresh start and his home. Aziraphale couldn’t have done that for him without the shop. 

Crowley would never do anything to put it in harm’s way. Of that, Aziraphale was more than certain. He leaned into him, slipping his own arm around Crowley’s waist in return and hummed lightly, letting him have the last word just this once, as a treat. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

Crowley kissed his temple as they walked, soaking up the warmth and comfort of having him close and hoping he provided some of the same. It wasn't at all how either of them had planned the day, but they'd make the most of it. 

Starting with the bakery, the Black Forest gâteau with extra cherries handed to him in a box that didn't have a window and the knowledge that news of the break-in had already stretched this way. Police asking if folks had seen or heard anything unusual the night before. Not what either of them wanted to hear, but their dinner plans weren't in Tadfield. 

Holding his prize carefully, Crowley sent him a small smile as they stepped back out. “Maybe someone did see something, angel. At least this is a place where people would say so if they had.”

“Oh, yes. Our community is a rather tightly knit one. And full of rather nosy people, too, I might add.” Aziraphale eyed the box, wanting very much to sneak a peek, the only thing holding him back being their second stop. “They’ll be curious, at least, if nothing else.”

The girl in the florist proved as much, though she also offered her condolences and a discount on the flowers. A free bag of potting soil was pushed at them as well, but since they didn’t have the Bentley and their hands would be quite full, Aziraphale politely declined and she promised it would be there for them when they next came in. They left the shop with a pot and a crystal vase with bold red ribbons tied around them, tucked in the crook of Aziraphale’s arms. The flower arrangement he’d ordered and a Hoya Kerrii plant - the sweetheart plant, named for the vibrant green leaves shaped like hearts.

“Flowers are more traditional, but I thought you might appreciate bullying a plant more, so I got you both,” he explained, unable to hide his gift with them out in the open. 

He'd never had a Hoya Kerrii, so he was going to have to do some actual research on it before he could properly bully it. “Leave it to you to still find a plant shaped like a heart, though.”

“I thought it was appropriate given the occasion.” Aziraphale was beaming as he admired the pretty thing, then looked at the plant. “Especially now that you’ve claimed to love me.”

“Ngk. Bit more than a claim. D'you want a whole speech like I got? I'll need a year or two to come up with something.”

Aziraphale chuckled and stopped walking so he could tilt his head up and place a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “I think a bit of poetry will more than suffice. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, darling.”

Knowing it was a tease didn’t stop the words. “‘I ne’er was struck before that hour; with love so sudden and so sweet; his face, it bloomed like a sweet flower; and stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale; my legs refused to walk away; and when he looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay.’”

Aziraphale couldn’t even complain about the slight inaccuracies, Crowley changing up the pronouns to suit him. But there were other things to make him huff, even as his pulse fluttered fondly and his spirits were lightened by the sweet sentiment. “How dare you recite one now when you know quite well that I’m unable to hold your hand or embrace you.”

Crowley grinned. “S’pose you’ll just have to save it up for when we get home. Anyway, ‘then my blood rushed to my face; and took my eyesight quite away; the trees and bushes round the place; seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing; words from my eyes did start - they spoke as chords do from the string; and blood burnt round my heart.’ Which is all dramatic and ridiculous and doesn’t even fully cover it, mind.”

“It’s perfect.” When Aziraphale lifted up this time, it was for their lips to meet, a kiss the best way to show him his gratitude with a pastry box and plants between them. “You are quite dramatic and ridiculous, after all, so it’s fitting.”

“Cheek. Do I even want to finish reciting it for you?”

“I should think so. If it’s more than a claim.” Aziraphale grinned, but dropped back to the flats of his feet and nodded for him to continue.

“Prat,” he accused fondly. “‘Are flowers the winter’s choice? Is love’s bed always snow? He seemed to hear my silent voice; not love's appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face; as that I stood before.’ Still haven’t and never will. ‘My heart has left its dwelling-place; and can return no more.’”^[17]

“I’ll take good care of it,” Aziraphale promised, his own heart brimming with love for the man who could stand by his side through hardship and still wax poetic on a winter’s day. “There’s nothing I relish more than giving your heart a place to stay.”

“Angel, you’ve taken better care of it than I ever have. I could probably string every poem I know together and it still wouldn’t say what that means to me or express a smidge of how much I love you.”

“I think you’ve come fairly close just there,” he replied fondly, and for a moment they could pretend it was their first Valentine’s Day as a couple and only that. The events of the morning could be tucked away, all save for Crowley’s confession, the words a treasure, but Aziraphale was certain he would have felt the man’s love for him regardless. “Come along, my dear. Best get a wiggle on before we freeze just standing about in the middle of town. Besides, I want to be able to hand these darling plants to you personally and I can’t very well do that with your hands otherwise occupied.” 

“And you want to know what's in this box.” Crowley leaned in and stole a last kiss, a teasing promise for more, before they continued on through the chilly, quaint town. 

A quaint town where nothing criminal ever really happened. Everyone looked out for one another here in a way Crowley still wasn't used to. May never be used to. The problem had come from him, had followed him, and it was unacceptable. 

Worse, though, was not knowing when or even if they'd be back. Not knowing why. Weren't they done with him? For thirteen years, he hadn't even seen Hastur and Ligur. For fifteen, he hadn't seen the other three. Not since he'd left them to fend for themselves in the middle of a job. But they didn't know the full extent of that betrayal. They couldn't. 

But what if they did? If this was all because of him being a complete cock-up... 

Or what if it was just a warning? Just a message that they knew where he was? A last way to fuck with him for old times' sake? 

There were too many questions, too many variables, and they were all twisting and tangling in his mind and churning in his gut. And it all boiled down to his home and his angel having been threatened and hurt. They'd hurt him, for that matter. Again. Crowley was very tired of them being able to hurt him. Hopefully, they were gone. Hopefully, they'd stay that way. Not knowing was going to drive him mad. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale looked at him curiously, not missing the gradual tightening of his jaw as they made it to the edge of town. That ever-expressive mouth twisting like a riled up serpent, on the edge of something uneasy. “Are you alright?”

It was going to drive him mad, but not today. Today was theirs. “I'm fine, angel.”

Aziraphale shifted the pot plant so that both it and the flowers were squished tightly against his breast so he could tuck his newly freed arm in the crook of Crowley’s. “You’re still thinking about how it looked, aren’t you?”

“Ngk.” He didn't want to be, was a little grumbly at being caught out so easily. “I just don't like it.”

“Of course not. I know it was quite the shock. I must say, it wasn’t what I was expecting either. I thought for certain those valuable items would have been long gone. Pawned off somewhere. It’s… unsettling to think that someone would rather recreate a version of the scene that put you away for fifteen years than make a sizable profit off antiques.”

“That’s the problem, angel. Messages aren't their style. Not Luci's. S'not like... like the bloody Godfather films.” He'd sooner put a bullet in a head than a horse head under sheets, but that wasn't information Aziraphale needed. “I just don't understand what the fucking message is. They have to know I'm not going back to them, so why... Is it a threat? I just...” Crowley sighed. “It doesn't make sense, angel.”

“And how did they find you? They can’t have been… well, they can’t have been watching us. Surely someone would’ve seen something suspicious like that, don’t you think?” Aziraphale squeezed his arm, pressing closer.

“Depends. Luci can blend in, Beelz can if they have to, but we'd have heard if anyone had seen Dagon. Doesn't exactly hide her teeth.” Shaking his head, Crowley turned it over his head again. The possibilities. There were too many unanswerable questions. “No one knew where I was going when I left London. I didn't know where I was going.”

“Did they know where you were in London? Could they have followed you?” Aziraphale asked, brow furrowing as he tried to piece it together, too. “But then why wait five months?”

“Exactly. Why wait? Besides, no one followed me. They didn't bother me when I got out, and it wasn't exactly advertised across London. No one gave a shit. And you know how I drive, so I'd've known if anyone was speeding behind me on those empty roads.” Crowley frowned as Aziraphale’s plot of land came into view. “No, they found out recently. I just don't understand why they'd muck about leaving messages and not just come attack me directly. What's the point in hurting us both?” 

“That would still hurt us both,” Aziraphale had to point out, his frown now directed at Crowley. “My dear, I hope you don’t think I’d sit idly by if someone were to come after you intending physical as well as emotional harm.” Not after all this time. Not after saying that he loved him. 

“I know that,” and it was as terrifying as it was heartwarming, “but they don’t.”

Aziraphale bobbled the plants as he moved to set them on top of Crowley’s pastry box so he could unlock the front gate and prop it open. Once through, Aziraphale locked it again, an extra step he normally didn’t take when they were home during the day. Though it hadn’t stopped the intruders in the night. It was low enough that it could be climbed with ease, even Adam and his friends were able to hop the gate on a regular basis. As soon as it was secure, he took the plants back and led the way into the house.

“Do you think they’ll come back tonight?” he asked on the way, uncertainty ringing in his voice as clear as a bell. “Certainly they’ll assume that there’s no way for us to have a functioning security system installed so quickly.”

“No.” As unusual as most of this was for them, of that he was certain. “After as blatant a message as all that, they’ll expect I’ve told the police about them.” Even though he hadn’t and was kicking himself for it. “Luci can’t risk getting caught again, so they’ll be off somewhere.”

Aziraphale set the plants on the dining room table, gingerly stroking one of the heart shaped leaves before clasping his hands together to watch Crowley take the pastry box into the kitchen. “But what if they do come back? After a few days.” Aziraphale wrung his hands together, twisting his ring around and around. “How do we stop them?”

“We just need better security, love. An alarm that's not as easy to disable.” Crowley pulled him in close to stop all that, his own worries easily pushed aside in the face of Aziraphale’s. “If they even come back. It might not come to that.”

He returned the embrace, tucking his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, finding comfort in the angles that folded around him so perfectly. “I might be acting like an old silly, but I don’t want anything to happen to you at their hands, my dear. They’ve already troubled you enough.”

“I don't want them to bother either of us.” He didn't want them anywhere near his angel or anywhere near this town. “I don't want them touching our home.”

Aziraphale moved to kiss him and stroked his cheek. It was their home, and they’d find a way to protect it. Somehow. “Then they won’t. You and I will make certain of that, won’t we?”

“Yeah. It’ll be alright, angel.” Crowley gave him a firm squeeze, let his hands slip to Aziraphale’s waist. “Feeling peckish?”

“Well, you did go to the trouble of ordering something special for today,” he mused, smoothing down Crowley’s shirt for an excuse to fuss. “I could hardly let it go to waste now. I imagine it would taste best fresh from the shop, yes?”

“I’d say so. At least one piece.”

That got an excited wiggle out of him. “Perhaps one now, and one after dinner. Oh, and I do want to give you your flowers and plant properly.”

Crowley leaned in to steal another kiss. “Right. I need to actually do some research on the plant. Never had a Hoya Kerrii, and I don’t plan on letting it die.”

“I looked into this plant a bit before purchasing it. They’re not too terribly complicated to take care of, but can be very particular about their growing conditions. I’ve read they appreciate a nice hanging planter,” Aziraphale informed him.

“Luckily, my angel put hooks in the ceiling so I can give it one.” He stepped over to the table to touch one of the heart-shaped leaves, rubbing his thumb over the green surface to get acquainted with its texture. A little rubbery, so definitely a hardy little thing. Good. Maybe he could get a cutting and plant another. He’d have to get into that research. 

The flower arrangement in its crystal vase was made of a more familiar assortment. Primroses, of course, had been tucked in alongside pale Earl Grey roses and Stargazer lilies for love and passion. Bulbs of anemones and ranunculus joined them, white and bright pink blending with the soft roses and the more vibrant lilies, making the black primroses with their yellow eyes pop. Rounding it all out were splashes of green and clouds of baby’s breath. Everlasting love and protection, with a touch of luxury unavoidable from someone with tastes like Aziraphale. He’d picked flowers for his love, their shared love, and let the arrangement celebrate what they’d created together.

Aziraphale fetched two plates from the kitchen, then happily took a peek at the gateau on the counter. His breath caught, a pleased sound spilling out at the sight of the chocolate and cherries. “A schwarzwälder kirschtorte,” he sighed happily. “Oh, Crowley, how divine!”

Whatever that meant. He assumed the fancier name for the cake. “Decadent enough for you, love?”

He almost didn’t want to cut into it, carefully lifting it out of the box so he could admire the dark chocolate ganache artfully spread across the top and cascading down the sides. Layers of cream and cherries were visible between chocolate sponge cake. Additional cherries were piled on top, more than would normally decorate the top of a cake, the extra that Crowley had been told about. Aziraphale pressed his hands over his heart, more than charmed by the token of his love’s affection.

“You know me too well, my dear boy,” he chuckled. “I think it’s the perfect amount of decadence.” He beckoned for him to come closer, so he could take his hand and press a kiss to the back of it. An echo of the first time, standing in front of the Discerning Duck in September, hardly aware of just how much they’d come to mean to one another in so short a time. So short, yet it felt like they’d known each other for centuries in how comfortable they’d become around one another, even through hardships such as this. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “It’s so lovely, my dear, would you take a photograph of it with your telephone before I cut into it? I should like to savour every aspect of it, including its appearance.”

Smile nothing but fond, Crowley retrieved his phone but snapped a picture of Aziraphale’s smile before he focused on the cake. “Might just have to take one of those flowers, too. I’m shocked the ribbons aren't tartan. What happened to your network of agents?”

“Well, I wanted to be considerate of the dear girl in the shop’s time and resources. She offered to dress it up for Valentine’s Day free of charge. I couldn’t say no to that,” he huffed, but cutting into the cake quickly distracted him from Crowley’s teasing. A generous slice was placed on one of the plates, a bit of chocolate and cream licked from his finger. “How much would you like?”

“Just a bit. Might be too much sweetness for me to handle between you and the cake.” Crowley hugged him from behind with an easy familiarity he hadn't known a few months before, nosing at those soft curls and knowing he was welcome to get as close as he wanted. It was a soft, quiet moment in the kitchen like so many others they'd shared over the months. But the words didn't stick in his throat; they rose up and he let them out, and it was almost easy. “I love you, Aziraphale.”

The words and his breath tickled Aziraphale’s neck just above his collar. Blue eyes closed and he leaned into him, back to chest, and laid his free hand over where Crowley’s joined together. The lean arms enveloping him might have seemed as brittle as a toothprick and so easily snapped, but he knew without a doubt that they were unmovable. Nothing would make Crowley let go of him. Nothing would make Aziraphale want him to either, for that matter.

“I love you, Crowley,” he answered, and it felt more like home than a building ever had and ever could. Things could be repaired and buildings restored. Love was beyond that entirely, and Aziraphale wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Nor would Crowley, reveling in this thing that felt like a miracle. That felt too good, almost, to be true. But it was real. He nudged Aziraphale back just to get him a little closer, pressed a kiss to his neck and breathed him in. He could trust this man, depend on him, could know it was all shared.

It was something he'd never stop cherishing. 

----

They'd managed the rest of their day wrapped up in each other, the pair of them too stubborn and just too fond of one another to let those dark clouds drench their Valentine’s Day. Maybe they didn't stay out as long as they may have otherwise, but they also knew each other well enough not to point that out. 

They ate a restaurant overlooking the Thames, much like how they had on their first outing together. The library and crêpes. They toasted with champagne and Aziraphale indulged in the Valentine’s Day special of Lindisfarne rock oysters and Cornish gurnard all’acqua pazza while Crowley indulged in his indulgence. For a few hours, they could pretend the day went without a hitch. None of the pomp entirely necessary, but neither could deny that it was fun to have someone to treat things to. To experience things with. To love and celebrate that love.

But the fact that they didn’t stay out much later than eight o’clock, that they left without ordering dessert, without going for a stroll along the river, because the shop was alone and unguarded at home, reminded them of the trials ahead still. On the way home, they let Freddie fill the silence and their minds wandered freely. Both overthinking, too clever and too creative. Too fretful and too fearful of losing everything.

“I’d changed it, you know,” Aziraphale broke the silence as his heart raced, and not because of the speed at which the Bentley traversed the country roads in the dark.

The comment came out of nowhere and nothing was added to it, so Crowley had to lower the music's volume and prompt a bit more out of him. “Wot?”

“The alarm code. I changed it recently.” He cleared his throat, swallowing past the emotion, then Aziraphale tore his gaze from the window to find Crowley. “It was the day we met. I thought you should know. It’s been on my mind since... It wasn’t the address or the telephone number. 0-4-0-9. The fourth of September. Before that it was… well, it was the date I found out the shop was mine.” 

The Bentley pulled to a stop, budged against the side of the narrow road, and Crowley pushed the gears into park. He looked over at him, the setting sun behind him shining all around him. Like an actual angel. Crowley shifted in the seat and reached out. “C'mere.”

Aziraphale slid closer, hands fisting in Crowley’s blazer as he pressed as close as he could in the car. “They don’t know that date. They can’t. You could’ve arrived in Tadfield any day. It’s ours.”

“I know, angel. I know you're too clever and love the shop too much to have made the code something obvious. I was angry earlier, but I swear I know better.” Crowley cupped his cheeks. “You’re a ridiculous, sentimental, clever thing, and I love you. They don't know any of that.”

The words were still so new, but the feeling was familiar. What Aziraphale had felt from Crowley over the course of the past few months - in the tender ways he looked at him, touched him, and teased him - had always been his love. Not naming something didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Aziraphale let it wash over him and soothe some of the ache, some of the hurt that had festered, Crowley’s love a balm.

“You’ve brought so much good into my life, Crowley.” Aziraphale looked into his face, his hands covering Crowley’s. “I wouldn’t change any of it.”

“Mngh. Change this if I could.” Keep his messy past from infecting his angel. “Not this this, but you know.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Even this. We have to take the good with the bad. And while I wish you’d been shown more kindness and love in your life, darling, who you are today is who I love. We’ll overcome this. The hurt may linger for a bit, for both of us, but we will triumph over evil. We will win.”

He was so ridiculously wordy, fondness tugging at corners of Crowley's lips. “You really believe that?” 

Taking Crowley’s hand, he drew it to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “With my whole heart.”

“Can't really argue with that, can I?” Crowley laced their fingers and pulled him in for a kiss that Aziraphale sank into as eagerly as he had his oysters and champagne. “We'll be alright, love.”

And they were, for that night. Their house and the shop had gone untouched while they were gone, then with a bottle of wine and the box of chocolates, they tumbled into their bed for a lot of touching and making good on Crowley’s promise to banish any thoughts that weren’t of the two of them at that moment. That sliver of time where they lost themselves to the pleasure of their bodies, reaching out to one another and clinging through the winter night. Bracing for the storm to come.

----

Getting ahold of Gabriel had turned into one of those games of telephone hopscotch - “Phone tag. For Someone’s sake, angel.” - as he had called while they were getting ready to go to dinner the night before and Aziraphale made the executive decision to let it ring. The next day he called back after breakfast, but had to leave another voicemail message. He and Gabriel finally had the opportunity to exchange words just as he and Crowely were getting ready to start cleaning up the shop.

Clucking his tongue, Aziraphale nodded for Crowley to go ahead, handing him the keys. “I don’t know how long this will take, my dear. I’ll join you when I can.”

“Alright.” He could at least start righting buckets and boxes. Aziraphale’s organizational system - or lack thereof - was going to get an overhaul. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, I believe so. After the inevitable reprimand for being careless,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes to show just what he thought of that, “it will likely be all procedural, relaying the events of what happened and filing a claim.”

“Bugger his reprimands. You’re not to blame.” But the phone wasn’t going to ring forever, so he lightly jingled the keys. “You’ll be alright, angel.”

“Yes, I believe so. I trust that Gabriel will eventually unite with me for the greater good of securing the insurance money to fix up the shop. It’s in his best interest, too,” Aziraphale pointed out as he went to the phone. He took a deep breath, bolstering his courage and patting down his worn waistcoat before he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Finally,” Gabriel sighed into the phone. “I tried getting in touch with you last night, where were you, Aziraphale?”

“Out to dinner,” he replied without missing a beat, glancing towards the front door as he watched it close behind Crowley.

“You went out to dinner? After letting the shop get ransacked?”

He’d expected it, but it still stung. Like a fresh sunburn. “Well, it was Valentine’s Day.”

Gabriel sighed, and Aziraphale could picture him rubbing his hand over his face, his own fingers twisting the cord of his phone while he waited out the silence. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into the shop on the night of the thirteenth- or the morning of the fourteenth, can’t be certain the exact timeframe, but it was between five-thirty in the evening, as I popped out there to fetch my reading glasses and my laptop computer, which I’d left in the shop, and eight-thirty in the morning the following day, as that’s when I left to go to-”

“I’ve got it, Aziraphale,” Gabriel cut him off. “What did they take?”

“Nothing. At least, as far as we can tell.”

“You and… Anthony Crowley?”

Aziraphale lifted his chin. “No, the International Express Delivery Man. Yes, of course, Crowley.”

“Really, Aziraphale, there’s no need for sarcasm. I’m just looking for the facts. So he hasn’t left town yet?” Gabriel asked.

“What? No, of course not. Why would he-?” Aziraphale cut himself off, answering his own question. “He had nothing to do with this, Gabriel.”

“I’m just saying it doesn’t look too good for him. You’ve gone… what? Twenty-five years without any sort of incident?” Gabriel blew out a low stream of air that had Aziraphale’s spine locking into place vertebrae by vertebrae, straight and stiff. “Then less than six months since he showed up, you have a break-in? When you know that’s what he’s known for.”

“He’s being set up,” Aziraphale huffed, tugging on the phone cord. “I don’t have to explain those details to you though, I only called so that I can get in touch with Michael and file the claim to the insurance company. I’d like to get things settled as soon as possible and invest in a better security system.”

“You think that’ll change anything?” Gabriel let out a disbelieving laugh. “Come on, Aziraphale, we both know you’re not this gullible, don’t we? You said nothing was stolen? Well, if he’s shacking up in our grandmother’s house, then where’s he going to hide the goods? His car?”

Aziraphale’s eyes hardened. “Stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Put me through to Michael. I want to submit the claim myself.”

“You want to submit it? I don’t think so, sunshine. Seems to me you can’t be objective about this.”

“‘Can’t be objective?’” Aziraphale gasped, fury striking him like a bolt of lightning. “You are the one that has a bias against my partner!”

“I’d say you have a pretty strong bias, yourself.”

“Oh, you would say that,” he grumbled. “I don’t have time for these shenanigans, Gabriel. I own the shop, so I will file the claim.”

“I think you lost that privilege when you let a convicted criminal-”

Aziraphale hung up, the crass response burning in his ears. How very dare he? It was inappropriate and cruel and certainly not at all in the best interest of the shop. It was harassment, plain and simple, and Aziraphale could write him up for it. He had that authority. He never extended it, but as the owner of the shop, he had every right to. He could rip up Gabriel’s contract and burn it like he had the file of Crowley’s history. It would be easy.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, hands clenched at his sides. No. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t decide something like that in the heat of the moment. Like it or not, Gabriel was still family. They all were. They were misguided, perhaps, ill-informed and firmly entrenched in their own bias, but that didn’t mean they were beyond reason.

Obviously news of the break-in had rattled Gabriel as well, he was lashing out because this was their grandmother’s legacy, all they had left of her. And Aziraphale had been trusted with it, and he had failed to protect it. That much was true. But to shift the blame so sharply to Crowley, that was something he couldn’t and wouldn’t accept.

Tugging sharply on his waistcoat, Aziraphale decided he’d figure out a way to go around Gabriel and Michael to file his claim with the insurance company. There had to be information on them somewhere, in some long ago email or crammed in the recesses of his filing cabinet. He could figure this out on his own. For his sake and for Crowley’s, he wasn’t going to keep them in such close correspondence with his cousins. Not until the waters settled, at least.

Aziraphale locked up the house, something else he didn’t ever think to do while he was on the property, but not about to take chances now, and joined Crowley in the barn. “Well, that was a thing!” he huffed.

He looked up from the supply corner, long legs crossed as he separated broken from not. That had been faster than he’d expected it to be. “Pissed you off, then?”

“Exceptionally,” he replied, going straight for his desk to start sorting through the filing cabinet. “I’ll simply have to handle this myself. Now, where’s the key… aha! Here we are.” He unlocked it with a loud, metallic clang, then tugged it open. There was some resistance with how stuffed full it was of documentation. Decades of records tucked away, some even before the shop was in his name. “This might take some time.”

It had already been a day. A simple padlock was worse than the easily disabled alarm system and stationary camera. At least they’d been something. “If Gabriel didn’t give you the information, why not, y’know, go over his head and call Michael?”

“I don’t really want to deal with any of them right now. I’m perfectly capable of talking to the insurance company without them. Once I find the paperwork and our policy number.” Aziraphale squinted at very faded lettering on one of the labels, absently reaching for his spectacles, only to pat at empty pockets. “Drat. I left my reading glasses in the house.”

Fuck's sake. “D'you even know for sure that you've got that in there?” 

“It’s very likely. I don’t see why I wouldn’t have printed out something as important as that,” Aziraphale replied matter-of-factly on his way back to the house. “The policy number should be the same, even if whatever documentation I have is past the expiry date.”

But what if it wasn't? Worse, what if they'd changed companies on him? Crowley pushed his sunglasses up to rub a hand over his face. Lucifer and the guys could come back at any time, if they weren't done with him, and Aziraphale was just going to rummage about in a filing cabinet that was as organized as the supplies scattered across the floor. “Any chance of it being somewhere in your email?” he asked when Aziraphale returned. 

He had his laptop with him. “Yes, I’d say so. And with how fast this computer is compared to my old one, it shouldn’t take long at all to check. Don’t fret, my dear boy.”

“M'not fretting,” he muttered, fretting. “Just figured it'd be easier to check that first before you start digging through that disaster of a drawer.”

“I have a system,” Aziraphale replied, a little bit haughty as he sent Crowley a look over the tops of his reading glasses. “But yes, it will be easier to check here first. When Gabriel made a push for us to be online and to move to a virtual filing system on their end, they emailed me quite a lot of documentation in bulk. It might be in one of those files attached to the body of the email.”

Crowley grinned. There really wasn't a choice between the bratty look and equally bratty tone. “That was a pretty tech-savvy sentence, angel. Feeling alright? Wanna talk about the history of gramophones instead?” 

Aziraphale tutted at him, his look no less bratty as he turned his attention to finding space at his station to set up his laptop and get to searching. He’d find the email after thirty minutes of careful clicking and opening each document that had an obscure title, thirty minutes of additional stress, more and more questions rising up whether Aziraphale even had a copy of the bloody thing at all. He hardly appeared ruffled, patient in his humming and clicking.

When he had the policy number and the proper identification credentials necessary, he was finally able to file a claim, patient and pleasant with the person on the other end of the line as they collected the information from him. Someone would have to come out to assess the damages, and they could have an agent there as early as the following morning. It would interrupt the work schedule, but Aziraphale saw no harm in that. They also had pictures that they’d taken with Crowley’s phone after the police documented everything as evidence of the damages.

All in all, it would take some time, and Aziraphale did his best to appear unruffled and exceedingly calm about the whole process. It wouldn’t change anything to let his fretting get the better of him, as it had the day prior. Not when he’d spent the night watching Crowley’s gaze dart to every window and every door at the slightest sound of something outside. Not when the man who loved little more than sleeping a full eight hours had tossed and turned all night once they’d cleaned up from their lovemaking. 

He understood. He knew Crowley felt partially responsible, if not wholly, and with nothing to do other than stand guard, with nothing to fix but the ruin of the shop and Aziraphale’s own feelings, it was taking a toll on him nonetheless. Or it would eventually. Aziraphale might not have known Crowley long, but he could see the way his fingers twitched - still unable to find where he’d put his lighter - and felt the way he orbited him wherever they went, like he alone could stand between the world and Aziraphale.

He still wasn’t very used to that. But if Crowley was going to orbit him as a moon to a planet and a planet to a star, then Aziraphale was going to offer him all the stable gravity he could. He'd be the support he'd been sorely missing since his grandfather's death, hold his head high and not lose himself to languish, even if he faltered a few times in their efforts to reorganize and rebuild. If his heart would splinter when he looked at his grandmother's book press for too long or the light in his eyes turn grey when he caught sight of the corner where the camera should have been, they were only things. Things he could sweep up, brush aside, and carry on. So he could continue to hold Crowley within reach, let him cope how he needed to, and be there for him to fall back into whenever he needed it. If his past was coming back to swallow him like the black hole it was, then Aziraphale would be his anchor to the present.

As long as it was in Aziraphale’s power, he’d never have to go back there again.

Footnotes

^17. "First Love" by John Clare↩

Chapter Text

For once, Aziraphale was the one sound asleep and it was Crowley who was up too late, mind still whirling. He should’ve slept so much longer than he had, honestly. The day had been just as exhausting for him as it had been for his angel, and he'd hardly slept the night before either. As much as cleaning was usually a catharsis for him, it was the nature of it all that had been draining. It had been watching Aziraphale straighten his shoulders and get to work, watching that stiff upper lip crumble too many times. It had been the absolute surprise when others had come. Anathema had rushed in with a flurry of big skirts, a determination to help, and a tight, tight hug. Crowley didn’t know what she’d said to Aziraphale, but that little link of family had helped some. And could be accepted, Crowley thought, in Aziraphale’s overthinking way because of course family would show up to help, but then Madame Tracy had swept in with Shadwell, the pair ready to offer assistance and brushing off Aziraphale’s polite refusals.

“Enough of that now, dearie. You know this place is ours too.” Except, no, Aziraphale had not known that. Crowley knew. He’d known when Shadwell had come up to him all the way in September and gruffly accepted him into the fold that this was a united group. Aziraphale just hadn’t realized he was both leader and protected charge. An odd thing to be, another thing to be both baffled by and pleased with and scared of. Like his birthday.

His family hadn’t been around then either.

Crowley closed his eyes, making himself take a deep breath. He couldn’t think of them and be calm, be there. They were useless, wretched bastards. They were going to make Aziraphale suffer until they got their way, and Crowley couldn't do anything about that. He didn't know how. Didn't trust himself.

But Aziraphale was, thus far, on his side. Crowley was sure Aziraphale would stay on his side. He’d even promised to get better security, promised to do something just for Crowley’s peace of mind, and he did trust Aziraphale to do it. Just as much as he trusted his heart. He did.

He just didn’t trust the security upgrades to happen fast enough. Insurance was going to take time Crowley’s fidgety soul didn't have. 

He opened his eyes again, taking another deep breath. And then Crowley slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, got clothes just as silently, and could only just see Aziraphale’s tightly curled form in bed. He’d probably be angry with him over this, but he had to go.

Crowley dressed in the bathroom, stuck a note to the fridge, and pushed the Bentley out of the gate before he risked starting her. It wasn’t Freddie Mercury who came across his speakers for once, but Crowley found the Hozier CD Anathema had given him just as appropriate. There certainly was no plan here, but he had to know.

He had to know.

----

Aziraphale woke up to an empty house for the first time in five months. Nearly half a year had passed in the company of someone else. He’d grown accustomed to what the house felt like with another person in it. With Crowley.

The moment he opened his eyes, he knew the house was too quiet. Like before. He knew it was empty, save for the company of Crowley’s plants, and a peek out the window in the room Crowley once resided in revealed that the Bentley was gone.

Still in his pyjamas, Aziraphale checked the locks on the front and back doors. No sign of foul play. Crowley could have simply gotten up early, perhaps to pick up doughnuts to perk them up a bit. Lift their spirits. 

But Crowley hadn’t wanted Aziraphale out of his sight for too long the day prior, and knew Aziraphale wanted him near, too. Even for a quick trip into town, it didn’t seem very likely, but he tried to hold onto that reason any way as he went to his telephone and dialed Crowley’s number. It went to his voicemail, so Aziraphale left a polite message, “just wondering where you’ve popped off to so early, darling. That’s all. Pip pip.”

He found the note when he went into the kitchen to make a cuppa to steady his nerves. Got questions, be back when they’re answered. I won’t die, and I won’t get arrested. I love you. That was all the information Crowley deigned to give Aziraphale to explain his disappearance. Got questions. Of course he did, Crowley was nothing if not curious, nosey devil. Be back when they’re answered. Now Aziraphale was the one with questions: what did that mean? How long would that take? Would he be gone for hours or for days? I won’t die. That was likely meant to be reassuring, but Aziraphale was already rushing back to the phone to try ringing him again. His being arrested would be horrid, obviously, but it paled in comparison to the thought of Crowley getting himself into a situation that would leave him injured to the point of death. What on Earth was he doing? And why couldn’t it have waited?

And why did his I love you read like goodbye?

“You foul fiend, what is the meaning of this note?” he demanded of the voicemail. “Crowley, you call me back this instant. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it needs to stop immediately. You can’t just leave something like this and expect me to remain calm! I don’t know what you were expecting! Obviously you haven’t thought this through. I expect answers when you telephone me back, Crowley.”

He paced the length of the sitting room until his tea went cold. Crowley didn’t call.

“I didn’t approve your request for time off,” Aziraphale complained when he called again two minutes to nine. “It shall have to go in your personnel file.” He let that threat hang as though Crowley could hear the message being left in real time. “If you telephone me back, perhaps we can come to an agreement. I’m going into the shop now, so when you do decide to speak with me, you can reach me on that line.”

It was obvious, but he felt he had to say it nonetheless.

“Alright, luv?” Madame Tracy asked when Aziraphale finally strode across the grass to the barn, she and Shadwell waiting by the door. 

“Absolutely tickety-boo,” he huffed, straightening his waistcoat with several sharp tugs.

Tracy clucked her tongue. “Don’t you start lying to us now, Mr. Aziraphale. It makes sense you’d still be gutted over the whole affair. Have you had your tea yet?”

Aziraphale fiddled with the new padlock, frowning all the while. “No,” he eventually admitted.

“Well, that’s your problem, then! First thing’s first, let’s get you settled in with a nice cuppa,” she urged as she steered him into the shop, glancing back at the farmhouse. “Our dear Mr. Crowley taking his time?”

“He’s not here.”

While Tracy’s surprised look was to be expected, Aziraphale thought one had to have made quite the error in judgment to wrangle an honestly shocked sound out of the sergeant. What’s more, he actually appeared just shy of sympathetic after Aziraphale relayed the information, if his awkward shuffling and demands that Tracy “get the man his tea” were anything to go by. 

“I’m sure he’s got his reasons for popping out like that,” Tracy assured as she coaxed him into sitting at his desk, hands cradling a fresh cup of tea. “He’s mad about you, dear. Anyone can see it.”

“Aye. Jus’ don’t let tha’ aul neb know yer business,” Shadwell grumbled, both Tracy and Aziraphale aware that the “aul neb” he was referring to was one R.P. Tyler. “Looks a mite suspicious for Mr. Crowley. Be jus’ the thing te bring Tyler pokin' about.”

Aziraphale stiffened, clutching his tea in an attempt to keep his hands from trembling. “Crowley isn’t a suspect. There’s nothing suspicious about this at all. I’m merely concerned that he’s- oh, I don’t know. Getting into some sort of trouble, I suppose.”

“Aye. S’not likely te stop the bleeding neighborhood watch. Yer jus’ as likely on his list.”

Honestly, Aziraphale didn’t doubt it. Guilty until proven innocent was R.P. Tyler’s motto. Sighing, he took a sip of his tea while Tracy squeezed his shoulder. “Now, I don’t think he’d be your man if he didn’t get up to a smidge of trouble now and again. I’m sure he’ll be back by lunch. Just you wait.”

Aziraphale managed a smile to reassure her and braced himself for the slew of questions Anathema was certain to send his way as she and Newt arrived, Deirdre not far behind. He was just being an old silly. Crowley was likely being a dramatic old serpent, that was all. He wouldn’t leave Aziraphale alone all day, not without calling. He was probably waiting until he wasn’t driving any longer to call, that’s right. He was being safe and considerate.

He tried not to think about the fact that safe and considerate were not the first words he’d ascribe to Crowley in the Bentley, they weren’t even in the top fifty. 

Instead he drank his tea, started a list of everything he needed to do to get the shop back in working order, and he waited.

And he waited.

----

Tuesday morning traffic hadn’t been something Crowley had missed, but it was early enough that even the M25 wasn’t as hellish as it could’ve been. He circled it twice, Queen pumping through his speakers again as he tried to actually make some semblance of a plan, before finally barrelling into London for the first time since he’d fled.

Habits died hard, and Crowley had always known exactly how to get himself back into Hell. If he couldn’t find them, he knew how to let them find him. He pulled into a parking garage the Bentley would hopefully spend a safe day in and pushed his wallet into the glovebox with his switched-off phone and extra sunglasses. Then got out to get the proper armour and tools from the boot. He pulled on and buttoned up his fuck shit up jacket, the orange across his shoulders and reflective silver encircling his wrists both drawing attention and anonymity in the city. The weathered badge he’d hinted at the day of their picnic (the day he’d first let himself believe he loved Aziraphale, the first day he’d tried to tell him, Before you came...) was drawn out of a pocket and clipped to the lapel.

The police, thankfully, had never found the false bottom in his Bentley, a hideaway of souvenirs from bad choices past. He didn’t have knives and he didn’t have a gun, but he had a taser that still definitely worked and a small case of burglary tools. Both went into his pocket just in case, and he sauntered into London like he belonged, boarding the first bus that passed his way and steadily making his way to the parts of the city tourists avoided. The parts where CCTV cameras were broken with such regularity, there was an official unofficial policy of Not Bothering. 

Crowley rode buses until he saw teenagers smoking on a corner, skipping school and no one caring. Definitely his stop. He bummed a cigarette that was definitely not tobacco off one and made idle chit chat until they got suspicious, a drop of Luci’s name - his real name - making three sets of shoulders tense and one phone get reached for. Then he walked away with two billfolds, a wallet, and another sin on his record. He probably wasn’t going to tell Aziraphale about that or the prostitute who did not care that it was before noon. People took lunch breaks, didn’t they? And she was happy to take the cash of teenage drug dealers and a half-finished joint in exchange for a few quick questions.

Ten minutes later, flicking his collar up as he sauntered by a few townhomes that had seen better days, he realized he’d known that prostitute. She’d had her own teeth and fewer track marks back in time, but he’d known her once. And if she’d recognized him...

Well, he hoped she had. The sooner word got around that he was in the area, the better. It wasn’t only small towns that had excellent gossip chains.

He spent thirty minutes between buildings in an alley when he heard gunfire two streets over, smoking in the shadows and reciting poetry in his mind between wonderings over how he’d tolerated this life as long as he had. He’d so much rather be nestled in the comforting safety of an angel’s arms, in a quiet town that still had faith in goodness and decency. Where the worst thing was R.P. Tyler’s nitpicky opinions or him and Shadwell getting into a shouting match about God on the church lawn on the occasional Sunday. And the most mischief children got up to were muddy trainers and memes. 

When guns and sirens alike faded, he left the alley to continue his saunter. He knew where he was although it, too, had changed over the years. Luci’s influence had expanded. He could practically feel it radiating off buildings, off CCTV cameras dangling by broken wires, off barred cash machines no one was actually stupid enough to use. Crowley slipped in and out of businesses, dropping names and stories - “Y’know, Beelzebub and I - d’you know Beelzebub? Still with Dagon? Oh, just tryin’ to find them. Thinking about the old days. Anyway, they and I-” He pushed pride into it, gave more details than he had or ever would give Aziraphale.

The only place he didn’t play the game was when he slipped into a decrepit diner for subpar coffee and a sandwich when both the weed and the regular eating he’d gotten used to over the months drew attention to his empty stomach. He didn’t ask if they were kosher anymore than they asked his name, them just glad that Crowley didn’t try to yank money from their cash register and him just happy to not see more than three bugs. He missed their clean kitchen, wanted to trade kisses between bites at their dining room table, wanted to feel that warm hand over his, linked with his, squeezing and holding and promising.

He looked down at his fingers and was glad he’d left his phone in the Bentley. He’d be too tempted to pull it out and call him now. Hear his voice and get scolded over being reckless enough to come to London on his own. Maybe he should’ve written something different in his note. Maybe he shouldn’t have even left one.

No, no. Just should’ve written something different. Promising not to die had probably been more worrying than had he not mentioned it at all. He’d just have to deal with it when he got home because this surely wasn’t that anymore. His lips quirked a little. He’d gotten spoiled.

He gave himself an hour at the booth, watching people and cars alike as he nursed a coffee he never actually finished, and left his half-eaten sandwich on the table with it when he eventually returned to the streets himself. It took a few more hours of scouring, name-dropping and pickpocketing criminals to bribe other criminals, to actually make real headway.

The fact that the headway came in the form of a car following him made him tense in a way only Aziraphale might’ve noticed, and he dipped into an alley. His jacket was turned inside-out as he walked, the reflective color vanishing as he leaned against a wall and let shadows hide him until he knew just how many people were following him. There were three distractingly similar voices at the end of the alley, but only one came down it. Good, he’d just bide his time until the third.

When the young man was close enough - couldn’t have been older than twenty, for somebody’s sake - Crowley reached out and grabbed him, whirled and pressed his forearm against his throat to cut off the outcry and then just... kept... pressing...

Eventually, he slumped and Crowley let him drop. Not dead, no, never that, but out of his way. Pulling on gloves that had only seen robberies, he quickly searched the limp man and pocketed cash. The switchblade he found banged against the alley dumpster, causing a whispered argument at the mouth before the second disposable idiot made his way down and was handled in exactly the same way.

When number three finally made his way down, Crowley pushed him against the wall too. On the opposite side so he could see two bodies that certainly looked more than just unconscious. It was an unspoken threat, made more clear when Crowley flicked open Number Three’s own switchblade and held it to his throat. A brow arched. “Hi.”

Only able to see his own distorted, terrified reflection in the sunglasses, he tried to look anywhere but at them. Being part of the gang had plenty of troubles and it wasn’t the first time a knife had been held to his throat. Had the tables been turned, it wouldn’t have been the first time for Crowley either. It was, however, his first time doing the holding. The younger man didn’t know that. He swallowed, Crowley’s knee digging into his gut to keep him in place and the blade making him press against the wall instead of squirming. “A-are you- You’re Crawly, aren’t you? Looking for Lucifer? We heard- There’s been some rumours. Today.”

Crowley grit his teeth against the nickname. “Could be.”

“I’m Eric,” he squawked and there was almost some pity in Crowley’s eyes. Too fucking young, but hadn’t that always been the game? Get the young ones, the hurt ones, draw them in one at a time and wear them down. “We thought- You weren’t supposed to come here. Lucifer said you’d be too scared.” He tried to laugh, but it was a nervous, choking thing.

Crowley pressed the flat side of the blade against his throat, letting him feel the cold steel. “Well, he’s always been more wrong than he likes to believe. Particularly about me. What was I supposed to be scared of, Eric?”

“Jail,” he wheezed. “Again. Thought you’d- You were supposed to turn tail and run. Find yourself a different small town. We’ve, uh, we’ve got a joke. Haha. Since you’re a snake and all. So we’re just, like, a big mongoose?”

Crowley only arched his brows and let the knife linger against his stressfully bobbing Adam’s apple. A nervous talker wouldn’t last long. He’d disappear quickly, used up and spit out. Just a bunch of young goons. “How did they find out where I was?”

“No clue.”

“Eric,” Crowley tsked, shifting the knife a little, just a hint of a turn.

“Ligur!” he yelped and babbled everything he knew until Crowley was blindsided. He hadn’t heard a fourth person running down the alley, absorbing Eric’s words and trying to think who could possibly be talking to Ligur.

His glasses crunched under the fist, digging into and cutting a crescent shape around his eye that made him hiss. Wet suddenly splattering his face did too, blood on the blade and Eric clutching his throat because disposable idiot number four hadn’t considered his actions before punching the guy with a knife. Crowley dropped it and stepped back as another fist came his way. This one was a lot more panicky, but it still landed and a desperate scuffle ensued.

Crowley wasn’t sure if he cut his own arm or if it was number four, but he managed to fling the knife away amidst the struggle and managed to escape when the kid followed the blade. A quick glance at Eric at least gave Crowley peace of mind that he hadn’t actually killed someone in an alley that Tuesday, but he also wasn’t going to be dialing emergency anytime soon. Let it be a message, then. Let Luci and the rest think prison had turned him closer to their side than he’d ever been before.

Maybe they’d think twice about ever fucking coming back to Tadfield.

Heart racing, Crowley stole down another alleyway and crouched behind the dumpster. He pushed off his jacket and tugged off his shirt, wincing when it clung to his bloodied arm. He had to pry his sunglasses off his face, grunting his woes as he felt a trickle of blood drip from the cut. The shades were bent, but he left them in favor of rending a sleeve off his shirt and tying it around the cut. It was shallow enough, he hoped, to not need stitches. An actual proper plaster, yes, but it could wait. He pressed the cuff of the other sleeve against his temple until that cut clotted enough for him to mop someone else’s blood off his face.

After he straightened his glasses as best he could with shaking fingers, he balled up his shirt and pushed it into his pocket. No blood had splattered on any of the reflective bits of his jacket, thankfully, so everything looked fine when he buttoned it up again. He was fine. He was going to have to explain the bruises he could already feel forming on his torso to Aziraphale. That wasn’t going to be fine, but at least he had some answers.

He just had to get some more.

In a minute.

In several minutes.

It took the better part of an hour for the trembling to stop, for him to be able to stand and saunter to the first bus stop leading out of town and the first clothes shop out of Luci’s part of town. Disposable one and two bought him a new shirt and bandages at a chemist’s, and he slipped into a public toilet to sloppily wrap his arm and put on the new shirt. It was red, a just in case sort of thing if the bandages didn’t cooperate. Jails didn’t usually like their visitors to walk in bloody.

He frowned at himself in the mirror, his sunglasses still a little too bent and one side uncomfortably close to the cut and the swelling little bruise around it. He was more annoyed that he’d essentially been punched in the face than hurt, all things considered, especially since it’d been his own fault for not paying better attention. Three passengers and a driver. There was always a driver, and he should’ve known better. He’d been the driver. If everyone went somewhere for too long, you followed. You followed or you suffered later.

Crowley wasn’t going to let Aziraphale suffer for his own lack of following. They’d damaged the place he loved, the things he cherished, had made things harder for people Crowley kinda, sorta thought of as possible friends. Probable friends, even. Probable friends and the love of his life had been sucked into his past, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.

Crowley walked back into London and eventually made his way back to the parking garage and the Bentley. His phone was ignored as he swapped sunglasses, this pair not offering the coverage he liked but at least nothing was pressing against his wound. And, not even a full year after being released from jail, Crowley drove back to it with Freddie singing all the way.

I'm one card short of a full deck...

I'm not quite the shilling...

One wave short of a shipwreck...

I'm not my usual top billing...

He slammed out of the car and gazed up at the imposing structure.

I'm knitting with only one needle...

Unraveling fast, it's true...

I'm driving only three wheels these days...

But, my dear, how about you?

He walked inside.

It finally happened...

It finally happened, oh yes...

It finally happened...

I'm slightly mad...

Just very slightly mad...

He wrapped himself in it, clung to it, let the lyrics trip and twist in his heart until he believed them, and eventually he sat in front of Ligur and picked up the phone on his side of the plexiglass. He stayed until he was told to leave, threats and vitriol whispered into his ear all the while. He wheedled back, played the game, played coy, played cool, taunted and tempted until his throat ached and his heart ached and his mind ached.

At the end, he had only a vague description and no name. Ligur had always been the smarter of the two, though equally as vicious and equally as likely to taunt their victims. More likely to keep his mouth shut where it counted and the chance of getting out early counted big for someone who missed having victims.

Crowley sometimes felt as though the undeserved punishment had changed him in more ways than any deserved one ever had in the past, but the years had not been as kind to Ligur as they had to him. The darkness in him was deep-seated and Crowley missed the light.

The light was going to be furious when he got home.

He sat in the parking lot for too long, listening to silence and frowning at the sky. There weren’t enough stars in London.

When he turned the key, he almost switched the radio off, but,

I'm taking my ride with destiny...

Willing to play my part...

Living with painful memories...

Loving with all my heart...

Made in heaven, made in heaven...

It was all meant to be, yeah...

Made in heaven, made in heaven...

That's what they say...

Can't you see?

That's what everybody says to me...

Can't you see?

Oh I know, I know, I know that it's true...

Yes it's really meant to be...

Deep in my heart...

“Fuck off, Freddie,” he murmured, but put his car into gear and sped to Tadfield. Sped home to the lights in the windows and the apologies he knew he’d have to offer. Tired and aching, he parked in his usual spot and stumbled out of the Bentley and thoughtlessly pulled his fuck shit up jacket back on. It’d need to be washed with everything else, including himself. There was a limp in his saunter now that it was safe for him to admit to it. Disposable though they’d been, several sharp kicks had bruised one leg, but he stopped when the front door opened.

“Aziraphale,” he sighed, every ache spilling out with it. Just a day, a single day back in that life, and the hurt seemed to go right into his soul. “I’m sssorry.”

Haloed in the light from the farmhouse, Aziraphale had never before looked so much the part of an avenging angel. His expression like stone, unyielding as he stared at him and stood as still and powerful as a statue carved from marble except for the pieces that had unraveled as hours and hours passed. His bowtie was missing, tugged and tugged until he tugged it loose and slammed it into the nearest hard surface - the chess table, in this instance. His waistcoat gone, collar limp, and his curls too frazzled and frayed to be thought of as soft.

He stood and stared and didn’t say anything. He’d had a speech, because of course he did, a tirade of sorts he’d been more than prepared to unleash upon Crowley twenty missed calls later, but he was livid. How dare he slink off in the early morning hours? How dare he leave nothing more than a scrap of paper not assuring him that he was simply popping off for the day, no, but that he might not die? How dare he let his telephone ring and ring and not even check in once and the shop had just been robbed and he’d just told him he loved him for the first time- how dare he say that and leave?

There were no words for the righteous anger that writhed in his chest. And it was for the best, Aziraphale would realize later that night, that he didn’t deliver his speech. Because while his fury might have silenced him, it certainly hadn’t blinded him.

Crowley was bathed in the light spilling from the doorway, reflecting off the fuck shit up jacket and highlighted the discolouration bruising his face. It let him see the limp, the wrong sunglasses, the exhaustion, the rawness. It let Aziraphale see the way he hovered uncertainly at the light’s edges, ever so slightly swaying towards it, starved for it. Crowley stood before him as though the weight of the world had been set upon his shoulders and he didn’t know at all what to do with it.

Though Aziraphale stood still, his heart kept beating. It cracked the stone facade, split it right down the middle and his entire being sagged once he was free of it. With a frustrated sound, he stormed across the gap between them and pulled Crowley into his arms. Not too tight, not yet, but as a brace. A support.

He did press his face to his neck, foreign scents clinging to him that weren’t at all right, seeking that hint of leather from the Bentley. The potting soil from his plants. The detergent from his bedsheets. Any trace of anything familiar.

“You’re damn right you’re sorry,” the one to hiss for once, lips pressed to his pulse point before Aziraphale pulled back enough to start guiding him towards the house. “Come inside this instant and let me take a look at you. And no fussing. You’ve lost all fussing privileges, you’ll sit and you won’t fight me on this, Crowley!”

The only fight he had left was being used to keep the bright dampness in his eyes from sliding down his face. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to cry, absolutely not. He was, he realized, very high instead. “Okay,” he whispered, cracked and quivering. “You can be angry with me. Expected you to be. Sss’fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Aziraphale closed the door behind him firmly and locked it, then dragged an additional chain into a new lock only installed that day. Crowley watched with fascinated interest, but only stood swaying in place while Aziraphale continued. “Absolutely nothing about this is fine! I shouldn’t be angry at you. And you shouldn’t be hurt.” His lips were pressed in a tight, thin line, hands clenching at his sides to keep them from shaking. He didn’t want Crowley to feel it when he placed one against his hip. “Can you make it up the stairs? Nevermind, don’t answer that. We’ll set you up on the couch. I have what I need in the kitchen.”

What Aziraphale needed started with some painkillers and a glass of water that he ordered Crowley to drink all of while he put the kettle on. He came back with a bowl of ice and two dish towels to start, then sat beside Crowley on the couch. He carefully made two bundles while he side-eyed him and waited for him to drain the glass. Before Crowley could even lean forward to place it on the coffee table, Aziraphale plucked it out of his grasp and set it aside.

“Your face and your leg. Is there anywhere else?” He had to be firm. Had to be brusque. He needed to care for Crowley and not fall apart in the middle of it, not when he needed him. Once he was safe, then he could be soft for him. Once he was alright. “Do you need a hospital?”

“No,” he replied after a moment, glancing at his arm with a furrow to his brow. “I’m- Jussst- Cut’sss not deep enough. But I don’t know how bad-” He vaguely gestured to his torso, tongue and teeth unable to catch his lisp. “Haven’t looked sssincsse the fight. Went to sssee Ligur.”

Aziraphale paused mid-wrestling of the jacket to flick his gaze up at him, then carefully resumed pushing it off his shoulders to properly inspect his arm. The dressing gave him little comfort; he’d redo them of course, fingertips lightly tracing over them. A lump formed fast in his throat, reminded of the first clock Crowley had worked on and the way he’d cut his fingers on the gears. He raised Crowley’s arm just enough to kiss the bandage, cradling it with both hands.

“Shirt off, please,” he requested hoarsely, clearing his throat as he leaned back and shifted his grip to feel along Crowley’s thigh, palpating lightly down past his knee until the muscles spasmed beneath his fingers. He pressed one of the ice packs to his shin over his jeans. “Why did you see Ligur?”

“I-” He was too tired for the quip, the casual “I had questions” dying as he pulled off the shirt and revealed the litany of purpling marks it had been hiding. 

Aziraphale nearly dropped the ice pack, distracted by the mottled look of his skin, dark purple and yellowed edges and tender to the touch. His chin quivered, stiff upper lip failing him as his own chest ached. This wasn’t even the worst of it, he knew. The bruising on his skin was nothing compared to what had been done to his soul.

“I went-” Crowley had to adjust the sunglasses, unable to bear letting Aziraphale see how wet his eyes were behind them. He had to fight every breath, keeping them from catching on sobs. The tender kiss had nearly undone him. “Um. Found out sssomeone told him I’m here and he told them. Lusscifer and all. Ssso I went to get him to tell me who it was.”

“Oh, darling.” Aziraphale shifted closer, carefully cupping his good cheek. “Crowley, you didn’t need to do that. That was entirely too reckless, what if they’d done worse than this? You’ve told me yourself how dangerous they are. What they’re capable of.”

“I-” Oh, no. He lost a little of the battle, a sob rattling its way out. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting more away. But he'd known, hadn't he, that Aziraphale would call it reckless. He knew him so well and was known in turn. “Thisss only happened because I forgot the rhythm. Thought there were only three, forgot there'sss always a driver.” Ones who weren't as wretched as he'd ultimately been at it. In a way which had brought demons to his angel's door. “It-” Another crack in his voice let the desperation out. “M'fine. I'll be fine.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale put the ice pack back in the bowl so he could enfold Crowley in his arms, pulling him in against his chest. “You will be fine, yes, but it’s alright if you’re not fine right now. I’ve got you.” He pressed his lips to the top of his head and smoothed his hand up and down his spine to soothe the trembling, careful to avoid the bruising. “Take a moment, dearest.”

“No,” he gasped, going stiff and panicky even as his fingers curled into Aziraphale’s shirt. He'd been ready for the fury. He'd been ready to take every word of a rehearsed speech. He wouldn't have enjoyed it, no, but he'd expected it. He'd prepared for it.

One day of prostitutes and too young drug dealers and police sirens and alleys and jail, even just as a visitor, and he'd forgotten that Aziraphale could see him. He'd forgotten that Aziraphale's softness was a strength. He'd missed and thought about him most of the day, but in forgetting, he'd prepared for the wrong things. Another sob broke free, then another and another and another. Mortified, aching, trapped in a self-loathing he hadn't felt in months - shame. It all burst out in choked sobs and hard shudders and hot, wet tears his sunglasses - gone though he didn't remember removing them - didn't keep from wetting Aziraphale's shoulder. 

Aziraphale held him close with each heaving sob, cradled like the precious thing he was, supportive in his softness. His arms were a safe place to cry. There was no judgment or disdain. It had been too long since Crowley had a haven of his own, a harbour to shelter him from the storms of his past. The lecture could wait. Crowley obviously knew how much he'd worried him, likely only went out because it was the only thing he felt he could do. Get answers to his questions. Strike back before they could strike again, protecting his home.

“You don't have to do this alone,” Aziraphale murmured into his hair in between the hushed nothings intended to keep him grounded. “I'm with you, Crowley. I'm with you in this.”

He'd had to go alone, though. He'd never take Aziraphale to that hellish part of London and, really, he'd prefer never going back himself. At least some of the ache from going eased with his sobs, his grip slackening into something not quite as desperate, shudders reduced to quivering. Embarrassment remained, the only excuse he could think of for the breakdown the fact that he was a little high. “Dunno... dunno why some days,” he murmured. 

“How hard did they hit you? Now you’re just talking nonsense,” Aziraphale huffed, fighting the tremor in his voice with an attempt at levity. “I love you, that’s why.”

Part of him, the part that had fit into those wretched streets, wanted to push that away. But it was such a smaller part than it had seemed all day. “I love you too, angel. I broke several laws and I missed home all damn day.”

Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley’s hair, a warm glow centering in his heart at the ease with which he called this place home. “I missed you as well, dearest. You’d know as much if you listened to all the voicemails I left you.” He continued to stroke his back, happy just to have him back after the emptiness of the day. Why didn’t you call? he wanted to ask, but didn’t feel as though Crowley was ready to answer just yet, face still damp where he rubbed his cheek against his skin. “What laws? Should I be studying up on my legal jargon? Ask Michael for assistance to fend off the authorities?” 

Crowley huffed, a hand sliding down to settle over Aziraphale's heart. “Thieves and drug dealers don't go off to the police when they've been pickpocketed or...” He wanted to keep the alley to himself, tucked up and locked away and never admit to being capable of violence. “Mostly, I made a nuisance of myself. Made my presence known so someone would come find me. I had to know if it was really them and try figuring out how they'd found me. 

“Eventually, it worked. A car followed me, I went down an alley, and...” And Crowley told him. He backtracked and told Aziraphale everything. From the teenage drug dealers, the prostitute he'd eventually remembered, the weed he'd smoked while being that nuisance because that half-joint hadn't been all. Those first three teens hadn't been all. When asking questions, it was safer to buy and roll like you knew what you were doing, to inhale like you did it every day. He told Aziraphale about waiting through gunfire, the dingy diner, leaving his phone in the Bentley because he'd known that if he did call, he'd come home and the whole trip would've been pointless. 

And when Crowley’s long day got to the alley, he even told him about the first two young gang members, about choking them until they'd stopped kicking. He told him about the third one, Eric, stumbling over the admission that he had actually slit his throat thanks to the fourth one showing up. The scuffle where he'd been more focused on getting the weapons away than actually blocking fists until he could run. He told Aziraphale what he'd done in the dark parts of London that day, trusting that even though it had been criminal and dangerous and, yes, reckless, he'd still be loved at the end of it. Even though he knew Aziraphale was still angry on some level and that he'd say his peace on it eventually, he trusted that he was still loved. Aziraphale was strong enough to take the worst of him. 

They’d reclined at some point during his story, Aziraphale laying back and Crowley nestled atop him. Aziraphale stayed quiet as he listened and dragged his fingers through his hair. It was a lot to take in.

He could see it though, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, but Crowley had an edge to him, had from the first day they’d met, even if it had become more blunt over their time spent together. It wasn’t impossible to picture him using whatever means necessary to get the answers he needed. But he also knew that wasn’t who Crowley wanted to be. He’d never asked for that kind of life. He’d fallen into it, stumbled and fell and had no one to offer him a hand to raise him up out of the darkness. Afraid that if he reached out into the ether, no one would reach back.

Aziraphale caught his hand in his grasp, kissing bruised knuckles as they sat in silence for a moment or two, letting it all sink in. “You could’ve been killed,” he murmured eventually. “They could have destroyed you.”

“They hurt you, and knowing for absolutely sure that it was them...” Crowley sighed. The hard bit wasn't over yet. “They're going to be back, Aziraphale. Got it from Eric and Ligur - the point is to make me leave. They weren't expecting me to show up. They expected me to hide.” As he'd always done in the past. “Guess Luci's... He knows something I did to them and he's still furious, so they're taking advantage of knowing where I am. I still don't know who told them. All I could get out of Ligur was that she was some posh, lacy solicitor. She said if they drove me out, she'd get his Custody Level lowered. I can't offer him anything as good as that, and he knows it. And I could go off somewhere,” he continued, softer. “Hide away for a bit until it's safe again to be with you.”

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him. “Is that what you want?” he asked, the soft susurrus of his voice as fragile as five hundred year old paper fallen from a book’s binding.

No. “I want you to be safe. This is my fault, angel. If I'd never stayed to begin with, this never would've happened.”

“I wanted you to stay. I encouraged it. I don’t see how you’re the one to blame for all this. You certainly didn’t ask for them to come find you, you were trying to get away.”

But he'd failed. He hadn't gone far enough, apparently. He'd let himself get drawn into this place, this man, and- And, Someone help him, Crowley wouldn't change it. “I was always the driver. If they didn't need a distraction, that was my role. Wait in the car, only go in if it's been too long. And the last job I did with them was small. A chemist for pills and whatever cash they could find, so not a Hastur and Ligur gig. Just the other three and me. 

“I didn't go in when time was up. I drove away, and the three of them got busted. There- there might've even been an anonymous call made to emergency, and they've found out who made it. But you shouldn't have to... My choices shouldn't hurt you, and they have.”

“Crowley, it’s not your choices, it’s theirs.” Aziraphale coaxed him up so he could nudge their foreheads together. “And my choice to want you here, and I do. Very much. It would hurt more to lose you.”

It would hurt him too. Crowley held his gaze, even knowing Aziraphale could see him giving in. “You won't ever lose me, love.”

Aziraphale guided him into a kiss, light and mindful of his injuries, but very much needed after the day they’d both had. “Then don’t say such ridiculous things,” he told him before kissing him a second and third time. “Going off somewhere… I couldn’t bear it.”

“I won't put you through it, then. S'pose I can't keep you safe if I'm somewhere else anyway.” Crowley slipped a hand into his hair, wanted the curls mussed by his fingers and not the day's stress. “If it all goes pear-shaped-” 

“I like pears,” Aziraphale interrupted and Crowley had to kiss his petulant, ridiculous mouth again. 

“If it all goes wrong, then, when they show up, just promise me you won't do something stupid. Only one of us should probably be reckless.”

“Well, you just had your turn.” Aziraphale kissed the corner of his frown when Crowley looked at him. “I won’t do anything, though that doesn’t give you permission to do anything stupid yourself. If anyone comes for us, we’ll call for assistance.”

It wasn't if, but when. They hadn't driven him away, nor had they driven a wedge between the two of them that would've made him leave. Even his own actions hadn't managed that. So they'd failed and failure wasn't something Luci would let go easily. “Okay, angel, alright. Neither of us will be reckless.”

“Wonderful.” He smoothed his hand over his back, tracing the gentle bumps in his spine once more before he gave his hip a pat. “Why don’t I run a bath for you? Get you washed up and check the cut on your arm?”

That didn't take any thought. A hot bath was just what he needed. “Well, fussing privileges were revoked so I s'pose I don't have a choice.”

“That’s right!” Aziraphale gave him another, more insistent, pat. “No fussing, you have to do as I say. Up now, there we go. I’d suggest a glass of scotch as well, but I don’t think that would be wise with the painkillers and all the cannabis you’ve consumed.”

“Ehh... Probably not.” Safe at home, he grinned mischievously. “Think the boss'll drug test me?” 

“Well… only if it impedes your ability to function at work, otherwise I don’t know that he’ll notice. Though, I’d recommend calling in sick tomorrow. I’m certain he’d be understanding if given the proper notice.” Aziraphale helped him to stand, then grabbed the bowl of melted ice and wet towels to deposit in the kitchen before heading up.

“I think the only thing that would worry me about going in - the only people - would be Tracy and Anathema. The hovering.” Crowley grimaced as much from the idea of Tracy's cooing and Anathema’s careful, consistent questions as from the way going up the stairs caused a few dozen aches to remind him they existed. Still, he made it up with the same stubbornness he'd spent most of his day with. “But the drugs won't give me a hangover or anything, and I need to fix the duck gears again.”

Aziraphale tutted at him, sitting him down on the lip of the tub while he set about running the water, testing the temperature with his fingers. Not too hot to sear the skin, but warm enough to ease the aches he carried in knotted muscle and bones. “That’s not at all what I meant. I’m hardly concerned about a hangover, Crowley, but that your body is in pain and that it should rest. The duck gears can wait.”

“They already have. My fault,” he conceded, holding up a hand before Aziraphale could input his opinion. “I know, but I'm not broken. A little battered, maybe, but the only difference between being in the shop and being in here is the ability to lie down and be bored out of my mind.”

“You forget that you’d also be spared the full brunt of my wrath. Once you’re in the shop, there’s no guarantee I won’t hold back from making my displeasure known. Nor will I hold Madame Tracy, Anathema, or Mrs. Young at bay.”

“Ugh, not Deirdre too.” It'd make for a miserably distracting day. Maybe not as stressful or awful as going to London that day had been, but up there. 

“She’s a mother. Of course, Deirdre, too.” While the tub filled, Aziraphale guided Crowley to stand again, unfastening his trousers for him. “Can you get them off without falling over?”

“I'm not broken,” he repeated, certainly able to get his jeans down. It took a little more leaning than he wanted to admit to, using Aziraphale for support while removing socks and shoes so he could step out of the denim. “What if I only worked part of the day?” 

Aziraphale let him stand on his own as he fiddled with the faucet and turned it off, slumping as the weight of the day and constant worry pressed down on him again. All day he’d wondered if he was safe, if he was alright, when he’d be coming home, what on Earth he was doing and why he wasn’t calling. He knew now, but for hours he hadn’t. Of course he didn’t think him broken, but he was certainly more bruised and battered than he’d been when he’d last seen him. When he’d kissed his lashes before turning out the light, their emotions still heightened from the stress of the break-in.

“It’s your choice, Crowley. If you want to work, then work,” he sighed, trailing his fingers through the water, watching the ripples trailing behind him. “I won’t actually stop you. Do what feels right to you. All I ask is that you take care of yourself.”

Crowley would take the wrath over that defeated slump any day. “It's not about the work,” he admitted. “I just don't want to spend the whole day away from you. I don't want to do that to either of us again.”

“Seemed an easy enough decision for you this morning.” He couldn’t help it, though the snippiness wasn’t really there, voice too flat. Then he flicked up his gaze to find the helpless stare looking back at him. “You wouldn’t have to stay out of the shop if you weren’t working,” he added. “You could sit with me. Help me find a better security system. I didn’t have a chance to look today.”

“Alright. Could do that.” Crowley stepped into the tub and sank into the water, leaving his bandaged arm over the edge. “I saw the new lock on the door. That's... Thank you.”

“Sergeant Shadwell and Newton helped me with it. I didn’t know if you’d be back tonight or...” Or if whoever had tried to frame Crowley would be back instead, would see the lack of a car on the property, would think there might possibly be something of value in the house. 

The house had even less security than the barn, just the one lock until this afternoon. Not that he felt helpless, no. He’d defend his home. He had a variety of household objects that could be wielded as a weapon. There was a rather large crucifix he could use as a blunt club of sorts that he was certain God would forgive him for using in such a way, the poker from the fireplace, knives in the kitchen, a frying pan or baking sheet, then of course, he could always try talking… not that he would suggest that to Crowley. Aziraphale couldn’t see that going over particularly well, especially not given the state of his lover when he’d simply gone poking about to ask questions.

“Madame Tracy also gave me her pepper spray and her taser, so… I was fairly well-equipped in case- well, she just didn’t feel right about my being here alone with the security camera broken and the alarm and- I assured her I would be perfectly fine. I’ve lived here alone for twenty-five years without a car and with subpar security apparently and things were fine,” he babbled as he fetched his first aid kit, collecting fresh bandages and antiseptic to tend to Crowley’s cut. He realized he was going on, though that didn’t stop him when he knelt by the tub and peeled back the bandage. “But I took them to set her mind at ease. And Anathema and Newton’s as well; they offered to stay in the guest room, so they felt better knowing I had something. Took quite a bit of convincing. Anathema in particular was quite cross that you hadn’t returned by six, so I’d be on the alert tomorrow. You know she’ll have questions. Oh… darling, this looks like quite the wound. You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper.”

As it was, the edges of the cut were an angry red, puffy and tender. Aziraphale gently dabbed at it with a washcloth, conscious of pressing too hard with it stinging so. He still tsked all the while, quiet aside from those clicks of his tongue as he focused on swabbing it with the disinfectant, then rewrapped it properly.

Crowley grit his teeth, taking the pain right alongside the guilt. He'd meant to be back by six. He'd never meant for Aziraphale to be alone. And of course things had been fine for twenty-five years. He hadn't been around with all of his bad choices and his known associates and- Crowley swallowed it down. Not about him. Aziraphale needed to babble and he'd let him. “I'll think of sssomething to tell her. Them.”

Aziraphale looked up from his arm, hating that for even an instant he'd not only been angry and worried, but afraid. For both Crowley and for himself. Hated it because he knew it hurt and Crowley had enough bruising, visible and not.

He stood up, unbuttoning his shirt and folding it neatly atop the vanity. “Scoot forward a smidge,” he told him as he discarded the rest of his layers, until he was just as bare and able to slip into the tub behind Crowley.

Arms banded around him as he pressed his face to the space between his shoulder blades. The water rose higher, almost sloshed over the edge of the tub as he settled there with him, knees bracketing Crowley's sides. He was here, and they were safe for now.

“I'm afraid I'm still not very used to this. Bear with me, dearest.”

“No, don't get used to it.” Crowley leaned into him, eyes closing as the comfort wrapped its way around him as much as Aziraphale's arms. “I'm not used to it anymore and I don't want to be. Don't you start.”

“Yes, well, obviously not the running off to London and committing crimes bit, but there will still be times we don't agree on things or I become cross with you. I don't want to get into the habit of… you know, sending you off into a state of guilt.”

“Guilt trip.”

“Yes, that's the one.”

“Right. It- I think- mnng.” Crowley kept his bandages over the side of the tub, but his other hand laid on Aziraphale's arm. Tension slowly slipped out of his shoulders, back gradually unknotting, as he just absorbed Aziraphale's nearness and let it help the words come. “It's going to happen sometimes, love. You're going to get mad at me, I'm going to get mad at you. You're going to feel guilty about things, and so am I.” This wasn’t exactly the first time. “There's stuff I could've done differently today for you - waking you before I left or a different note, calling you at some point, being back by six like I'd planned so you wouldn't be alone. Definitely that last thing. I know that and, alright, you being, ngk, tetchy about it makes me feel like shit. But that's... S'pose I'd rather feel bad about hurting you than tempted to go off and do it all again. That's what all your church stuff is about, isn't it? Feel bad so you don't do it again.”

“No.” He sounded a bit tetchy as he flicked some water at him, mindful of the bandages. “It's being loved despite the mistakes you've made and that there will always be forgiveness for those who seek it.” There was a pause. “And a little bit feeling bad so you don't do it again, but that simply is a reflection of good morals.”

“So I'm part right,” he stubbornly continued, scrunching his nose when he was flicked with more water. “Oi! Stop that, I am. The point is as long as you love me like that and I do you, it'll be fine. Better than. Tired of saying fine. Pick a better word, angel.”

“Spiffing.”

He probably shouldn't have laughed for the pain it caused, but it just felt good to. That smugly satisfied, bastardly tone just buoyed him up, no matter how much upset there still was. “Nevermind. I'm fine with fine.”

Aziraphale hid his smile against his shoulder, hugging him closer as he soaked up his beautiful laughter. Still just as in love with it as he was when he’d first heard the bright, throaty sound. Taking the soap in hand, he started to wash Crowley’s chest and arms.

“Well, I believe we should aim for more than fine. First-rate, perhaps. Or grand. Tip-top. Oh, loving you has certainly been tip-top as far as my experience has been. Even given today’s events.” 

“‘My love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine,’” he quoted, agreeing without having to say tip-top. Aziraphale wasn’t the only one with standards. “Today was a one-off anyway.”

“It better be,” Aziraphale huffed, but didn’t quite have the heart for it when it was trembling from the poetry that fell from Crowley’s lips. “Beloved… ‘my love, my own. In me all that fire is repeated. In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten.’^[18] Even when you’re an absolute beast. But… should you ever go off for a moment in future, for any reason, dear, know that I’ll still be here, loving you. You can always come back to me.”

It was a fresh ache, but a different kind, a healing kind. He shifted a little, twisted enough to find his lips, taste poetry and promise. He knew that in a way he wouldn’t have trusted even a week before, in a way that would’ve frightened him for all the burning hope when he’d been walking down hopeless streets. “All day, I thought I wouldn’t tell you about certain things. Do or see something and think, nah, he doesn’t need to know. But I never once thought I couldn’t come back. Even when it got later than I wanted it to be and knowing you’d be all angry and worried, I knew I’d come back. You’re home, love. My angel, even though I’m a demon.”

“You are that. Foul fiend,” he murmured, then kissed him again. “Though I spent much of my day reassuring people that I was more than capable of handling things on my own, because I am, it didn’t change the fact that I very much wanted you here with me. I might have spent the past twenty-five years taking care of this house and my shop and myself alone, but I don’t want to anymore. I want you with me. I found myself utterly disconsolate without your hovering, your staring, your prying questions.” Instead of commas, he spaced the words out with kisses. “So entirely bereft.”

The guilt the words wrought was soothed by each meeting of lips, by the teasing truth in it. The forgiveness floating around the edges. “You just like being smothered in attention.”

“Your attention,” he corrected. “And only when it suits me.”

“Right.” His attention. “When does it suit you then, angel?”

“Right now for starters. And tomorrow morning, very likely into the next day and the day after that…” His lips trailed along his jaw, then down his neck, purposefully moving him so he wasn’t as twisted, back to his chest once again. “Don’t strain yourself, dear.”

“S’worth it,” he murmured, but didn’t try to twist back. Words and kisses alike sent a spiraling warmth through him, more soothing than a simple bath could ever be. They likely weren’t out of the woods completely, however sweet this was. He’d left Aziraphale in the middle of the night when the man already slept so little and the next day was going to come with stiff aches he didn’t want to think about and questions from the people who hadn’t expected him to disappear. He still didn’t know how he’d answer them, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he’d take all the peace that came from all the soft strength keeping him close. “Angel? How’s eternity sound for all that smothering?”

“Eternity?” Aziraphale lifted his head, watching as Crowley relaxed against him and his heart fluttered as gently as the water moved by his hand while he washed him. “Oh, darling. Even eternity isn’t long enough. How I want you and for how long I want you… it’s ineffable.” 

Oh, his sweet angel. Crowley shifted again, eyes closed on a small hum as he got himself low enough to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Start with eternity, then. Go on from there.”

“I think I can live with that arrangement.” Aziraphale pressed a smiling kiss to his temple, then, because he hadn’t said it enough that day, hardly had him for long enough to wrap him up in it, he said, “I love you, Crowley.” 

He'd likely never get used to hearing those words, had hardly begun saying them back. Here, with hands tender on his bruised skin and such an important promise made, it was easy to feel, to return. He would've given Aziraphale anything in this intimate, safe space, and gave all. “I love you too, Aziraphale. Ineffably,” he added as a tease, chuckling against Aziraphale's neck when he was flicked with water again. 

He was loved, they both were, and they'd weather this storm together. 

Footnotes

^18. "If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda↩

Chapter Text

A migraine, a multitude of aches and pains, and Aziraphale’s tutting over him didn't keep Crowley out of the shop the next morning. They'd probably keep him out that afternoon, but as nine approached and his second tea steeped, Crowley had to go inside. He still hadn't thought of what to say to any of them, but he wasn't surprised to see the Reliant Robin already waiting.

That still didn’t leave him thrilled about the situation. 

He reminded himself that Anathema’s glare was because she actually gave a damn about Aziraphale, annoyed when it didn’t help much, and took a sip of bitter, half-steeped, milkless tea just to make it worse on himself. For fun.

“Don’t start on me yet. Haven’t even made it inside.”

“I’ll start whenever I-” She abruptly stopped. “Did someone hit you in the face?”

“Why?” he wondered, tone dry, whilst Aziraphale undid the padlock at the door. “Is something wrong with it?”

“What did you do?”

“Something exceptionally stupid,” Aziraphale answered for him, casting Crowley a look as he opened the door. “But we’ve had a thorough chat about it, and I don’t think it should be happening again.”

Caught between defending himself and reassuring his partner, Crowley took another sip and grimaced at his mug. It needed some milk, and hadn't helped in his dilemma. “It wasn't exceptionally stupid. Just kind of.”

“I believe ‘kind of’ would imply that it is in the vague vicinity of stupid, whereas your actions yesterday quite firmly planted you in the epicenter of it.” Aziraphale shucked off his coat with a smart flick of his wrist, then hung it on the coat rack.

He’d already apologised for it, so he wasn't going to do it again. Even though it tried to well up anyway, adding to the throbbing in his head. Anathema distracted from both with a blunt, “Did you try to get yourself thrown back in jail?” 

Crowley jerked hard enough to slosh tea over the rim of his mug, hissing at the unexpected burn of hot liquid as much as in a panicked response to the question. How did she know- How long had she known? 

Aziraphale stilled in a more graceful manner, but his shoulders had tensed and his fingers gripped the cuffs of his sleeves a little too tightly where he was adjusting them. His gaze snapped to Anathema then to Newton, who nervously offered Crowley a handkerchief with which to mop up the tea along with a helpless shrug. He knew though, they both did. Aziraphale could see it wasn’t some throw-away line that came to her in a moment of frustration, not that she would say something like that on a whim, but she and Crowley had an odd sort of friendship that both warmed Aziraphale’s heart and equally confounded him. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for them to joke or poke fun at something like that.

But this wasn’t in jest, and Aziraphale wasn’t about to let the shop start buzzing with it. “That’s quite enough of that. It was a personal matter, which has been settled and we won’t be discussing it further, and certainly not with exaggerations like that, however rhetorical you might have intended your question to be, as I’m quite sure it was both an exaggeration and rhetorical, yes?” His tone daring an argument to be made against him.

Anathema looked ready to take that dare, which split Crowley’s opinion between continuing to adore this brazen witch, being absolutely terrified of her, and now being a little afraid for her. He also desperately wanted to wind around Aziraphale and never let go. Even as annoyed as he was that Crowley had gotten out of bed at all, he was still defending him. It really shouldn't be possible to love someone this much. It just shouldn't be. 

“It's alright, angel.”

“It’s inappropriate,” he fired back, leveling his glare on Crowley once again. 

It probably was. In any other workplace, it definitely was. But she was only defending family and young enough still that lashing out was the easiest way to do so, especially when she knew Crowley could take quite a bit. It wasn't her fault that he'd already taken on that quite a bit and really wasn't up for more. “I know, Aziraphale, but it's still alright.”

Crowley kept the kerchief, wrapping it around the mug. “Come on, then. I'll let you get out whatever you've got brewing in your head, but I need milk for this and it's probably oversteeped.” The kitchenette didn’t provide much in the way of privacy, but it would have to do. 

Anathema bustled after him, rethinking her planned brew. His muddy aura was spiked with shame and, upset as she was, she wasn't planning to actively hurt him anymore than she was actively trying to upset Aziraphale. Crowley was just such an idiot. “Listen, I looked you up at the end of September because you weren't doing that bad, but Aziraphale was stressed.”

Crowley's grip adjusted on his mug before he set it down to rummage for milk. “Ah.”

“Don't say ‘ah’ like you know what conclusion I came to. I kept an eye on you, yes, even after you both lit up like firecrackers. But what's in the reports doesn't connect with, well, everything else about you. Besides, that cop who busted you for prostitution,” Crowley struggled not to wince, “lost his job a year later for supplying drugs and weapons to known dealers. So clearly something is up there.” Anathema rolled her eyes. “There's corruption in every force, no matter where you go.”

“I hope you didn't think you Americans had the only issues.” Crowley managed a small smile when she huffed at him, returning the milk to the small fridge and ready to distract her into her conspiracies. 

Instead, she reached out to lay a hand over the back of his when he cupped his mug anew. “You know what I know about you that matters? You're good with kids, ridiculously patient, and crazy in love with my cousin. But you’re a huge jackass for disappearing yesterday and making us worry about you.”

Us. Crowley fidgeted, rubbing his thumb against the side of the mug as if he could get the very pattern off if he did so long enough. If he focused hard enough, wanted it enough. If he ignored the idea that he'd made more than just Aziraphale worry. “Mngh, unm, fng, ngk.”

Anathema squeezed his arm. She didn't ask if he was just that used to being alone. She had a feeling she knew the answer. “You know I'm watching the panic flutter across your aura right now, don't you?” 

“Ssshut up.”

“No.” She folded her arms, leaning her hip against the counter. “You know who came in here and trashed the place, don’t you?”

“Try again, but make it sound a bit less excited, Anathema. It’s less American.” She only lifted her brows and his shoulders jerked. “Me knowing doesn’t change much. And don’t even ask if I’ve told him. He’s known about me - where I’d been, anyway - since the day he hired me. Better all around if he knew I was the demon to his angel straight off. Now he knows more than you were able to dig up online.”

“A real troublemaker, weren’t you?” He took a silent drink, and she tilted her head in acknowledgement. “I’m pretty sure Tracy and Shadwell have just as checkered pasts as you. Older arrest records may be harder to find, but they’re not impossible. Knowing Shadwell, I don’t think they encompass everything.”

“Knowing Tracy, they absolutely don’t. If that woman ever got caught, it was back when she was young enough to still make mistakes.”

“What’s it like being nearly fifty and still making stupid mistakes?”

His grin was more of a grimace, a nonverbal “haha...ha.” He considered much of the day before to have been a mistake, but he’d gotten much of what he’d needed and a good reminder of how they functioned. He’d do it again if given the opportunity, but differently. Called at lunch, maybe. Left a different note, definitely. “This isn’t exactly a familiar kind of situation. I don’t have the experience required to not make mistakes.” At her expectant look, he heaved a sigh through, “No, m’not gonna do it again. One trip was enough.”

“Are they coming back?” 

Crowley swirled his tea, hum soft. “Might do.”

“Crowley.”

Sometimes she could be so very related to Aziraphale. “I think they're going to come back. They're trying to scare me away, and I'm not explaining it all to you, so stop looking at me like I'm a bug under a bloody microscope.”

“Okay, okay.” She'd look in Agnes's book, see if there was anything she could point to that seemed relevant to all of this. Something was bound to be related with this place meaning as much as it did. “How did they find you? Because I doubt you kept in touch.”

“Some fancy solicitor told them. I couldn't get a name, but she seemed... From what I found out yesterday, it doesn't seem like she's interested in anything more than getting me to leave.”

He sighed, and choked on his tea when Anathema said, “Almost sounds like Michael.”

“Wot?” he coughed, setting the mug aside.

“That side of the family's the only people I know who want you away from here.” She cupped her elbows. “I just don't know what her access would be. If I remember right, she's not in criminal law.”

She didn't have to be to access Ligur in prison. Crowley shook his head, forcing himself to breathe through the desire to choke. The rattling of his chest hurt, both brain and body far too battered to be dealing with an inability to drink fucking tea. 

The idea that it could be Michael, that it could be Aziraphale’s own family... Would they? Was being right that important? Or had they misjudged just what his old gang would do? He didn't know, but it was only more questions for an already full mind. And he just couldn't handle that idea right then. 

His head ached, the coughing fit had made it impossibly worse, and he wished he could be just a little less stubborn than he was. He'd go back to the house and hide under the table for a few hours. 

Instead, he picked his tea back up and swallowed to relieve his suddenly sore throat. 

“It's not a bad idea,” Anathema defended. 

“It's a wretched idea. Don't breathe a word of it to Aziraphale.” It had enough merit to hurt him. “He wouldn't take it seriously coming from either of us, I think.”

“Probably not,” she allowed, sighing. “So what are you going to do?” 

“Keep him as safe as I can.”

----

“Crowley, have you seen my computer?” Aziraphale asked a few days later.

While the insurance payment took time to process, Aziraphale had to wait to purchase the new security system he’d decided on after he and Crowley had researched for hours, but he’d obviously needed something in the meantime. The afternoon after Crowley had popped off to London, the two of them made a short trip to an electronics store and they picked up a motion sensor siren and a camera that they could connect to through an app. It allowed them to view the feed in real time and would ping them if the app was running. Crowley immediately downloaded it to his phone, then helped Aziraphale install it on the laptop so they could both have immediate access if they needed it.

Which, technically, since Crowley was in the house with him, Aziraphale didn’t need his laptop, but…

He’d gotten accustomed to having the feed on over the past few days now, mind only at ease when he could look up from a book to check on the shop without venturing out into the snow every five minutes or asking Crowley to check his phone time and time again. It wasn’t a perfect system, and Aziraphale would be the first to admit that he might have been feeding into his own anxieties by checking it so frequently, the relief of seeing no one breaking into his shop enough of a reward to encourage the habit. However, knowing exactly who was behind the attack and with Crowley still recovering from his injuries, Aziraphale wasn’t about to take any chances and Crowley wasn’t about to tell him not to.

With their dinner cleared away and the dishes done, Aziraphale immediately sought out his laptop to check on the shop, dismayed to find it was not on the coffee table where it normally sat. He checked his chair, under the sofa cushions, in the dining room, and in his library. The only thing that kept him from checking upstairs was that he never brought the laptop up there, content to rely on Crowley’s phone if struck by the need to check.

And, of course, Crowley would've been happy to just hand over his phone and leave it at that, but he understood. It wasn't as if Aziraphale was the only one occasionally glancing at the feed. “Mnn, no. You leave it in the shop?” 

A frown creased his brow as he thought back a moment, then gasped as memory came flooding back. “Drat. You’re right. I brought it over to answer some emails while I was waiting for a book to dry.” He took a peek out the window in the living room. “Well, it’s not snowing at present. I’ll just have to dash over and fetch it,” he decided, letting the curtain fall back as he headed to the front door.

“Mngh. D’you want-?” Crowley cut himself off, not about to ask something as pathetic as all that. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly going far. Just across the yard, a path he’d taken a million times without issue. So he asked something that was far less pitiful. “D’you even need it? We’ve got my phone if you want to look at the feed.”

Aziraphale heard what he didn’t ask and hesitated in the doorway. “Well…” He glanced back at Crowley, unable to see the brunt of his injuries through his clothing, but knew they were there just the same. Knew they were because he’d been worried, afraid for them and their safety. His gaze lingered on the bruise and cuts around Crowley’s eye, the wounds that were visible, and pursed his lips. 

They needed to get to some semblance of normalcy. While Crowley’s old gang would be back for their revenge, they didn’t know when and the thought of living in constant fear of even the most mundane things - like popping out to the shop which was hardly a stone’s throw away - wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted. It wasn’t what Crowley needed.

He offered him a reassuring smile, then went to fetch his coat, mentally chiding himself for making such a fuss. “Thank you, Crowley, but I think my mind would be more at ease knowing it was in here with us. It’s not a far trek at all. I’ll be back in a tick, my dear.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath, but, “You’ve got five minutes.”

“Five?” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, even if Crowley couldn’t see from where he was still laid up on the couch.

“Four then.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale huffed, but some of the tension in his chest eased with the back and forth. “I’m not going to be so undignified as to go running through the snow just to be sure I make it back within four minutes, Crowley.”

“Fine, I’ll go back up to five. Maybe even six.”

“Oh how generous of you.” Aziraphale shook his head as he opened the door. “Would you like me to telephone you when I get there?”

“Nah. That’d just detract from your four to six minute timeframe.”

“Of course. How silly of me. Fair enough. Don’t you fret, darling. I’ll be back before you can say ‘tickety-boo,’” he teased.

“Bluh. That's way too much time.” Crowley tipped his head onto the arm of the couch, eyes closing. As much as the joking tone was designed to soothe Aziraphale, it was also soothing himself. Though he'd certainly check his phone if he took too long. “Go on, love. You're wasting your four to six minutes.”

For twenty-five years Aziraphale had made the journey from his front door to the barn with ease. In rain or shine or snow, through gusty winds and unexpected heatwaves. Yet even on this most mild of a February night, it never before felt like it took so long to get there. The dark building loomed before him ominously, a stark shadow against the pale snow. Clouds covered the moon, only a smattering of stars peeking through the wispy clouds overhead, steadily drifting across the sky. The old wooden beams of the barn scraped against one another as the building settled under the snow-capped roof and the breeze that gently rocked it. 

Aziraphale flicked on the overhead lights as soon as he was inside. It was quiet, everything still in its place from when he’d locked up a little over an hour ago. He exhaled a shaky sigh of relief, then smoothed down his waistcoat.

“See? You’re just being an old silly,” he whispered to himself, then marched across the workshop to his station. 

Sure enough, his laptop sat innocently atop his desk, right where he’d left it. He tsked and gave it a look, as if it should’ve been the one to remind him to take it back to the house. He closed the lid, then realized the power supply was still plugged in, so crouched down to find the outlet.

The barn door creaked. Aziraphale banged his head on the edge of his desk when he jumped, hissing as he clutched the top of it and jerked around, scanning the shop. Still nothing. He waited a moment, all the same, heedless of the minutes ticking by. 

“Just the wind, you old fool. Come now,” he chided, then unplugged the power supply with shaking hands.

As he straightened up, he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Towards Crowley’s workstation. He turned, but again did not see anything out of the ordinary. Still, it didn’t hurt to take a look. Aziraphale grabbed an antique sword off its mount on the wall, then approached the window nearest Crowley’s workstation. Using the tip of the blade, he shifted the curtain to peer outside. He could see the lights of his house, but nothing else in the dark.

Sighing, he let it fall back. Goodness, he must look a sight, he thought, taking the sword back to his desk. If Crowley opened the video feed to check on him, he’d likely be worried for either his safety or his sanity. Aziraphale reached up to place it back on its mount, when the shop lights went out and the door slammed shut. He dropped the sword with a clatter and whirled about in the dark.

“Who’s there!” he demanded, voice managing not to tremble. 

There was a beat of silence, two, and then a chuckle. “Nobody, but you zhould've ztayed zafe in your little houze.”

Aziraphale gasped and blindly reached for his banker lamp switch to let there be light enough to see his intruder. “You’re trespassing on private property! I’ll have to ask you to leave immediately or there will be consequences!” he called out as he fumbled, though his heart was pounding. Crowley was injured, if they knew and tried to go after him in the house…

He found the switch and flicked it on, then picked up the fallen sword and brandished it in front of him. The lamp didn’t give him nearly enough light to see clearly. There were shadows in the corners where a figure might have lurked. He pointed his sword in that direction and tightened his grip.

“Conzequenczez,” they echoed, their unusual speech impediment and the poor lighting almost seeming to toss their amused, too calm voice into several possible directions. “That’z what we’re here for, Fell. Hazn’t the traitor told you yet?”

“Yes. Well, I don't suppose your consequences and his consequences could just… Cancel each other out?” he tried, however fruitless it might have been.