Archive of Our Own ^beta

For some reason, it's unbearably cold inside the walls of Crowley's posh Mayfair flat. Considering that the tails of summer have yet to fully fade into the blooms of autumn, Aziraphale finds this to be very peculiar. It must be close to ten degrees lower in here than it is outside.

A few months was what Crowley said. He was going to be asleep for only a few months. The announcement came to him as a shock, and there was a brief moment when he thought that Crowley may have really wanted to leave him, and was only letting him down gently. A month after, he finds himself in this flat, listening to Crowley's soft snores as he lies bundled up in red satin sheets. He really is just asleep.

With a single snap, the heating is adjusted to appropriate levels. A weighted tartan blanket envelops Crowley above his own sheets, just for good measure. Satisfied, Aziraphale pads across the flat to check on the plants. They seem a little surprised to find another living being amongst them, but not displeased. Aziraphale hoped to make their acquaintance on the first night he met them, having just come from the grueling events at Tadfield Airbase, but at the time they had more pressing matters at hand.

He pauses for a bit, letting the rhythm of Crowley's soft breaths thrum in his chest. That's right. Stopping time and transporting them to a different plane of dimension was no small feat. And in this unprecedented state of retirement, Crowley deserves to indulge in whatever small pleasures he desires - just as he himself has taken to indulging in his books.

He passes by the dramatic ornate throne and red marble desk. There's a bit of clutter left behind, which is also a little odd. Crowley has never exactly been the kind to leave messes. (It may also be possible that Crowley simply believes he is incapable of leaving clutter, and therefore doesn’t.) There's a few open books on ancient astronomy, as well as a newspaper left open at an article about retirement life in a place called Devil's Dyke (and this gets a small, fond laugh out of the angel). 

He folds up the newspaper, revealing another item underneath. And this time, he stops to look. He knows exactly what this is.

It's a portrait of Crowley, drawn by an old friend a long, long time ago. And Aziraphale knows what it is because he has one himself too. They were sketched at the same time.

***

"You cut it in half," said Aziraphale, carefully taking the piece into his hands. You separated us, he added mentally as an afterthought.

Crowley shrugged. "Figured it'd be, you know, less incriminating that way," he replied with practiced nonchalance, stepping further inside Aziraphale's inn room and glaring at its low hanging ceiling. "Leo did a pretty good job, though."

Aziraphale couldn't quite find the right words to speak. There was a pang in his chest that might be unwise for him to express. He looked down at his own portrait, taking in every small detail from that fine summer day, ending with abruptness off at the right edge. Beautiful, yes, but it would never form the full picture now.

"Yes, he did." He set the portrait down on the wooden table in front of Crowley, laying his hand facedown on top of it. He beckoned Crowley closer. "I need your help with this."

Crowley looked confused, but didn't bother to ask questions. He brought out his own portrait and mimicked Aziraphale's pose on the table, their pictures laid out side by side.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let the waves of a considerable miracle course through him. Their hands glowed a pale yellow tinged with smoky grey, fading off in the span of a couple of seconds.

"What did you just do?"

"Made it less incriminating. You can take off your hand now." At Crowley's inquisitive brow, he continued. "For as long as the portraits are in our possession, they will maintain this crisp state. But the moment they befall any other hand, they will decay - both of them, and show the wear and tear appropriate to the length of time they've survived."

Impressed, Crowley let out a laugh. "Probably should've just done that myself. Clever angel, you are."

He tried to repress the redness spreading across his cheeks. "Nonsense," he replied, in a meagre attempt to retain his composure. "The miracle requires both of us."

Crowley smiled, and he tried not to read too much into the soft look that suddenly appeared in his golden eyes. 

"Best keep this in a safe place, then."

***

There isn't much point to the miracle now, Aziraphale thinks, as both Heaven and Hell are aware of the entirety of his alliance with Crowley. Despite that, he's relieved to see this portrait again after all this time. Da Vinci did a remarkable job preserving Crowley's best features. Crowley probably won't mind if he takes this for a while, assuming he even notices it's missing. 

On his way out, he pauses at the door, gazing into Crowley's serpent eyes through the shaded spectacles in the photo, and fondly runs a forefinger down his face. He steps out into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Back inside the flat, Crowley grumbles and swats a hand to his cheek, before settling further into the soft bedcovers and returning to a state of deep slumber.

***

In the months that follow, Aziraphale takes to keeping the portrait with him at all times, mostly functioning as a bookmark. It helps to remind him that he isn't alone, and that Crowley is somewhere safe and resting. But there are days more difficult than others, and it's during those times that he takes a bit of comfort in running his fingers over the portrait, sometimes pressing it to his lips, wondering how it would feel to graze over Crowley's skin. It may be overly sentimental, but he feels no shame as it develops further into a habit. And anyway, it's not likely that anyone else will find out - whatever he does is his own little secret.

***

Autumn blooms, steady in the skies, and over time it fades as well. Sometime in the middle of December, a demon opens his eyes in the darkness of his posh Mayfair flat, brows furrowed in confusion at the feel of a gentle caress gliding down his jaw.

***

Sometime in mid-December, an angel and a demon take a walk in the park. The coolness of the air bites into Crowley's skin, and though his jacket is thick, he finds it an insufficient solace.

The ground is covered in a thin layer of frost, and beside him, Aziraphale looks across the pond to beam at the sight of two middle-aged men taking their child out for a stroll.

He beams with happiness, but he beams with something else too. There's angelic light - the pure one which casts a warm glow over his soft, gleeful face. Brighter than the string of fairy lights hung up on the trees above them. Crowley finds himself chasing that warmth, shifting closer until their arms are brushing with each step.

"Your hair," Aziraphale says, breaking their comfortable silence. Crowley turns to look at him with sudden interest. "Ah, it's just. It's longer now."

He self-consciously runs a hand through his wavy red hair, running down past his chin, loose ends sweeping an inch below his ears. "Yeah. Was supposed to cut it back short this morning, but I forgot."

"It's a nice look," Aziraphale mumbles softly. Rather like your hair in the portrait, he thinks. His hand brushes Crowley's, and the trickle of electricity is felt clearly through their thick gloves. He keeps his gaze off into the distance. "You look good with short hair as well. But, should you keep it as it is now, it is not a bad look."

He hears Crowley's low chuckle, followed by a set of gloved fingers slowly pressing into his palm.

Aziraphale looks down, watching as Crowley slides his hand fully into his grasp, and he bites into his lip to keep himself from smiling like an idiot.

“Might just keep it like this then.”

They resume their walk, and Crowley thinks he has seen many things over the course of his long, immortal life. Even so, he is sure he's seen no miracle greater than that of Aziraphale's hand in his, and that the angel shows no signs of wanting to pull away.

***

Aziraphale's hand is still warm when he returns to the bookshop. He's light and giddy, like his feet aren't touching the ground as he makes his way across the room.

Crowley woke up today and went straight to him . Crowley held his hand as they walked in the park at sunset. Crowley walked him back to his doorstep and mumbled gentle parting words, lingering a bit on the press of their hands before finally letting go.

It's only hope and bliss he feels as he settles into his comfy armchair, a first edition Maria Edgeworth nestled into the crook of his arm. He takes the portrait out from where it has been inserted into the hardback. With a soft sigh, he lays on it a fluttering kiss and pressed the picture firmly to his chest, right on the space above his still racing pulse.

***

Back in Mayfair, Crowley is in the shower when suddenly, he feels a breeze against his cheek. He frowns, eyes flicking up to the small box window on the far side of the room. It's closed shut, as he knows it has been for the past hundred and a half years. 

What the...

There's a pressure on his ribs, squeezing air right out of his corporeal lungs and he draws in a panicked breath, bar of soap slipping out of his grasp. He clutches onto the wall and stumbles back. With a sharp yelp just as the pressure is released, his foot slides across the floor. 

He topples backwards with wildly flailing arms, caught only at the last second when he slaps a hand to the wet floor.

"Owwwww..." He groans, perplexed, and a stinging pain radiates in his wrist.

***

They're having a pleasant lunch at the Ritz when all of a sudden, Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand carefully in his.

The warmth is back, and Crowley wants to focus only on that, but he can't resist wincing as Aziraphale tugs on his hand.

"Are you alright, my dear?" He asks in that gently concerned tone of his.

Crowley nods, threading their fingers, just in case he's considering retracting it - and that's the last thing Crowley wants to happen. "I'm fine. I just slipped in the shower. Battered my wrist a little."

Aziraphale's gaze turns soft, and Crowley feels like melting. He smiles another one of those radiant beams, pulling Crowley's hand up to his mouth.

"You poor thing," Aziraphale coos. His lips breathe a cool miracle on the jutted bone of Crowley's wrist, and he feels it setting back to right. "There you go."

"Ngggh." Crowley's flushed as the angel sets their joined hands back on the table. "Could've done that myself." But the thought didn't occur to him before now.

"I know," he replies fondly.

"It's better when you do it, though."

He doesn't think it's even possible for the angel to look any happier. His blue grey eyes are sparkling with utter delight, and Crowley wonders how he can make the rest of their days exactly like this.

"I know."

***

Aziraphale walks home after lunch and, upon passing Crowley's portrait on his coffee table, he picks it up. With a quick look around to make sure no one is there to see, he presses a soft kiss to Crowley's face, sighing happily.

***

Crowley is sauntering off back to the Bentley, a wide grin plastered on his face, when he suddenly feels a press of lips to the side of his neck.

He jolts and twists in place, his scales surfacing over his skin when he spots a frightened dark-haired man who was just passing by, now rooted to his spot.

"Oi!" Crowley snarls, baring his sharpened fangs. "Who the bloody fuck do you think you are?"

The stranger lets out a squeak, stumbling on his feet as he runs for his dear life.

***

It's warm inside the backroom of Aziraphale's shop, much warmer than it is in Crowley's flat. It's a quiet night in the middle of December, and they both sit companionably on the sofa as Aziraphale's gramophone thrums softly from a distance.

"You don't usually sit this close," Aziraphale says casually, a faint smile hidden in his speech.

Crowley clears his throat. After centuries of holding back, he finds it difficult to get rid of old habits. But he can feel the shift now, the mutual want to progress this into something more. And for that, he needs to be brave as well.

"I like..." he pauses, his cheeks flaming. "I like your warmth."

"If you would only fix up the heating in your flat, I'm sure - "

Crowley cuts him off. "No, angel. I like your warmth." He casts a tentative glance at his companion, breathing deeply. "It's different from human contraptions. You're very warm. S'nice."

"Oh." And there it is, the look of utter delight that Crowley wants to see on his angel's face, every day if he could. Aziraphale opens his arms. "Come here, then."

Crowley's thoughts stutter and stop. Luckily, it doesn't take much brain power to shift forward and nestle into the crook of Aziraphale's neck. Warmth envelops him completely, in the safety of Aziraphale's arms, circling around his shoulders. Warmth seeps into his core, filling in all the raw empty spaces in his bones. Warmth seizes his heart in a tight hold, and he wishes it would never let go.

"Is this okay?" Aziraphale asks, voice uncertain.

Crowley wraps his lanky arms around the angel's stomach, his eyes drifting shut. "So warm," he mumbles and promptly dozes off.

***

That night, Aziraphale is over the moon. Long after Crowley has left, he settles into the warm space left behind on his worn sofa, taking both Maria Edgeworth and the portrait of Crowley with him. For the next several hours, he has half a mind on the book, the other half basking in the memory of Crowley in his arms. And at around three in the morning, with the trickles of happiness running up his veins, he falls asleep, hugging the portrait close to his chest.

***

In Mayfair, a demon's serpentine eyes shoot awake to a squeezing pressure against his ribs.

It's subtle at first, but it slowly presses down on him. Wild eyes shift frantically in the darkness as he waits for it to die down. It usually does, eventually. Only this time, it doesn't. 

He attempts to shake it off, sitting up and twisting around. He swats at the empty air around him and pats down the wrinkled fabric of his sleep clothes. He attempts a demonic miracle to set himself free - but the tight grasp remains. Relentless.

And just like that, he realizes what this is - this weight sitting on his  chest, slowly squeezing the life out of his lungs.

Sleep paralysis demon.

With shortened breaths, he flings the sheets off his legs and dashes out of the flat.

***

Aziraphale is roused awake to incessant pounding at his door. Confused, he blinks away his sleepiness and opens the bookshop entrance.

Outside stands Crowley, dressed in his silk pyjamas, waving wildly over at his car and yelling something about alpha centauri in what makes for a scene that is oddly familiar.

"Crowley, it is five in the morning!" Aziraphale grumbles. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"I need you to listen very carefully, angel. Hell is onto us." In his haste, he's even forgotten to put on his shades, and his eyes are golden all the way through. "We're getting out of here before they get their hands on us."

"My dear, please. Calm down. Given all that's happened, I find that to be highly unlikely."

"But it's true!" With a frustrated groan, Crowley hangs his head low in confession. "I've been receiving... messages. In the form of touches."

"Touches?"

Crowley nods. "It started while I was asleep, and at first I thought I was just dreaming them. But they were comforting touches most of the time. I didn't think they were anything serious."

"So you think that Hell has been... touching... you."

"It's a lot more serious than that! Listen to me." Crowley surprises them both when he grasps Aziraphale by the arms. "The touches didn’t stop even when I woke up, so they definitely aren't dreams. I feel it sometimes, something sliding on my face, or-or whispering to me, I dunno! And tonight, they sent a sleep paralysis demon to squeeze the life out of me. Angel, we're in danger. I need - I need - "

"Crowley, dearest, please breathe."

"I need to keep you safe!"

Aziraphale is stunned into silence. 

Finally, he speaks. "Please come inside."

Crowley follows him inside the warmth of the bookshop, breathing heavily now that the pressure against his chest is gone. The angel pads across the room, and by the time Crowley comes to, he finds Aziraphale standing in front of him once again, holding something in his hand.

"Before you go any further, I need you to listen." Aziraphale’s voice is quivering.

Crowley stops dead in his tracks. His gaze lands on a portrait of himself in Aziraphale's grip, very familiar. How did that get here? He's confused, but he doesn't question, at least not out loud. He nods his head.

Slowly, very cautiously, Aziraphale runs the pad of his finger over the picture.

The muscles of Crowley's cheek twitch involuntarily, yielding to the softness of a phantom touch.

Aziraphale turns a very bright shade of red. "Oh no. Oh dear. Oh, this is most terrifically horrifying." He turns his back to Crowley, hiding his flaming face in his hand.

Crowley is quick to recover, stepping close. "Aziraphale, what does this mean?"

Aziraphale sniffles into his hand. "The touches aren't from Hell, Crowley, they're from me."

"They're what? "

"I-I took this portrait from your flat, many months ago because I missed you so terribly. And I've taken to-to deriving some comfort out of it. But the miracle we did must've had some unintended consequences."

Behind him, Crowley stands frozen, speaking over the angel's left shoulder. 

"But I'm awake now," he says dumbly. "Why is it still happening?" Why are you still doing it? He wants to say.

Aziraphale's hand comes down from his flustered face to grip his loosened bowtie, and a light flush spreads all over the back of his neck. "I suppose now I do it more out of wishful thinking."

Crowley lets out a loud chuckle, spurring Aziraphale to turn his head towards the demon. With his lungs now free, Crowley lets it all run over him, coughing out thick laughs that feel more like wheezes muscling their way past his throat. 

"Crowley, are you alright?"

"Am I alright? " He trails off as another round of madly grim laughter rises out of him. He rakes his hand through his hair, tugging at his scalp. "The past week I've been going completely bonkers. Thought Hell was after me - I hatched up an emergency escape plan! And then I... and then I come here and now I'm jealous of a bloody picture!"

He lets out a couple more wheezes, the adrenaline still pumping in his corporeal veins.

"Oh." Aziraphale purses his lips, ducking his head. "Well, you can have one, too."

It's been six thousand years, for crying out loud. Crowley is done with side stepping. He moves forward and takes the angel straight into his arms.

"Then I believe you owe me a kiss, angel," he mumbles, tightening his hold.

After a brief moment of shock, Aziraphale smiles. He leans up, going up on his tiptoes to peck Crowley on the cheek.

Crowley groans. "Why there?"

The giggles that Aziraphale makes feel unreal against his chest, where they're pressed close to each other.

"I'm sorry, dearest." Aziraphale gives a teasing smile before moving aside to kiss his other cheek.

He giggles again, but this time the sound dies off into a pleasant hum as Crowley slots their lips together.

Aziraphale melts into him, his arms circling Crowley's waist, tugging him even closer. It’s the middle of December and their mouths weave naturally into each other, following the same rhythm they have been dancing to for centuries. It may be a first kiss, but nothing about it feels entirely new. It is merely the next step in a long-standing progression, with infinitely more laid out to follow.

Aziraphale pulls back briefly with a fluttering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I love you, darling."

Crowley grins into the angel's mouth. "Love you, too, angel. But I don't think that's news to you."

Aziraphale hides his face into his neck, sighing deeply. "It's lovely to hear it from you, regardless." As Crowley rubs soothing circles into his lower back, he speaks again. "This is miles better than hugging the picture."

"I'm gonna burn that picture."

"Don't," Aziraphale whines, pouting. "You look so handsome in it."

"You don't need it. I'm more handsome in person."

Aziraphale laughs, pressing a kiss into his collarbone.

Outside, the first drops of snow saunter through the air, falling quietly against the bookshop windows. Crowley realizes he's still in his sleep clothes and makes a low rumbling noise.

"Angel, I'm cold."

Aziraphale pulls back. That look of complete utter delight has never been more evident than it is now. He takes Crowley's hand and leads him off to the backroom - no doubt to settle them both back on the couch, where Aziraphale can provide some more warming cuddles.

*