Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a trying day. But then again all the days had been trying since Gabriel left some forty days ago. Not that Aziraphale was counting. Because that would have been a whole new level of pathetic if he was.

Fortunately for him, leading a transatlantic flight crew of seven who were responsible for the comfort of three hundred passengers did not leave Aziraphale room to lament over his recent breakup with Gabriel. Not when the plane, and then one of his crew members, turned up late to their departure gate, filling this afternoon’s preflight safety checks with frantic shouts and heavy sighs. 

So much for delivering that otherworldly customer experience, Aziraphale thought dispiritedly.

Then he flashed his tightest smile at the few preferred airline members who boarded just moments after he delivered a harsh reprimand to two of his senior staff. Both, who in their quest for procuring the premium cabin leadership position, cut some corners in their preflight checks, likely done in the hopes they’d end up impressing Aziraphale with their efficiency. Instead, he grew concerned they were compromising the comfort and safety of all onboard in the hopes of getting the plum gig.   

In the end, Aziraphale assigned them to lead economy seat operations, since that was where anyone who required an ego check belonged. Perhaps one of them should have assisted him with the premium sections, but quite frankly, Aziraphale was not in the mood to continuously trample over their own self-importance. Just as he was not in the mood to have to reassert the most minute details of each inflight procedure because they seemed bent on dissecting and over analysing certain choice words and phrases of said procedures, for some unknown (and altogether irritating) reason. 

So if they wanted more responsibilities that came with leadership experience, they would get it. Just in the way he saw fit. Which was probably one of the best perks to being Flight Purser. 

He hoped this new assignment would quench their thirst for yielding authority while keeping them busy enough that he would also get a reprieve. Not that overseeing the passengers in first class and premium plus was much of a reprieve. 

As soon as boarding was underway at least a dozen folks in both sections requested substitutes to the complimentary champagne that was offered prior to departure. Two of the requests were so specific that they could not be met with the limited bar supplies they had onboard the aircraft. Lucky for Aziraphale, he had the excellent bartending skills of fellow crew member, Elsbeth, who was able to mask their airline swill as top shelf options for those particular passengers. 

With that minor snafu handled and once all onboard had been seated with their luggage stowed appropriately, Aziraphale moved on to delivering the initial announcements with his usual effervescence, doing his best to ignore the crackling feedback that played in his ear each time he spoke. Once he hung up the phone and disappeared behind the navy blue curtain of the front galley, he let out a relieved breath at completing the important task.

“Any plans for sightseeing when you get to London, Az?” Elsbeth asked as she began securing dinner trays in one of the ovens.

Aziraphale, or Az, as his name tag read (it was just easier that way), made the decision to help her finish the front galley preparations, hoping to expedite at least one part of the preflight process since they were down one crew member than was originally planned.

The paperwork could wait. That wasn’t an immediate crisis. Not having dinner reheated by the time they made it to thirty thousand feet however, would be a crisis.  

So Aziraphale stooped to check that all nine trays in the other oven were full before replying, “Oh no, nothing terribly exciting.” 

He shut the door, secured the locks into place before turning the oven to a low, reliable heat. Then he caught a raised, curious brow from Elsbeth that left him with the need to clarify, “I mainly use this trip to visit my family.”

“Oh. Well…that makes sense.” 

Aziraphale watched her secure and then turn on her oven, fingers touching all the switches once more to verify that they everything was in a locked position. 

It was her first international trip. That much he learned whenever they adjusted their jump seats prior to passenger boarding. 

He already braced himself for her inevitable question of how she ought to spend her layover in London. He often kept a standard list of attractions, restaurants, and pubs at the forefront of his mind to offer up to his American colleagues. Because each time he took this trip, at least one of them would ask him for recommendations. 

“So you’re… based in New York?” 

It wasn’t the first time he heard this particular pause in the middle of this specific question. Being British and working for an American based airline always peaked some level of curiosity among those he met stateside, his colleagues included. 

It wasn’t an impossible arrangement. His twenty years of service with Divinity Airways was proof of that. But this sort of profession was a rarity for those with green card status in the US. 

“Yes.” Was his simple answer. But since people always required more to satisfy their burning curiosity, Aziraphale added, “I was a part of the transfer initiative of twenty-eighteen.”

When Elsbeth’s brown doe eyes muddied with confusion, he realised she likely didn’t have enough time in to remember that program. So he explained in his good natured tone, “Around that time, Divinity was struggling to Speakers for their international flights. So they asked for volunteers from their affiliate airlines. I more than met the criteria. And the offer…well it was very good.” 

“More money?” Elsbeth prompted.

“Yes. And relocation costs covered with temporary housing provided for the first year. Though we were essentially living in a crash pad.” 

He allowed himself a slight grimace at recalling the eight of them crammed into a four bedroom two bath townhouse in Queens; each having their own ideas about cleanliness that didn’t always mesh. 

But it hadn’t been all bad. He met Maggie and Newt that way. They became two of his dearest friends, whom he still met up with whenever the airline scheduling gods allowed it. And because Newt transferred to The States, he met and eventually married Anathema, who was also a happy little addition to their found crew family.  

Not only that, but there was the temporary halt on having to pay rent of any kind. Which he was quick to mention to Elsbeth as well. He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful about this. 

“It was worth it though. Because I was able to save up enough to get ahead that I could find a decent place in The Village.”

Where, in spite of everything, he managed to continue living. 

She remarked appreciatively, “Swanky.”

Az shrugged, “It’s only a studio apartment. But the building is privately owned by a family. And they refuse to hike up the rent. So I feel fortunate in that regard.”

Elsbeth let out a low whistle, “Yeah, you are a lucky duck. If I didn’t move in with my partner, Morag, I’d likely be living under a bridge or in an alleyway somewhere.”

“Oh dear.” His heart went out to this sweet girl. “I do hope they are good to you then.”

“Oh yeah,” Elsbeth grinned, a slight giggling creeping out from her. “Morag’s the best.”

Aziraphale tried to match her glowing smile, but felt his jaw muscles tick from a temporary sprig of jealousy that pierced his chest. 

How many times had he said that of Gabriel? 

The darker, baser part of him that felt like his heart had been led to fall from a jet bridge onto the unforgiving tarmac below thought: Probably more times than he deserved.

But the truth was, Gabriel wasn’t all that bad. He just went about things in life a bit differently than Aziraphale. And it was within these differences that they eventually broke apart. Sort of like how the hard biscuits the airline gave out slowly softened whenever they were dipped in that dreadful prepackaged coffee.   

“All good on your side, Az?” Elsbeth suddenly intoned, shaking him from his thoughts.

He caught his hands resting on the locks that held the coffee pots in place, and he quickly scanned to ensure that he had in fact secured everything into place while his mind veered off course to Gabriel rather inconveniently. While the galley was shielded from the passengers, it would still be bad if something did knock loose.

“All good,” he answered. He then pulled out the plastic bags they would use to collect this round of trash from the passengers. 

“So you started as a Speaker here. Now you’re a Purser?”

There was a slight distinction between the two roles. One didn’t have to know all the safety protocols forwards, backwards, and inside out, if they merely wished to be a Speaker. Nor did they need to be particularly good at reporting and submitting the information to the higher ups. Az was a rare breed in that he could bounce back and forth between both roles if necessary. Because he always wanted to be needed by Divinity. There was safety and security in that. And after the last couple years of furloughs, he would do whatever was asked of him, so long as he could keep flying.     

He disclosed part of this to Elsbeth. At least that he sometimes doubled as both. Not the part about his fears after the worldwide shutdowns when Divinity saw an uptick in Speaker applicants when the skies opened up to travelers once more. The thought of being replaced by younger, smarter people was something too familiar to discuss with someone he would likely never work with again after today. 

“Do you only do international flights?” Was her next question. 

“Oh no. No, I do both. International all the time is rather taxing. Sounds glamorous, but it’s rare to get a layover longer than twenty-four hours.”

“Ahh…well that makes sense,” Elsbeth commented. “So…what other language do you speak?”

He chirped back, “Fluently? French, Spanish, Italian, and Greek. I can also get by in Japanese and Mandarin but…not enough to be a Speaker.”

“Shit that’s impressive. How does your brain not blow up whenever you go to talk?” 

She regarded him with a sense of awe that was quite typical of most Americans, who maybe learned half of another language; or more if such a thing interested them.

But to Aziraphale, learning all those languages had merely been a part of his standard schooling back when he thought he wanted to eventually teach languages at an advanced level. 

He shrugged, but offered her another genial look. “What can I say? I have a penchant for learning.” 

It was here that he opened the dark curtain on his end of the galley and slipped outside. Making his way up and down the first aisles, he began the first round of trash collection. 

There were a handful who requested a second drink, forcing Aziraphale to explain with a pleasant smile and a firm tone that due to everyone’s safety they would need to wait for the announcement from the captain before additional libations might be served. And for those who requested more time with their drink, he assured them that they would receive another complimentary refreshment once everyone was safely in the air. 

The passenger pushback was minimal, though today it was difficult not to internalise the harsh scoffs and irritated eye rolls that accompanied their acquiescence.

Perhaps because the thought of still needing to complete his reports lingered in the back of his mind. And perhaps because he knew he needed to check on the rest of his crew to ensure things were running smoothly at the back half of the plane. 

He regretted picking up the phone to call them the moment Shax, chronic complainer and glory seeker that she was, picked up to remind him that they were cutting it rather close with one less team member. 

“I completely understand your frustration,” Aziraphale assured.

But apparently this was the wrong thing to say because she gritted her teeth and bit into him, “Do you though? We have over two hundred people to serve with just six and…”

“Shax,” Aziraphale interrupted firmly, “have you prepped and turned on your ovens?”

“Yes.”

“Is everything secure in both galleys?”

“As far as I know.”

“You’ll need to answer in the affirmative if you wish to be Flight Purser one day.” Using every last ounce of patience within him, Aziraphale added cheerily, “If you like, I’m happy to coach you…”

“I don’t need coaching!” She hissed, “I need an extra set of hands! You have no idea what it’s like back here with these three idiots who’ve just earned their wings!”

“Can you please put Timothy on?”

“What? You called me!”

“I called the lead attendant. And you aren’t acting like the lead at the moment.”

“Typical. Pass me over for another man. Again.”

“That has nothing to do with…!”

“Tim will call you back.”

The line died, but Azirphale was left with an angry thrumming in his head. 

He blew out a sharp breath and then caught Elsbeth’s attention whenever she returned to deposit the remainder of the trash in the disposable bin.

“Seems I have to fulfil an urgent crew request in the back. Will you be alright finishing up here?”

If she felt overwhelmed at the prospect of delivering the same, consistently calm instructions to sixty-one passengers, she didn’t look it. At least he wouldn’t need to worry about her joining the mutiny that might transpire at the back of the plane if he didn’t make things right with Shax.

Aziraphale plastered on a false smile as he strode down the aisle to the back of the plane, trying to ignore that twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He hated confrontation amongst the staff. It was probably the most difficult part of the job for him. He’d do it, but not without feeling like he might be sick. 

Peering into the middle galley, he saw the three junior stewards murmuring between themselves, heads bent close to one another. 

“All ready for take off?” Aziraphale asked, causing them all to jump and one of them to cry out shrilly and clutch their chest. 

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

“All good, boss.”

They squealed out simultaneously before dispersing to their seats. 

If their reactions had anything to do with Shax ruling this part of the plane out of fear, well, it only further proved his point that she was not ready to lead. 

Once he reached the back galley, he saw his two alleged lead flight attendants grumbling back and forth while they passively aggressively snapped all the boxes into place. They suddenly went mute whenever the harsh scraping of the curtain rings rang through the air as Aziraphale stepped inside and closed it behind him. 

Taking in a lengthy breath and rolling back his shoulders, Aziraphale first turned to Timothy Brown. Mr Brown was around his own age, but instead of possessing a lick of grey hair, his entire head was a delightfully faded auburn. If he wasn’t known for having such a roaming eye, Aziraphale might have deemed him attractive. 

Squashing that thought like one might a fruit fly, Aziraphale cleared his throat and informed him, “Now I’ve already had some words with Shax about her leadership skills. But I have to say, hearing you bicker with her just now…I am not confident that you’d do much better leading the back half of the plane.”

He heard Shax snicker, and his eyes shot to her. She had sharp jade eyes that could likely cut through any material, but he wouldn’t allow her to cut him down now. Her crimson stained lips rolled inward, likely concealing her amusement that Timothy was in the same amount of hot water as her. 

Keeping his voice firm, Aziraphale carried on, “I need you two working together. This is a team effort. And if we fail to deliver the type of service our passengers are looking for…well, I’ll be sure it is reflected in my report that my two most senior stewards could not get along with one another or the rest of the crew. As much as it will pain me to do so, so help me I will.”

Timothy opened his mouth to lament, “Az, we’re short…”

“I am well aware that Michael’s left us a slew of work by not reporting for duty.” He interjected with a lifted hand that halted any more excuses either one of them could conjure up. “I’m already prepared to take on the extra work myself in addition to my own responsibilities. And I’ll take only half of my break so that you all have adequate time to rest. But I’ll only do those things, if you two figure out a way to lead the other three you have under your charge back here. Without incident. And without complaint.”

“They’re so inexperienced,” Timothy huffed, the hairs of his moustache bristling with similar irritation.

“One of them forgot to check the water lines before the door shut. If something had been wrong…”

“Is something wrong, Shax?”

Looking put out by his question, she folded her arms over her chest and growled, “Other than their negligence, no.”

“Well if you feel it was willful then I will deal with that separately. But if it’s just because their wings are so freshly sprouted…you need to give them a chance.” 

He paused here, softening the hard edges of his voice as he sought to remind them. “I know it’s hard for you both to remember what it was like being new but…you were at one point in time. You made mistakes. As did I.”

He gave them all a few moments to allow his words to sink in and then he asked, “Can we see a smoother way forward? We do have to spend the next seven hours together. I’d rather them be pleasant.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Timothy sighed.

Shax muttered something that Aziraphale took as an agreement on the matter.

In the end, Aziraphale kept her as the lead. But he also made it clear that if she uttered another complaint without a solution he would defer to Timothy to lead economy operations.

He would not put up with excuses nor would he allow them all to wallow on something they could not change. They would need to accept their present circumstances for what they were, and if additional help was needed to ensure a successful flight, he would do what he could to help them.

As he briskly strolled back to the front of the plane, Aziraphale allowed himself another momentary sigh of relief that yet another thing was over and done with.

Elsbeth was already buckled up in the seat beside him; a sign that she completed the final walk through without any issues.

The pair of them lightly chatted over the whine and roar of the plane gathering speed and power. He learned she was three years into Divinity, recently transferred from Salt Lake to New York to be with her partner, Morag. And they just moved into Morag’s family home, which was situated above the mortuary they owned.

“I know it’s kind of crazy,” she told him with a sheepish smile that painted her cheeks a little rosy, “moving halfway across the country for someone else.”

“But it felt right.”

It always does in the beginning. 

He merely nodded and smiled in agreement before turning the direction of the conversation to what it was like living in a mortuary. It felt easier to discuss that piece of her life with her than her current relationship and how wonderful it all was. He didn’t want to discover any other parallels between what she shared with Morag and what he once shared with Gabriel. He couldn’t afford for his mind, and then his mood, to go there. Not when there was still so much work to do. 

Fortunately Elsbeth indulged him by explaining that while she was leery about living among dead people at first, she’d grown more comfortable with the idea. It certainly helped that their apartment had a separate entrance to the building from the business.  

The conversation took them up until the plane was well within the air and that familiar bing rang out. Aziraphale reached around to the wall behind him to pick up the phone. Word from the cockpit suggested it was safe to start the drink and dinner service.

Aziraphale conveyed this to Elsbeth before unstrapping himself and standing to relay the information to Shax. Shortly after that conversation, another announcement, led by a pleasant sounding Shax, made the passengers aware that they could request dinner cards to make their food and drink selections, but for everyone’s convenience, the process ought to be attempted on their individual touch screens. 

While Elsbeth strolled up and down the aisles to offer any additional assistance the passengers might require, Aziraphale fired up the tablet that displayed the plane’s seating chart. It detailed each passenger’s seat assignment, part of their name, and food preference. He’d also have to mind the comments section where allergies could be noted, giving particular preference to those passengers. 

In the end, only five handwritten cards were requested out of the sixty-one passengers they directly oversaw. About twenty were done up in economy, which Elsbeth took from one of the frazzled new attendants, and Az manually input the information as a way to increase efficiency. 

He also noticed a preference for beef in economy that didn’t exist in premium, so he typed up a note in the group chat for Shax, in case that would be helpful for her to know which oven she could pull excess food from.    

Even with streamlining certain processes, this phase of the flight proceedings was always the most taxing. There was just so much to do in a short span of time. And other requests occasionally came up that would break up the general flow of their work. 

Still, Aziraphale was grateful that this dinner service ran smoothly, thanks to everyone’s individual effort in the process. 

There were a few complaints (as there always were) mostly stemming from the lacklustre gluten free options. It was a bit frustrating that all Aziraphale could do was listen and assure the guests that he would personally look into it. One individual stared pointedly at his name tag, as if to make note of it, should nothing change following this particular promise.

He felt his cheeks ache from having to smile through that entire exchange. And he didn’t get to break behind the refreshment curtain because three other requests cropped up. 

This pillow is too flat. Can I please have another one?   

I’ll take another lime and coke when you have a moment.

Are you absolutely sure no one is eating peanuts onboard? I feel like my throat is closing up.

It didn’t matter how polite they were. The additional requests stacked up steadily, each requiring a different level of attention and care. 

The only thing that beckoned was the brief lull after dinner service when most onboard would tuck in and sleep for the next several hours. Az and his crew would still have to prepare the breakfast meal and be on hand in the event of any emergencies or urgent requests, but generally things would remain fairly quiet.

He would get a break somewhere between 22:00 and 23:00 hours, once the rest of his crew took their time in the bunkroom. But until then, he would have to muddle through everything with an unaffected smile. 

There were several requests for more alcohol by the majority of premium passengers, which kept Aziraphale’s pouring hand quite busy for the next forty-five minutes. Then once they collected the dessert containers, he was able to turn down the lights. 

He pulled out an extra meal (chicken with white sauce, carrots and potatoes), the foil rustling as he opened it up. He glanced at Elsbeth, who was just tossing her finished meal in the rubbish bin, and told her. “You ought to take your break after you finish lining the pastry trays for breakfast. I’ll tell Shax to have her crew do the same. Then we can all switch off in a few.”

He stabbed a piece of chicken and set his mind to finishing it in record time. It was oversauced, but at least that meant it wasn’t dry. Right as he began chomping down on the undercooked carrots, the blue attendant icon set off, signaling someone was in need.   

Naturally someone learned they could request additional dessert. And of course, it was the one with a raspberry drizzle and chocolate he had to unfoil and set into the spongy cake. Then shortly following their request, another gentleman asked for the same. 

Two desserts delivered later, Aziraphale returned to the galley and binned the rest of his meal. He grabbed a foam cup, tore open a tea wrapper before setting the bag inside and filling the rest of it with hot water from the red tab on the coffeemaker.

He blew across the rim of the cup, prepared to take a sip whenever two more requests came through.

Extra pillows, this time. 

He managed a few sips of hot tea before the light went off yet again. 

Three more requests for more blankets. 

And then, dare he even think it, there was silence beyond the low hum of the aircraft surging onward.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and merely breathed, relishing in the stillness of the night. It was such a precious thing. A rare commodity in this trade. And whenever the chance to simply exist presented itself, he took it. 

Whenever he felt his body relax to the point where it might drift off to another place altogether, his eyes snapped open. 

Fruit cups. He could start preparing the fruit cups.

While those in economy would get theirs in prepackaged containers, those at the front of the plane would have theirs done up in a nice little dish.

Someone had to do it. It might as well be him. 

He took out the two allotted trays, filled both with thirty ceramic dishes each, and then took out the larger dish filled to the brim with assorted fruit. His counter space was limited in this particular galley, so he quickly decided the easiest method to dishing out the fruit would be to hold the larger bowl against his body while spooning out a portion with his free hand.

This method worked well for the first tray. But just as he was about halfway through filling up the cups on the second one, the plane hit a rough spot of air that made them dip and rise in the span of a few seconds. In an effort to maintain his balance, Aziraphale’s spoon holding hand came down forcefully, crashing into the bottom half of the tray that just hung off the counter’s ledge. And thanks to the delightful laws of physics and gravity and whatever the other hellish sciences were that existed to make him miserable, half a dozen fruit cups, flipped over onto the tray, clattering noisily against one another, and what was left of the fruit mixture in the bowl tucked beneath his arm had splashed onto the his dark blue waistcoat.     

“Oh fuck!” He spat out in frustration, forgetting himself entirely as he rushed to deal with this giant, syrupy mess that threatened to drip everywhere. 

He swiftly deposited the bowl of fruit back into the fridge before attempting to deal with the toppled over dishes. Shaken from the incident, he fumbled noisily to right the tiny cups, accidentally knocking a few more over onto their sides in the process. 

He hissed, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” 

As if things couldn’t be made any worse, a power either higher ranking or more powerful than science, intervened. 

“Everything alright in there?”

Aziraphale’s gaze snapped up to see a passenger with his head ducked down until his chin touched his chest. 

Oh shit, he thought. Not only was there a passenger loitering nearby, but they likely heard the string of profanities that escaped his mouth because the curtain hadn’t been properly closed.     

“Everything’s fine!” Aziraphale practically sang out, putting his award winning, customer centric smile on display. 

He quickly turned on the tap that belonged to the tiny sink and hastily washed the sticky juices from his fingers.

With another sideways glance, he noticed the passenger, lingering in the entryway of the galley. Turning off the running water, Aziraphale flicked the lingering droplets from his hands, and tore off a paper towel to dry them. 

Hastily depositing them in the bin, Aziraphale closed the space between himself and the stranger, and asked with the utmost air of professionalism, “Is there something I can do for you, sir?” 

Up close, Aziraphale took in the slight fire colouring of the man’s overstyled hair. It glinted like heated coals in a dying fire beneath the dim blue lighting of the darkened plane. 

And then, suddenly, it felt like the bottom of the plane fell out again. Or rather, the bottom of Aziraphale’s stomach fell out because this man didn’t appear jarred by any sort of external turbulence. No, the turbulence Aziraphale felt came from within himself.

Because from this short distance, he saw a pair of pale familiar green eyes with bursts of gold at the centre staring back at him in shock and awe. And then there was the unmistakable black and red snake tattoo slithering down the right side of his face. 

Oh shit thrice over, indeed. He knew this man. He’d slept with this man about a month ago. 

And here he was, cocking his head to one side, his lips peeling upward as a glimmer of familiarity lit up his eyes the moment they danced between the name tag he wore and Aziraphale’s startled expression. 

“Az? As in…Aziraphale?” He asked, his tone lowering in sheer disbelief.

He gulped. Blinking fast and tilting back his face, so his chin jutted out, Aziraphale answered in the only way he knew how to in this particular situation. Not that he ran into men he engaged in a single night of passion with often. Or that he often engaged in single nights of passion. Heaven's no, this had been a first for him.

But he had to say something. At the very least, his position required him to. 

“Yes, sir. That’s right.”

He watched that smile grow until it crinkled the corners of the other man's eyes and it stole the very breath from Aziraphale’s lungs.

But no matter how striking he was just now, Aziraphale could not allow himself to lose his professionalism. So he pressed on, firm and seemingly unaffected whenever he pressed, “Is there something I can do for you?”

That first night, about 7:33pm

The last thing Aziraphale wanted was to be alone in his apartment and sober on a Friday night. While it would have been far more economical for him to just pop into one of the liquor stores situated on every corner and bring back several bottles of cheap white, he just didn’t have it in him to remain inside the cluttered shoebox sized apartment he called home.

Not only that, but Gabriel’s belongings remained just as he left them. And Aziraphale did not have the energy to go about the space and collect his former partner’s belongings into a cardboard box this evening. Nor did he have the energy to face them sober. He'd worry about that in the morning.  

The eight and a half hour flight from London to New York had been a trying one. He had a drunk passenger vomit across his shoes and another one who complained excessively about the inflight television and film selections and their “woke” agenda. Not to mention, there was that weepy infant who took a liking to him, and required him to bounce them up and down the aisles while their father dozed for a good half hour. 

Although he hadn’t minded the last bit so much. Until he returned the baby and they decided to practise their version of “The Worst Pies in London,” like the mezzo-soprano they were one day destined to be. 

His crew had added to his current exhausted state as well. Two of them were glued to their electronic devices when they weren’t customer facing. Which wasn’t entirely helpful when they had a flight of nearly three hundred who needed both breakfast and lunch. Three were hungover from last night’s pub endeavours and therefore, moving at the speed of dark every time he turned around. And one was shamelessly flirting with another who was happily married and just trying to get through the next eight hours without incident. 

It was flights such as these that he detested being Purser. For he had to scold “screen addict one and two,” stealthily slip mints into the pockets of “stale martini breath, stale vodka breath, and stale merlot breath.” And then he felt it safest to switch around work duties so that “shameless flirt” was paired with “stale martini breath,” and “happily married,” was able to maintain her dignity and the airline avoided a potential harassment suit.

Nobody said this job was easy. Even if Aziraphale did his damnedest to ensure it looked as such to everyone onboard the flight. Putting on an air of ease when things were slowly unravelling was something he was quite adept at. And something that took quite a lot out of him at the conclusion of each flight.

Which is why whenever he arrived at his favourite village haunt, The Dizzy Duck (though someone rudely spray painted a capital “F,” strategically to change the name of the place, he would always think of it in less vulgar terms), Aziraphale didn’t recognize the man seated to the left of the empty barstool he climbed up on.

“Oh, it’s you!”

Aziraphale cautiously glanced over, taking in a man dressed all in black from his large, circular sunglasses down to his black, skinny jeans that looked like they might’ve been fused onto his lanky legs. Only three splashes of colour caught Aziraphale’s eye: the man’s expertly slicked back crimson quiff, a crimson coiling snake tattooed along his temple, and the loosely hanging tie that matched both. 

For a moment, he thought they must be looking at someone else from across the bar. Aziraphale’s head slowly jerked in the opposite direction as he leaned back on his stool, expecting to catch another individual waiting to respond to this man's greeting. 

His legs clenched in anticipation of having to trade stools with someone this man knew. That would allow them to enjoy their conversation without his body as an irritating blockade. Even emotionally drained, Aziraphale couldn’t seem to turn off the people pleasing aspect of his brain.  

But whenever he was met with the back of a leather jacket, Aziraphale looked back to the man, whose gaze appeared fixed on him from behind his shades.  

“I…beg your pardon?” He cocked his head to one side, a frown creasing his lips. He squinted as if that might help him make better sense of the situation and he asked, “Do I…know you?”     

“You just get off at JFK? From Heathrow?”

Aziraphale momentarily froze after hearing these questions.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel unsafe, but the idea that someone had been clocking him enough to recognize him from a flight service, caught him off guard.

“I was in J13,” the man reminded him. “Asked you for a dinner recommendation?” His tone lilted as if that might help give him a further clue.

Slowly pieces of an image reformed in Aziraphale's mind.

“’Cuse me.” A shaded gaze lifted, elbow squarely positioned on the armrest as a slender finger sliced through the air. “I was told by one of your colleagues you might know of a decently priced dinner in The Village?”

Aziraphale’s attention had been split between attentively fulfilling this man’s request while actively attempting to ignore an ignorant tirade about the presence of LGBTQIIA+ centred films on the inflight monitors that was happening in the background. He hardly recalled what he even said to this man. Apparently he'd recommended The Dizzy Duck though.  

He found himself shaking his head and intoning, “Oh…oh right. You did. I…I apologise for not recognising you.” 

And he meant it. He really was sorry. Because this gentleman seemed so attentive on all accounts. Both to chase down his dinner recommendation and to recognize him as a crew member from his flight. 

Which compelled Aziraphale to add with a tired sigh, “It’s been a long day.”

“Well then,” a brilliantly bright and somewhat crooked grin caught Aziraphale’s notice, “shall we get you a drink?”

Normally he’d politely refuse such an unimaginative proposition. But there was something so magnetic about this man’s demeanour that left Aziraphale wanting to be drawn closer to him.

Even if it was only for the course of a single night.

“Oh what the hell? Why not?” he decided with a chortled.

It'd already been a rather trying day and having a drink with a dark, handsome stranger could only improve it.

Chapter Text

Being unrecognised felt like a punch to the gut. Or maybe, the punching metaphor was rather dramatic. Maybe it was more like bumping one’s hip into the corner of a very sturdy piece of furniture. One would feel a sharp, bruising pain that slowly faded overtime, but even in the absence of a mark, it would still feel tender beneath the surface.    

That was how Crowley felt now as he took notice of Aziraphale and the man acted as though he were a complete stranger. Which, he supposed, he essentially was, minus that one night they spent together about a month ago. 

Leading Crowley to momentarily wonder if he was hallucinating right now.

Because what were the actual odds that he would meet a flight attendant in a bar, take him to bed, and then find him on another flight some thirty days later? Those odds had to be less than one in a billion. Which made this run in nothing short of a miracle.

But miracle or not, he really ought to say something. Anything really, that went beyond gawking or staring. He should speak. Words. Actual words. 

It seemed though that the language portion of his brain was overridden by the memory centre. And all he could do while gawking (or staring, depending on how one defined the present situation) at Aziraphale, were all those times he spent at his computer revising a new section of a building design, watching the angles come together and thinking about how the concave arch of his back fit against the front of Aziraphale’s chest whenever their bodies joined that one night about a month prior.  

Or how he’d be in the middle of a meeting and his project manager would ask him: Tell me what you need from me– of course, the next part of this was –to make this project successful. Which was not even remotely close to the ending Crowley had been thinking of in the middle of that meeting. 

Tell me Crowley, the words echoed in his mind, clearing out the space in his chest where all of his vital organs ought to be. 

Tell me what you need from me… 

He became aware of his dick as the memory of a warm, wet heat covering it overtook him. And those sky blue eyes that looked expectantly at him now, had once been steely whenever they flicked up from between his legs.   

….to come undone like this.

Fucking heaven’s most sadistic angels. He absolutely could not be thinking about that now. Absolutely not.  

But his brain and his body were not cooperating with this request. Especially not after he studied Aziraphale standing before him. In his uniform, he might add. 

A uniform that consisted of a pale blue dress shirt and a darker blue bowtie with a matching waistcoat that clung just enough to his middle to remind Crowley of the ribbed vest he probably wore beneath it all. And while he thought of that, he thought of skin so impossibly soft it was quite possible that Aziraphale had angelic lineage. 

Then there were his hands. Hands that were currently balled into loose fists at his sides. Hands that once dug into Crowley's hips as he chased that miraculous end with Aziraphale deep inside of him. 

And how could he ignore this angel of a man with his chin jutting out so haughtily? As though his composure could never be broken, no matter what temptation was laid before him. But Crowley knew better. He knew Aziraphale beyond this polished veneer of put togetherness he sought to convey just now. He knew what the man sounded like whenever he came undone. 

What he wouldn’t do to hear that sound all again. 

Which is why he told the memory centre of his brain to piss off and take a holiday somewhere far north where things were icy and cold and void of anything remotely warm and passionate.

He couldn’t very well stand here now with a hard on, his breath hitching in the back of his throat like some deranged sex demon. That would be utterly terrifying for Aziraphale and absolutely mortifying for him. 

So in an effort to remain cool and not unravel entirely, Crowley took in a lengthy breath and drew his head back. He shifted his weight between his feet and planted his hands at his hips. 

He made a great show of tilting his head to one side, eyes narrowing out of curiosity whenever he asked, “Don’t I know you?”

In the aftermath of his question, a pair of blue eyes frantically flickered left to right and then up and down beneath a furrowed brow. A set of hands brushed invisible creases down the front of the aforementioned navy blue waistcoat. Soft, pillowy lips sputtered a series of nonsensical syllables and words, “I uhm…I-I-I-I don’t…I…don’t know if I…if I…”

It was at this time that Crowley’s heart decided it would start doing that ridiculous thing where it pounded too loud and hurt far too much from the effort. This compelled him to want to make a joke in the hopes it might lessen the tense quiet that grew between them like some protective bubble. 

But it seemed that the humour portion of his brain had gone on that arctic holiday as opposed to the memory piece because he cracked on, finger guns ablazing, “You were at The Dizzy Fuck? Best pub pizza in New York? Isn’t that what you said?!” 

He cringed. Glory be to someone’s parents (because he didn’t believe in the existence of fathers), was he fucking shouting in the middle of a sleeping plane?

“I beg your pardon!”

Crowley momentarily panicked because Aziraphale most certainly was shouting. At him. 

All the blood drained from his face and it was now Crowley’s turn to stammer with his over animated hands, “Ermmm…ahhh…The Dizzy Duck? The bar…we…ermmm…pizza? Queen Victoria and the tricycle? Petunia? Wha-wha-what was his name?” He snapped his thumb and forefinger a few times as if that might help him recall the name of the bartender. "Sergeant S! Yes! That was..."

“You did not say duck,” Aziraphale interjected firmly.

Crowley gulped, “I didn’t?”

Fucking hell and all their bells and whistles, what had he said?

“No!” Mild horror shot through the other man’s single worded reply.  

Crowley’s face jutted forward, nearly crossing the slight barrier of the open curtain. The words rumbled low and anxious in his throat, “What-what-what did I say then?”

“You said The Dizzy F-aft! It—” Aziraphale stepped back and threw up his hands. His voice strained now as he lowered it, “It doesn’t matter what you said! What matters is, this is a restricted area. I cannot allow passengers here, so if there’s nothing you need…”

“Ahh well mmmm…actually…there was…something. Before I realised it was you …I was actually coming up here because…one of the lavs…all the way in the back…sounds as though someone might be getting sick?”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale considered his words. It was the look of someone whose brain was attempting to catch up to what he just heard. Then his expression grew to horrific proportions before he gasped, “You-you’re in economy?! You shouldn’t be up here if you’re in…!”

“Ahh well…actually…” Amusement tinged Crowley’s words and it was impossible not to crack a smile at what Aziraphale found significant in this moment, “…I’m in premium plus. I only know about this cause the queue to our lav is a few people deep at the moment. With people from economy. And some bellend started complaining loudly about it.”

With a suspicious narrowing of his eyes, Aziraphale stated primly, “I would know if you were in premium plus. I’ve been serving it all night.”

Crowley’s grin grew until all his teeth were visible. Aziraphale was quite adorable all wound up like this. Though he suspected the other man would not appreciate his saying so. 

So Crowley opted for an explanation instead. He didn’t want this conversation to turn so far south he ended up in handcuffs or tied to his seat. Though he wouldn’t mind drafting up that particular bedroom fantasy in his spare time. As long as Aziraphale was a willing participant. Or spectator. He wasn’t picky about the role he took on so long as he was there. 

Shaking himself out of a momentary lapse down fantasy lane, he carried on, “Look, I know you were. I saw you during the dessert service. Or thought I did. I mean. I thought you were who I thought you were. Though you were on the other side but I wasn’t entirely sure…I don’t have the best view being by the window and all. Excellent extra headrest but…limited vantage points. It was your colleague who took care of me. You can ask her. I’m not exactly ordinary looking.”

His voice deepened dramatically on the word, hands rising up to frame his face, fingers spread out as if they were about to perform a jazzy routine. When in reality, all he was attempting to do was burst through the bubble of tension that Aziraphale seemed intent on blowing up larger and larger the longer this conversation lasted. 

It partially worked. The man breathed out a soft huff of a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. His steely gaze melted just a fraction.

If Crowley blinked he would have missed it. But Crowley rarely blinked. 

So he didn’t miss Aziraphale clearing this throat and tugging on the bottom of his waistcoat, as if it somehow required straightening. 

“Well in any event,” the adorable haughty tilt of his chin had returned, “you should have alerted one of the other attendants in the back, not come all the way up here.”

“That’s just the thing. I couldn’t find any of the others.”

“What?!”

Crowley blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing up. “Yeahhh…I dunno where everyone’s gone but…” He tossed up his hands until they slapped against his legs in a hopeless sort of gesture.

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” Aziraphale shouldered his way beyond the curtain, carefully sliding past Crowley. “Pardon me.”

It was enough of a brush by for Crowley to take in the fresh linen scent of him. And enough to urge him to follow and put in apologetically, “Sorry to add more work for you…I just didn’t think if something went supremely wrong…well if…” 

He practically galloped until he was on Aziraphale’s heels so that he might whisper in his ear, “...if outside authorities had to get involved or something.”

Aziraphale jumped a bit, tossing a hurried look over his shoulder. “Yes…no…I…thank you.”

As they approached the first row of premium, Crowley remarked in a quiet voice, “Need any civilian reinforcements?”

“No, I am…perfectly capable…” After another quick backward glance, Aziraphale paused to notice that Crowley suddenly stopped his hot pursuit. 

He saw something occur to Aziraphale just then because he closed the space between them. He was impossibly close now, so close that Crowley in addition to the strong scent of freshly cleaned linen, there was something citrusy as well. 

Lowering his voice solemnly, Aziraphale enquired, “Are you absolutely certain no one else is back there?“

“Didn’t appear to be.”

“So you did check the back galley?”

The emphasis on that particular word set off Crowley’s nerves. “I ermm…uhmm…are you going to have me arrested if I say yes?”

Aziraphale exhaled out of exasperation and Crowley watched him weigh his options. After a beat, he relented, “No, that would involve too much paperwork.”

Lifting his brow in surrender, Crowley added, “I swear I didn’t do anything besides look. If that helps the situation.”

“Right.” There was a sharp nod, followed by a reluctant lifting of those lovely, light blue eyes. Then Aziraphale asked hopefully, “Well…I’m…that is…would you mind coming with me?”

He lifted a shoulder and cocked his head to one side as he grinned. “Not at t’all, Angel.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, his lips rolling inward and casting his eyes downward. He mumbled rather firmly, “Please don’t…don’t call me that.”

“Sorry.” Crowley grimaced, feeling his heart tumble southward in his body.

He didn’t have time to fully indulge in the ache that this request left within him because Aziraphale was already manoeuvring towards the back of the plane and Crowley had no choice but to follow.

Crowley couldn’t say what happened to the passenger who got ill in the lav. All he knew was that Aziraphale swiftly returned with one of his stewards, who then relieved Crowley of his sentry duties, and from there, he was free to retreat to his seat at the head of premium plus.  

The man who stepped in to help Aziraphale was all suggestive smiles and lingering glances. Which Crowley felt the whole way back to his seat. He tried to appear aloof to it, but he didn’t quite feel at ease until he slid back into his seat and was no longer the centre of anyone else’s notice.

He pulled up his inflight monitor, trying to distract himself with some Sudoku. But after nearly fifteen minutes of trying and failing not to fixate on how the conversation went with Aziraphale and how he was faring with the sickly passenger, Crowley’s arms felt too tired from having to stretch out so far in order to reach the screen.

So he began mindlessly scrolling through the inflight film selections. 

What he really ought to try and do was sleep. Even just for a bit. Fatigue was a major trigger for him. And when combined with the few glasses of red wine he allowed himself during the dinner service, Crowley was just asking to be laid out by a nasty migraine.

He could preemptively take something. He probably should. But as he checked the outer pockets of his black backpack, he noticed he barely had enough water left for a single swig. And the pill he needed to take required far more than that for him to be able to swallow. 

For a moment, Crowley considered making his way to the front galley. Then he recalled the earlier scolding he received from Aziraphale for breaking inflight protocol, and instead he reached for the blue button overhead. 

An obnoxiously loud ding and sharp blue light shone beside his row. Luckily, the individual seated beside him had been snoring lightly for the last hour and a half, headset loudly playing some sort of relaxation music. 

It was Mr Suggestive Smiles who answered the page. Much to Crowley’s disappointment. But he made his request simplistic and quick, leaving the man no opening for further conversation.        

After he passed Crowley the plastic bottle on his return, he remarked with an approving smile, “That was quite heroic what you did.”

Crowley frowned. “Sorry, what?”

“You telling us about the man getting sick in the lav. It was…heroic.” 

His smile spread wider until it reached his eyes, catching the warm brown tones beneath the dim light as his face hovered in the space beneath the overhead luggage compartment. 

“Mmm…it just…mmm…seemed the decent thing to do.” Crowley leaned back in his seat, crossed one leg over the other, and momentarily debated whether or not to uncross it. But then he figured this position implied a sort of closed-off-ness that he wished to convey, so he remained still while Mr Suggestive Smiles lingered. 

“You didn’t have to though, and you did.”

“Yeah well…mmm…thanks for this.” He lifted up his bottle of water in what he hoped would signal that he was no longer in need of anything. 

“It is my absolute pleasure, sir.”

“Ta, then.”

“Timothy!” A sharp hissing came from the rear of first class. 

Crowley could not catch a glimpse of who it was, but based on the work assignments, it had to be Aziraphale. 

“Alright, alright.” Timothy turned back to Crowley with something of an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Duty calls.”

Crowley shrugged, already moving to fiddle with his bag for his bottle of pills. Even if Aziraphale asked not to be called angel, it was impossible for him not to think of him as one just then.

There was a slow transition from dark to light in the aircraft cabin, simulating an artificial sunrise. Even with his dark glasses on, the change still roused Crowley from his light slumber since everyone else around him reacted in some audible fashion to the change. As he sat up straighter, his neck screamed in protest, a side effect from sleeping at such an oddly coiled angle in his seat. 

At least his head wasn’t aching.

His feet made an immediate descent to the floor, and he felt his back muscles strain in a similar argument. He slowly twisted his body and stretched his limbs until his spine cracked and the pressure loosened all around before he took in the digital face of his watch.  

From his rough estimation, he’d been asleep for close to forty-five minutes. Time was such an unreliable metric on international flights.

Unlike the dinner service there were only two options for breakfast along with unlimited choices of alcoholic beverages. Which most people around him seemed to take full advantage of. He, on the other hand, requested coffee. Even though it tasted stale and overly roasted in the same sip, it was still best if he got a dash of caffeine flowing in his veins to regulate his finicky brain. 

After polishing off one cup with his continental breakfast (he would never say no to cheese and chorizo), he found he was barely able to keep his eyes open.   

Crowley languidly reached up to press the call button, sighing heavily whenever it was Mr Suggestive Smiles who came to his aid. He really wasn’t in the mood for this type of interaction so early in the morning, running on so little sleep.

“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind,” he stated in a painfully indifferent tone, “I was hoping to speak to the other one.”

The man’s brown brow pinched and he looked entirely confounded by this request. 

Crowley tried to ignore the guilt that slowly wound inside of him for looking like one of those people. Because he wasn’t one of those people. He just figured that if a second chance meeting with Aziraphale was rare, a third would be practically nonexistent. So he intended to make the most of speaking to him while he could.  

“I’d like to speak to Aziraphale. Az. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Timothy informed him stiffly, “Az is busy at the moment.”

“Well when he isn’t …can you send him my way? Please?” He cocked his head to the side, flashing a toothy grin as if it might persuade him further. 

“Sir, I am more than capable of assisting you…”

Crowley half praised, half mocked, “Oh I’m sure you are. But as I said, I’d really like to speak to him.”

Realising that he wasn’t about to budge on the subject, Timothy finally gave up with a sharp nod. “Very well, sir. I’ll let him know.”

He hadn’t been tracking the time. Truthfully he just happened to glance down and his digital watch read fifteen after when Timothy departed. Then it read nineteen after whenever Aziraphale appeared. 

The man ducked down a bit, stepping a bit more into the extra space this particular row afforded. “I understand you wished to speak with me, sir.”  

“Oh, erm, yeah, uhmmm…how’s the passenger and all?”

Blinking back in surprise, Aziraphale finally collected himself enough to remark, “Oh. Fine. I think. My colleagues have taken over and I haven’t heard anything so…” He shrugged and offered a tight lipped smile. “Can I help you with something else though?”

“Oh yeah…hurrmm.” He lifted his empty coffee mug and leaned forward to hand it off. “When you have a moment, can I get some more regular? Please.”

A laugh blew past those lips once more before sense seized Aziraphale and he firmly pressed them together. 

“What’s funny?”

With a wave of his free hand Aziraphale told him, mildly amused, “It’s just…the way Timothy made it sound. I thought you had a…complicated request. Or a complaint.”

“No offence to him, but I’m not particularly interested in flirting this morning.” He wrinkled his nose. 

Something like embarrassment fluttered across Aziraphale’s visage. He mumbled, “Oh, I do apologise if he crossed a line. I can have a word with him if you like.”

“Ahhh…hnnng…nahhh…not necessary…would rather just…deal with you.” Crowley squirmed in his seat, shrugging and flipping his hand. Then he heard how that possibly sounded and swiftly amended, “If that’s alright.”  

Aziraphale drew his shoulders up once more and assured, "It’s my pleasure to ensure the comfort of all passengers.” Gesturing to the cup in his hand, he asked, “Just regular coffee? No cream or sugar?”

“Nahh.” Then an idea struck him and he quipped before Aziraphale could disappear down the aisle, “But if you have an extra shot of espresso hidden away in there…”

With a sympathetic tilt of his head, Aziraphale remarked, “I’m afraid we don't.”  

“Course, I understand.” Crowley lamented beneath his breath, “Looks like I’ll have to wait until landing for the real deal.”

“Afraid so.”

He jolted to an upright position in his seat, having not expected the other man to hear that remark. So he quickly covered it with a reassuring, “No offence. You’re doing a spectacular job of…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale let out a light laugh, “it’s no skin off my nose.”

Crowley inhaled a sharp breath, the memory centre of his brain rousing most inappropriately while he glanced at the other man’s slightly upturned nose. He thought about it in all his prominence and how it once brushed along his inner thighs and then… 

“Well, I’ll be sure to top this off for you.”

“Well you know that's how I like it,” Crowley breathed it out along with a laugh. 

He saw two blue eyes widen in shock and suddenly, Crowley’s neck grew very warm. 

Aziraphale glanced around to the other passengers in the immediate vicinity. His tone squeaking as he volunteered, “Anyone else need anything? No? Right then. Be back in a jiff.”

He purposefully avoided eye contact with Crowley before disappearing into the first class area of the plane.

Crowley felt a small pang of something like regret. He really needed to stop fixating on that night. Especially whenever it seemed like Aziraphale was fixated on forgetting it. Yet here he was, hopelessly toeing a particular line, hoping that the other man might change his mind. And with that last remark, he might have quite possibly even slid his foot halfway across said line already. 

Reaching down to his backpack, Crowley pulled out a pen so that he might scrawl something down on the back of his unused napkin for when Aziraphale returned with his coffee. 

Their time aboard the plane was limited. And Crowley would do just about anything to ensure that if they were to part for good, it would be on halfway decent terms.

Two napkin note exchanges in the middle of the snack service and a surprisingly expedient line through customs later, Crowley found himself anxiously waiting for more than just his luggage to come round on the carousel.

He tried not to look around too much. Because with the glasses on, he was fully aware that his behaviour might be misconstrued as shifty. And he didn’t need anything to ruin this moment. Including himself. Because even though Aziraphale had agreed to speak with him post-flight, there was no telling how Aziraphale truly felt about seeing him again.

Let's discuss it in baggage claim.

That was what he’d written last. 

It was a guarded statement, but at least he was agreeable to that.  

The disappointment that this would end with an awkward conversation in one of the world's busiest aeroports would be disheartening, of course. But he’d muddle through it just like he always had. He might need another one nighter to block out the memory of this one. Because this one felt different from all the others. This one felt…otherworldly somehow. Like he’d been transported to another plane of existence. To him, this one meant something.

Which he was fully aware made him sound a little mad, because both of them had only intended for this to last one night. Neither had intended to see one another again and yet, the fact that they found one another in these circumstances…well, it had to mean something, surely?

There was a streak of blonde and blue in his peripheral vision and Crowley faced Aziraphale’s neutral expression.

Which prompted Crowley to tease, “They let you back in?”

“They generally do.” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Seeing as I have a British passport and all.”

“Really?” His brow furrowed upon hearing that. “How does that work exactly? For you getting back in over there?”

Aziraphale explained, “I have a Green Card.”

“Ahhh…mmm…best of both worlds.”

The other man nodded, adjusting his hand on the handle of his dark blue suitcases that were efficiently stacked one on top of the other. Crowley noticed the Divinity Airways logo stamped across the front of each of them.

After a momentary silence, Crowley tore his eyes upward to find Aziraphale’s expectant gaze. He asked, “So…where are you staying?”

“They put us up at The Premier.” He jerked his head in the general direction of where Terminal Four and the hotel itself resided. “They often do for convenience's sake.” 

“Mmm…” Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale prompted, “I assume you’re going home?”

“Ahhh...yeahh…unless of course you’d wanna chat more now?” He squinted behind his glasses, his tone growing gravelly around the question. 

How pathetic are you? He chastised himself so heartily that he nearly missed Aziraphale’s reluctant response to this. 

“I do have somewhere I need to be this afternoon.”

“Ah. Rightrightrightright.” 

Of course he does you, twit. He has a life that doesn’t involve meeting up with strangers he casually shags. Or maybe it does. Maybe you’re just another one in another city he…

Shaking himself from his own self-doubt, Crowley suggested, “Well…I could…I could give you my number. You could text so we can sort out dinner plans?” His voice lifted hopefully on this question. 

Aziraphale's expression remained unreadable as he informed him, “I don’t have international texting.” 

“Right.” 

His smile stretched thin as Crowley thought: He's lying isn't he? What sort of international flight attendant doesn't pay for international texting? This is it. He's about to try and let you down gently. Better brace for impact.

“But there’s a place on Greek Street,” Aziraphale put in helpfully. “I think it’s called The Lazari Lounge now. Do you know it?”

Crowley closed his eyes in an attempt to conjure up images of Greek Street in his mind. And he guessed, “Ah I think…it’s beside a record store?”

“That’s right,” Aziraphale brightened.

“Yeah, I know where you mean.”

“Perhaps we could meet there? Round eight?”

Crowley’s eyes widened at this, his mouth dropping open. 

Breathe, just breathe. And agree to it. Calmly agree to it.

“Yeah, yeah, ok, alright.”

“Good.” His lips curved into a smile that gently touched his pale blue eyes. 

Crowley breathed in slowly and licked his suddenly dry lips. Aziraphale really did have a beautiful smile whenever he let his guard down. 

As if he could read these thoughts, Aziraphale cleared his throat and bowed his head. “Well it was nice to see you again, Crowley.” His eyes flicked up once more before he nodded and slowly backed away towards Terminal Four.

“Yeah, you too,” Crowley croaked out with a weak half wave of his hand.

Hearing his name roll so deeply over that stiff upper lip, soothed the earlier bruise Crowley felt from Aziraphale’s avoidance of it.

And if it weren’t for some aeroport angel, name tag reading Saraqael, who nearly ran him down with their motorised chair, Crowley might’ve left his suitcase on the carousel. His mind had downgraded to reptilian level, and all he could think about was that Aziraphale had not only agreed to dinner, but suggested the time and place they meet.

Surely that had to mean something?

That first night, about 9:15pm

From the moment he entered his hotel room, Crowley had been unable to sit still for more than two seconds at a time. 

He sat on the soft bed. Stood. Turned towards the wet bar. Opened the fridge below with the mini bottles of alcohol. Shut it hard enough to make the glass tingle. Plugged in the coffee machine. Turned towards the bed. Sat down.

Reached for the remote control. Turned on the tele. Stood. Paced.

Why hadn’t he told the cabbie to piss off?

Because he needed a ride here.

Why hadn’t he leaned in?

Because the driver was increasingly impatient. And…well…he wasn’t even sure Aziraphale would have appreciated the gesture. He only suspected he might’ve. 

He sank down on the edge of the bed again, eyes darting to the tele, but not registering what film was on.

He supposed he was putting too much pressure on an evening that likely meant nothing more than it was on the surface. 

Two men sharing a pizza in a bar and a few laughs. 

Yes, that’s all it was, Crowley decided as his fingers brushed along the length of his tie. Awareness jolted within him when he didn’t feel the bumpy texture of his tie clip. 

He glanced down and sure enough, the little gold snake was missing. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed, sinking even deeper into disappointment. 

Ligur and Nina had bought him that whenever he got his first architecture job years ago. They scraped together every spare penny they had to buy it for him. He had had that sodding thing for nearly twenty years and now it was possibly gone forever.

He moaned in despair before flopping back onto the bed. The bridge of his nose grew heavier. And his eyes started to burn.

Then, much to his irritation the phone rang.

His stomach clenched and he waited for the shrill brrrrrringggg to cease. When it refused to do so, he picked it up and harshly answered, “Yeah, what is it?!”   

“Uhm, Mr Crowley, sir, there is a Mr Aziraphale Fell down here.” 

Crowley’s mind went dark and his legs would've gave out if he wasn't already seated on the mattress. 

He knew the operator on the other end was talking to him, but it wasn’t clear to him what they were saying. Because all that was running through his mind was: Aziraphale was here. Aziraphale found him. He was here and asking after him. Crowley didn’t know why. But the why behind it hardly mattered when he was simply…here.  

All he heard next was: “Do you know him?”

“Ye-ye-yeah, I know him.”

“Can we send him up or would you like to…”

“Up! Up! Send him up!”

Oh fuck, how desperate did he sound just now? 

After receiving confirmation that Aziraphale would be on his way, Crowley slammed down the receiver and resumed his pacing of the room. Each time he turned towards the door, he’d stop before the carpet receded to tile, pause, and then whirl around to stride back towards the windows.

On a few rotations, he even perched himself on the window sill, hands curving into the cool ledge. He’d hold his breath and stare at the door as if he possessed some supernatural power to make it knock and Aziraphale appear on the other side of it.

Upon realising just how intensely idiotic he was being about all of this, Crowley cringed and laughed.

He had literally just met this man hours ago. And already he was so wound up about the possibility of seeing him again. It hardly made sense.

But there was just something about Aziraphale that sent a thrill through Crowley. Something that made him want to break through that prissiness (that was likely an act to a degree) and make him laugh about the crass things he was saying. Or even get him to say something crass in return.

Being with Aziraphale at the bar had been…well, fun. And it had been such a long time since Crowley had had that sort of fun with anyone and not regretted it.

When a tentative knock on the door sounded, Crowley forced himself to breathe in and out, once, no twice, before he sauntered towards it.

He checked the peephole and bit back a smile. 

Aziraphale stood with his hands behind his back, rocking ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. He glanced from side to side, and it sounded as though…was he humming?  

A strangled sort of sound escaped Crowley at just how precious and unassuming this man was. Which promptly caught Aziraphale’s attention and made Crowley nearly stumble onto his arse whenever their eyes met in the door’s viewfinder.

He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale heard the gasp, and he knew it wasn’t logical for him to believe that he saw him through the hole in the door. But Crowley hastily twisted the locks, tugged on the door handle, and swung it open. 

With a slow stretch of a smile, he tilted his head against the edge of the door and mused in a pseudo-sweet, mostly taunting manner, “Hate goodbyes just as much as me?”

Aziraphale let out an amused breath before nodding. “Ah yes, I suppose they can be difficult. But here, you left this at the bar.”

Crowley glanced down at his turned up palm. Nestled in the centre was the golden snake tie clip.

“My angel,” Crowley breathed out, carefully taking it from him.

“Actually Robert’s your angel. He just happened to catch me before I headed home.”

Curling his hand into a fist, Crowley's eyes slowly drifted upward in amazement. Aziraphale merely smiled politely, his own hands making a graceful dive into the pockets of his beige trousers.   

If anyone had the capacity to make Crowley suddenly believe in the kindness of strangers, it was Aziraphale.

“You came all this way?” He continued to marvel. “Just to return a tie clip?”

Aziraphale looked down and shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Like I said…you’re an angel for doing that.”

Aziraphale’s smile deepened, but he didn’t look up just yet. 

“This one means a lot to me.”

This caught the other man’s notice. “Does it?”

He bobbed his head and then found the words tumbling out without a second thought, “My siblings got it for me. A million years ago. It’s one of my favourites.”

“Oh.” He saw a momentary softness flicker across Aziraphale’s face. And then he swiftly righted himself by remarking rather neutrally, “Well, I’m glad we found it then.”

“Thank you.” Crowley swallowed hard, his breath slowing as he continued staring at this angel of a man who just returned one of his most prized possessions. 

“Well, I’ll be off then.” Aziraphale jerked his head in the direction of the elevator bank down the hall.

Crowley was about to say “right, thanks again,” whenever he instead said, “Wait!”

Aziraphale froze. A hand that had loosed itself from his trouser pocket, now smoothed its way down the front of his light grey cardigan. His face turned towards Crowley, whose brain was busy trying to keep up with what his mouth just said.

He couldn’t very well say what he really wanted to. Which was: Don’t go. I want to talk to you some more. So instead he took a full step over the invisible line he’d been carefully toeing all evening long. 

Using his right foot to keep the door open, he now stood halfway in the hall with Aziraphale.  

“At least let me pay for half your cab fare,” he decided while fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. “You know, for your troubles.”

“Oh no.” Aziraphale lifted a dismissive hand. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to…”

“You must,” Crowley insisted while he rifled through the green bills. 

He should’ve paid attention to his own fare to know how much it was, but using the company credit card allowed him to be somewhat negligent. 

“You paid for dinner,” Aziraphale reminded him. 

“No, Eden did. This is my way of thanking you.” He shoved a handful of bills in his direction.

Aziraphale studied the wad of cash before informing him, “That’s far too much.”

“Alright. Take what is suitable then.”

“Crowley…”

“Please, Aziraphale.” And here he seized hold of his free hand, forcing the money into his palm before closing his fingers around it. “Take something from me.” 

His voice curled around the one word, and he noticed the slightest inversion of Aziraphale’s brow as Crowley practically growled at him.

For a solid five seconds, there was nothing between them except a set of amber eyes burning brightly into powder blue ones. Nothing except for the ragged breathing that now seized hold of both of them. Nothing except the warmth that radiated between their joined hands.  

“Fifteen should cover it.” Aziraphale sounded breathless, so he glanced down hurriedly and added quietly, “I think.”

“Both ways?” Crowley asserted, arching a brow.

Aziraphale pulled back enough to shuffle the bills around beneath Crowley’s pressing gaze, taking an even thirty.

“Here.” He extended a hand that held about ten additional dollars.

Once they finished pocketing the money, Crowley told him again, desperation crackling around the word now, “Wait.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale whispered, looking as though he were hanging on for dear life as to what Crowley might say next.

“You should…hang on…” He kicked the door open and swiftly disappeared from view. 

Before the door could shut behind him completely, he picked up a bottle of water from beside the wet bar sink and managed to snake his body back outside, foot catching the door again before it could lock him in the corridor with Aziraphale. 

He explained as he offered the water to him, “For the ride home.”

“Thank you.” He took it, tucking in beneath the crook of his arm. Then he started, “Well…” 

"Yeah…”

“I…” Aziraphale exhaled heavily.

And his brow creased so deeply now it made Crowley blurt out, " Doyouwanttocomein?”

“I…I normally don’t…”

“There’s a mini bar,” Crowley offered with a hopeful grin.

Aziraphale scoffed out a laugh,  “Oh it’s far too overpriced.”

“I can make us coffee.”

Was he trying too hard? It felt like he was trying too hard.

Twisting his lips to one side, Aziraphale confessed, “I’m afraid I drink tea.”

“There is tea! I saw it! Wait!”

Crowley lunged back into the room in an attempt to catch the door while he rifled for the appropriate bag on the tray. Then upon seeing three different coloured packets of Twinings, he grasped them by his fingertips. The Earl Gray wedged itself between the Chamomile and Lemon Zest and right as he turned to rush back out again, the packet shot out and hit Aziraphale, whose foot now thoughtfully wedged the door open, in the middle of his right shoulder. 

“Opp…shit…sorry!”

Aziraphale’s hands upturned at the last second however and he managed to catch the packet. Leaning more deeply against the door, his foot, knee and elbow crossing the threshold of Crowley’s hotel room, he cocked his head to read the label. 

Following a moment’s consideration he handed it back to Crowley with a warm smile and said, “This will do nicely, thank you.”

Aziraphale continued edging his way into the room, and Crowley immediately turned to the coffeemaker with the packet of tea, grateful for a task that would put his short circuiting brain to use. And for a reason to hide the ridiculous smile that seemed intent on taking up permanent residence on his face as long as Aziraphale was here.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale breezed through the automatic doors of Nightingale Place. It was rather cheery with its cream coloured walls and large windows that let in plenty of light and offered views of the small gardens that surrounded it. Not to mention, the familiar floral patterned furniture that reminded most residents of times gone by. 

The place also didn’t smell overly antiseptic or heavily perfumed. Which was really what made it one of the nicest independent living facilities that could be bought with the combined pensions of a deceased foreman and a former music teacher. It also helped that the former music teacher did in-home lessons on the side in her younger years, collecting only bank notes, so that she never had to pay taxes on those funds she kept in several biscuit tins under the bed. Not that Aziraphale would ever mention that to anyone. And every time he thought about it, it caused him to worry that she might eventually be caught. 

But Gran assured him that the tax authorities had more powerful people to worry about than a seventy-eight year old woman who likely only had about five thousand pounds in unclaimed income. 

Upon approaching the front desk, Aziraphale greeted the receptionist, Deidre, with all the enthusiasm of a friend one didn’t see very often but always had things to talk about with.

He set down a small bundle of freshly cut tulips on the edge of the desk before signing into the visitor log with a graceful flourish. 

“How is Adam, Deidre?” He asked chipperly. 

“Bit of a hellion,” she chortled. “But I think most eleven year olds are, so I’m not too concerned.” She picked up her mobile, swiping through her photos swiftly to show him her son’s latest antics.

“Him and his friends made this.”

When she turned the device around, Aziraphale caught sight of Adam beaming in what appeared to be a roughly built treehouse, a friend grinning on either side of him. 

“They built the treehouse themselves?” He marvelled, trying to sound more impressed and not anxious about the possibility of it collapsing with them in it.

“Well Arthur helped,” Deidre added with a shrug. “But Adam, Pepper, and Brian drafted up the designs.”

“How ingenious!”

“Those smell divine, Azi.” She inclined her head towards the flowers he now picked up. “She’s gonna love ‘em.”  

As their conversation dwindled, Deidre informed him, “I think she’s in the common area by her room, dear. She opted out of today’s activity.”

“Oh?” This was curious as Gran was a fairly active participant when it came to the community outings. 

“They were headed to the pool. And I know her and some of the ladies got their hair done on Wednesday.”

“Well that explains everything,” Aziraphale mused. “Good seeing you, Deidre.”

“You too, Azi! Enjoy your visit!”

Aziraphale followed the corridor that unfolded to the right. He passed one of the libraries where the outside curtains were drawn and the floor lamps were put to use. 

A game of chess unfolded between two gentlemen. One woman sunk into a wingback armchair Persuasion propped open on her lap. And Aziraphale thought he recognised one of his Gran’s friends, Pat, hunched over the signout log, checking out a book.

He carried on to the next sitting room, where some light poured in through the windows though no one was seated in here, save for the birds who chirped out or fluttered about in their tall, glass enclosure.

There were rows of private rooms just beyond the sitting room, followed by a long stretch of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the private garden. 

This particular corridor was called Sunny Lane. Though they only got about one-hundred-and-twenty-five days of sunshine each year. Muriel, one of the aids he regularly conversed with about his Gran, told him that.

Aziraphale briefly scanned the garden and saw a few people seated outside, blankets on their laps or loosely knit shawls draped over their shoulders. It was a bit chilly, but the sun was out, and that was good enough for some people, he supposed.

He strolled past more rooms, some doors open, others closed. He heard a dog yapping incessantly whenever he passed Mr Morrison’s room on the end of Sunny Lane. 

Canine was his name and he was rather sweet, though full of immense energy, so unless one of the community aids were working, he couldn’t be trusted to roam about the place off leash.

As Aziraphale passed beneath an archway marked Eastgate, he heard the snappy tones of his grandmother’s voice followed by a chorus of raucous laughter. Which meant that Eleanor and Dorothia were likely with her.

He slowly edged around the corner to where another sitting room sprawled out, his fingers tightening around the paper that held the yellow tulips.

His grandmother was seated on the front end of the settee, one leg crossed over the other, her back facing him. On the opposite end was Eleanor, her hands folded atop her cane that stretched out between her legs. And in the salmon coloured armchair across from them was Dorothia, her hands flat against the rests.

It was Eleanor who saw him first, and she crooned knowingly, “Ooh Val, your admirer is here!”

“What?!” His grandmother whirled around in her seat, her pale blue eyes lighting up with excitement. “Oh Azi!” She leapt up from her place to greet him.

Aziraphale inclined his head towards the other women in the room while he stooped to give his grandmother a long awaited embrace.

“And there are the tulips!” Preened Dorothia whenever the paper crinkled in his grasp. 

He gingerly rubbed his grandmother’s back, relishing in the tight, bony squeeze her arms provided. The gesture was more than perfunctory for him. It was a comfort. Everything from the itchy jumpers she insisted upon wearing to the strong jasmine scent of her perfume, was a reminder that no matter how long he’d been away, she’d always be here to welcome him. 

America might be his home now. But Gran was the place he grew up. She was the one who helped shape his very existence and made him into the person he was today.

He was proud to belong to her. And he hoped she was still proud to belong to him. 

Once they dispensed with the usual kisses upon each cheek, she took him by the hand and called out to the girls, “We’ll be off for a bit now!”

“See you ladies at dinner.” Aziraphale promised, waving his hand that still clasped the flowers.

Gran’s hand tucked into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm and they strolled at a leisurely pace to her room, just two doors down from the common area he found her in. 

She ushered him inside to the kitchenette and asked, “Flight alright?”

Aziraphale paused momentarily to take in the small area his Gran used for entertaining. Then, catching her scrutinising eyes, he replied, “Hmm? Oh, yes. It was fine.”

Her right eye narrowed a bit as she continued studying him. It was the better of the two, but she was still fortunate enough to only need readers. 

“Flowers in their usual place?” He offered, striding over to the window sill only to be surprised to find her glass vase full of a different wildflower variety.

This was certainly a new development.

“Fraid, you'll need to use this one,” she answered plainly.

Aziraphale tore his attention away from the vibrant coloured plants and saw her shuffling back from her adjoining bedroom, the ceramic water pitcher she kept as decoration in there, cradled between her palms.    

“Oh, alright.” While he moved into the kitchen to fill it with water, Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask, “Who uh…who got you those?”

He twisted over his shoulder and saw her fingers brushing over long, silken petals that were purplish in colour.

“Oh just an old friend,” she answered quickly. Her hand fell away and she joined him by the sink to start tearing the paper from around the tulips.

“Hmm...” Aziraphale made a sound of interest, though she purposefully ignored it and began arranging the flowers in the pitcher.

“So…how’s Gabriel?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” he mumbled. She leaned forward until he caught her questioning look and then he explained, “We split up.”

“When was this?”

“Hmm…bout a month ago?”

“You never said anything!” She lightly smacked his forearm with the back of her hand. “Here I’ve been asking after him the last two times we chatted on video and you kept letting me!”

He managed a weak smile. “It didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up.”

Aziraphale suddenly grew very concerned that the flower heads weren’t pressed too close together in the vase. 

“Oh. Are you alright, love?” She touched his forearm and he tried to keep on his smile.

“I’m fine, Gran.”

“You sure?”

He knew she would never let it rest until he gave her more than a few words on the matter. And he supposed after talking about Gabriel for the last several years to her, after a handful of video chats and an in person meeting, she deserved a bit more detail than he was presently giving her. While the more intimate details of his relationship with Gabriel weren’t necessarily her business, she had built some kind of relationship with him as well. He could at least respect that.  

So Aziraphale looked her in the eye and admitted, “I mean, I am disappointed that it didn’t last. Nearly five years and…well…I thought we were headed in the same direction but…apparently not.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” She touched his cheek in a fleeting gesture before she opened up her arms. “Come here. Give me another squeeze.”

He rolled his eyes and protested, “Gran, I really am…”

But she was already tugging him closer and briefly squeezing his middle. Upon stepping back, she adjusted the angle of his bowtie and patted the front of his shoulder.  

“Now…set those by the window,” she pointed to the tulips while insisting, “and I’ll make us some tea. I even got a special treat for us.”

“Ooh hobnobs?!” He guessed, feeling like a child being bribed by sweets all over again. 

He couldn’t help that Gran always offered the best treats whenever he came to visit. 

“No! Those are an everyday thing!” She called back from reaching inside the refrigerator. 

Once he deposited the flowers, he briefly checked for a note of some kind by the other flowers, but found nothing. 

Turning back to face her, Aziraphale suddenly felt like he hadn’t eaten in days whenever he saw the plastic container full of an oversized slice of fluffy, angel cake.

“Oh Gran,” he remarked approvingly before taking it off her hands.

She winked at him. “I thought we could overindulge.”

“We’ll spoil our dinner though,” Aziraphale chastised wryly. Though he was already setting the container atop the small table for two.

She snorted, “Oh yes, boiled chicken and rice, very difficult to outdo.”

“You know you have to be on a low sodium diet for your health.”

He reached for two tea cups out of the nearby cupboards while she started filling her electric kettle in the sink.

“So let me enjoy a slice of cake and some tea with my boy.” 

“Very well. And you can tell me all about everything you’ve gotten up to while I was away.”

“Oh I’ve not done much, really.”

Aziraphale moved about the space to the teacups at the table. Inclining his head, he remarked knowingly, “Those flowers suggest otherwise.”

“Are you jealous?” She quipped with a slight smirk.

“Course not. Merely curious.”

“Well if you must know they’re from Stan.” She pressed the kettle’s on button and watched it thrum to live. “He’s a friend of your Grandad’s from the old days.”

Stan? An old friend of Grandad’s? He couldn’t place a face to either of these phrases. 

Which made him probe, “Really? I don’t recall Grandad knowing anyone named Stan.”

“You’d likely remember him as Mr Metatron.”

“Mr Metatron?! My old Classics teacher?!”

Aziraphale had to sit down at that. The man had been exceedingly strict. Not that Aziraphale was a rule breaker, but even so, he recalled him being the finicky sort of instructor who always challenged the most minute details on assignments and examinations. And he always felt far older to Aziraphale than his grandparents. So to suddenly see him now as potentially in the same age bracket as Gran was a little disarming. 

“He’s just moved in,” Gran informed him while she brought the kettle along with two forks for their cake. “And I thought he could use a friend. And he thought, whenever he saw your dried up tulips from last month, that I could use some fresh flowers.”

She poured the tea for them and slid into the seat across from him.

“I see.” Aziraphale commented while spooning some sugar into his cup. “And will Mr Metatron be joining us for dinner?”

She shrugged. Though he noticed her mouth twitch as she said, “Maybe. Or maybe he’s settled in with some of the fellas. I don’t know. As I said. He’s just a friend.”

Aziraphale watched her sip her tea and he noted that she hadn’t met his eye once during this exchange. Instead, she kept her gaze faraway, likely fixed on the flowers situated behind him.

I’ll be damned if he’s just a friend, Aziraphale thought smugly. 

But if he was anything, he was respectful of his Gran, so he merely sipped his tea, tucked into the exceptionally fluffy cake, and braced himself for a visit that was to be unlike any other. 

By the time dinner concluded, it was near seven o’clock. Aziraphale knew he was about a forty-five minute bus ride to Greek Street. So he made his excuses to his Gran about having a few drinks with some other members of the flight staff. 

She seemed delighted that he was doing something social and fun for once, so there weren’t too many follow up questions on their way to Nightingale’s front entrance. 

“Safe travels, love,” she mumbled into the front of his shoulder. 

“Will do, dear,” he answered as he always did in the middle of their hug, delivering swift kisses to her cheeks. 

And then she headed off to her Saturday night bingo tournament while he was on his way to The Lazari Lounge.

The ride to London was largely uneventful, leaving him plenty of time to ruminate on the conversations they all shared over dinner. It seemed that Stan had known Grandad and Gran from the pub they frequented on Friday evenings. They’d become good friends around the time Aziraphale was a teenager, which explained why he never recalled the friendship. 

During that time, Aziraphale had been too preoccupied with his books. Too busy trying to beat his Grandad’s best time doing the weekly crossword. Too determined to learn as many languages as possible and pick a respectable career that would continue to earn their approval. Too busy trying to keep busy and achieve great things so that he could ignore the lingering doubts regarding his sexuality and what speaking that truth might actually mean. 

In the end, all of his worrying had led to nothing bad as he allowed himself to believe. 

Just as the meal with Mr Metatron hadn’t been too awkward. Aziraphale supposed it was mostly because Dorothia, Eleanor, Pat, and Nicky were there as well. Though Mr Metatron, or Stan as he insisted Aziraphale think of him as now, seemed to want to get to know Aziraphale on a deeper, more personal level than ever before. Which again, supported Aziraphale’s belief that he was not just an old friend, as Gran claimed. 

But just as she had honoured his own coming out on his own terms, he would honour her waiting to step out and define whatever this was that sprouted between her and his former teacher. There might even be a chance they figured it all out before he came back next.  

The bus suddenly came to a halt and Aziraphale hopped off. The street from the bus stop to the restaurant felt more crowded than usual, which led him to worry that perhaps they might not find a suitable seat.

Once he politely shouldered his way inside the front door and past the hostess vestibule that indicated tonight was self-seating, it was as if the sea of brown and blonde heads parted and sitting in the back at the very centre was the brightest shade of red. 

Crowley was seated at one of the separate tables, his knee poking out from beneath the table top as one leg crossed over the other, his back leaning into his wooden chair. Those dark, round glasses concealed his eyes, and his thin mouth remained in a straight line, making it impossible for Aziraphale to know if he had even noticed him. 

As if to answer this question, Crowley suddenly raised a hand, snapped his fingers before waving him onward with a dramatic air of regality that made Aziraphale snort. 

In the winding walk to the back table, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the tight black turtleneck that clung to his neck, layered beneath a thin leather jacket that showed off his pointy shoulders. Then there was a shimmery strip of silver strip fabric that hung loosely around his neck like a small scarf. 

A mad vision suddenly seized hold of Aziraphale, in which he tugged on the end of the scarf to pull him closer. 

Stop it, he insisted tersely. Focus on something else.

So he moved on to Crowley’s perfectly gelled up quiff, allowing him to appreciate the shorter shorn sides of his hair. 

Had it looked like that before? Or did he get it freshly cut today? 

He couldn’t be certain, but it had that superb look about it that came from being touched by professional hands. Or maybe Crowley was just that fastidious when it came to doing his hair. 

Aziraphale decided he quite liked how the style accentuated the delightful shape of his ears. 

He swallowed hard, recalling a moment in recent history where he nibbled on one of those ears while whispering absolutely filthy things to him. His face flushed at the memory and he was grateful for Crowley slamming his palm on the table to pull Aziraphale away from the past and into the present.

“You came!”

Crowley’s tone of surprise startled him, “Of course I did. I said eight, didn’t I?” He checked his wristwatch, just to be sure he wasn’t late. 

The dark blue face with gold roman numerals stated he was right on time.  

“Ha, yeah, no, never mind,” Crowley rasped amusedly.

With a sympathetic smile, Aziraphale slid onto the chair across from him, folding his hands on the table top. “Were you worried I would…what’s the phrase…” he paused to squint, “is it… stand you up? I know it’s stood you up in past tense but…is there a present tense of the phrase?” He tilted his head from side to side, weighing the argument. 

He heard a rumble of laughter come from across the table. “I don’t know.”

“Oh well, no matter.” 

Aziraphale watched Crowley gently stroke a stout glass that was a few fingers full of amber liquid. He suspected it to be whiskey, recalling his preference the last time they met for food and drinks. 

“Been here long?” He asked.

“Nahh. Bout five. Ten. Fifteen? Minutes.” 

His unawareness of the time stirred a chuckle from Aziraphale.

With a lift of one shoulder and a tilt of his head, Crowley explained, “Didn’t have much to do today. Haircut. Market run. Cleaning. Typical boring Saturday.”

“Oh, so it is. I’m always getting my days mixed up. Dates are solidly stored in here though.” He tapped his temple and flashed a confident grin. 

Crowley’s mouth curled at this and he shifted in his seat until his legs uncrossed and his elbows leaned on the table.

He looked as though he were about to say something whenever a young server came by, asking after Aziraphale’s drink order.

“Gin and tonic with a slice of lime and lemon…oh, and orange! If you have it.”

Once they departed, Crowley mused, “Going for the holy trinity of citrus fruits, are you?”

Aziraphale described knowingly, “It’s just the perfect amount of sweet, sour, and bitter.”

“So you don’t exclusively drink wine?”

“No. Wine helps me relax. Gin is…well it still does the same without me forgetting myself.”

And knowing he had an early start in the morning, he certainly did not want to forget himself tonight. Though Crowley seemed to be doing a pretty good job at making him forget the point of this evening. 

Especially whenever his fingers drummed against the table and he tossed his head from left to right before fixing his attention in Aziraphale’s direction. “Come here often?” 

“When I’m here, I try to. They have excellent sushi.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and made a mildly repulsive sound.

“Not a fan, are you?”

He shared with a certain reluctance, “Migraine trigger.” After a pause he said, “Cooked meat or vegetarian is alright but…what’s the point of getting it then?”

“California rolls are delightful.” Aziraphale argued lightly. “And chicken or shrimp tempura is even a safe bet. I mean I’m no expert, but they are cooked and delicious.”

“I’ll stick to my fish and chips.” Crowley grunted, settling back in his chair until his legs stretched out in front of him.

Aziraphale felt a sudden jolt whenever their toes touched beneath the table. And his feet instinctively slid back to cross politely beneath his chair. 

“That is also very good here.”

The server returned with Aziraphale’s drink, they placed their dinner orders, and then were faced with nothing more but one another for several seconds.

Aziraphale merely smiled at him, trying to see beyond his own reflection in Crowley’s glasses to reach the other man’s eyes. But he couldn’t. Which led him to enquire softly, “Are your eyes giving you trouble today, my dear?”

Crowley fidgeted in his seat and explained in a low grumble, “Lighting is a bit harsh in here.”

“Oh I’m sorry.” He worried his bottom lip. “I should’ve thought of that before suggesting this place.”

“Oh no…s’alright.” Crowley assured with a lift of one shoulder. “It just reminded me why I rarely came in here the moment I stepped inside.” With a twirl of his forefinger in midair he explained, “Bare bulb lighting is often bad for me.”

After glancing up at the light fixtures, Aziraphale suggested, “We can go if you…”

“Nahh. No, nope.” He shook his head solemnly. “You deserve your sushi.”

There was no sarcasm in his tone, which made Aziraphale’s face crease with concern and his own voice pitch higher, “Not at the expense of your comfort.”

“Glasses work just fine, angel. Fuck, sorry,” he grimaced. “You told me not to call you that.”

He supposed he had. But the circumstances earlier had made it feel inappropriate. Now he wasn’t entirely sure it mattered so much. It was only the two of them now. In a sea of strangers they’d likely never see again or who’d forget about them the moment they left The Lounge, if they hadn’t already been forgotten.

“Oh. Well. Here, I don’t mind. Here, it’s alright.”

Crowley’s face abruptly tilted up at this. For some reason Aziraphale’s lungs felt painfully full when he stared back at the intense look that Crowley fixed him with. 

With a slight nod, Crowley intoned quietly, “Ok. Yeah. Good to know.”

Aziraphale broke the rhythm of their conversation to take a sip of his gin. When he set his glass on the table he asked, “So…how is your project going?”

He recalled Crowley was an architect from their previous meeting. And his latest project that was inspired by Montreal’s RÉSO and The Houston Underground Walking Tunnel was likely the reason they found their paths crossing yet again.  

“Fine as far as I can tell,” Crowley reported. “Had to meet with a second group of investors. Only a couple from the first round took the bait so…we’ll see if we can get more funding. Then gotta get city planners approval and all that. But we need money backing to show we’re serious before we can execute it.” 

He paused here for a beat, fingers stroking the sides of his glass once more. How had Aziraphale not noticed just how long they were before?

Because he used his mouth on you. Not his hands. Some devious voice hissed in the back of his mind. It was so loud in his own ears that he nearly missed what Crowley said next.

“Didn’t get to make it back to The Duck, sadly. That pizza was really good.”

“Oh yes. Yes. It was.” Aziraphale bobbed his head, smiling broadly to wipe away any potential evidence that he’d been thinking anything less than pure.

Then Crowley’s teeth raked over his lip as the corners of his mouth upturned. 

Oh god. He noticed, hadn’t he? Either that or he was clairvoyant. Aziraphale wasn’t sure which possibility was worse. All he knew was that his face was heating up like one’s hand might if you held it close to one of the overhead bulbs for far too long.  

“And here we are again.” Crowley’s voice rumbled in the back of his throat, not even breaking focus when he took another sip of whiskey.

Aziraphale ran a hand over his jaw, trying to dispel any evidence that his thoughts might have made him blush. 

He replied, “Yes. Here we are.” 

The same hand that had just tried to save his face from further embarrassment, grasped the cool glass and downed a sizable amount of gin. He relished in the sharp tang of it on his tongue, suddenly wishing for more sweetness of the orange because there were those demonic thoughts again. 

‘But you create things for a living, Crowley.’ His mouth rounded before softly sucking the end of him, the bitter tang of his arousal touching Aziraphale’s tongue.  

Thank heavens for Crowley’s marvelling just now. And for the orange wedge Aziraphale could squeeze into the gin, banishing any other potential memories that its bitterness might invoke.  

“You know when I saw you today, I thought…I thought I was having a hallucination that was going to lead to a banging headache.”

“I know,” Aziraphale allowed himself a soft laugh. “I’ve been in this industry for twenty years. And I think in all that time…maybe five times I worked with someone more than once on a flight. That doesn’t happen often at all. So seeing the same passenger more than once…well it was truly miraculous that we were on the same flight.”

“I’m not complaining.” 

His expression settled on a small smirk here that turned Azirpaphle’s breathing shallow.

“Neither am I,” he returned, the words sticking in the back of his throat.

He couldn’t look away from Crowley’s cheeky grin. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his own mouth. Nor could he help the heat from lighting up his face.  

“So…” Crowley broke through the tense silence, a casual curiosity ringing through his words, “...how was your thing today?” 

“Interesting. Not at all what I thought it would be.”

“Oh?”

He really needed to stop arching those magnificently shaped brows above the top rim of his glasses. 

Shaking himself out of this thought, Aziraphale explained with a wave of his hands, “Apparently my grandmother has a friend. Who I’m not fully convinced is just a friend.”

“Ah.”

“He’s perfectly nice, mind you.” Aziraphale insisted. “But he was also one of my teachers growing up so it’s a bit weird but…anyway… the visit was certainly… different than it usually is.”

“You visit her often?”

“When I can get a line here. Which I try to do once a month.”

“Must be hard,” Crowley commented.

Aziraphale cocked his head to one side.

Crowley added, “Being so far away from her all the time, I mean.”

“Well it’s…” Aziraphale started to tell him it was fine, but that wasn’t particularly true anymore. 

It had been fine when Gabriel was in his life. But now, he wasn’t so sure. 

So he changed his original answer, forcing his tone to a higher, lighter octave. “It’s not all bad. I give her my schedule each month. We plan video chats. The facility she lives at sends me regular emails as well. And she has a group of friends and gets involved in a whole host of activities so I don’t worry about her being lonely.”

“What about you though?” Crowley wondered.

Aziraphale chirped, “What about me?”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

The question struck him like an errant bolt of lightning. Shocking him with how Crowley’s voice thundered around the word you. As though he were quietly demanding to know Aziraphale’s true feelings.

It nearly disarmed him and might have taken them down a conversational path Aziraphale was not yet prepared to travel. Because there was a great deal of turbulence surrounding the topic. A topic he really hadn’t stopped to consider until now.

But he persisted, as he always did whenever he felt unnerved by something. “Well…no, not, not really. I have Harry, after all. And friends who are stateside whom I visit regularly.” Though he hadn’t seen Maggie in about six months and Newt far longer than that. “So I do alright.”

His cheeks hurt from smiling so much through his answer. But he couldn’t stop. 

After taking it all in, Crowley tossed him another question, his voice softening a note, “Speaking of Harry, how is the little fluff ball?”

The false edge to Aziraphale’s expression peeled away and the warmth that rooted in his heart at Crowley asking after his rabbit, branched out into his bloodstream. His face was most certainly rosy now. 

“He’s likely enjoying a long weekend with my neighbours. Probably getting far too many blue cornflowers.”

“You give him cornflowers?”

“Oh yes. Rabbits are foragers. And blue cornflowers are high in fibre. He adores them. And Jeremy, that’s the boy across the hall who watches him while I’m away, loves overindulging him with them. But…I’m sure he’ll be fine. His parents will text if there’s an issue.”

Their food arrived and they tucked into it easily. After several moments of silently enjoying the meal, Crowley probed, “Will you be back next month?”

Aziraphale noted a cautious edge to his words. He pursed his lips and squinted thoughtfully, “Uhm…I’m afraid not.”

“Hmm. Pity.”

“Is it?” 

“I was…hoping…I might…see you again.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale lowered his gaze and dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

“You know. Coincidentally. In the air.” He tried laughing it off nonchalantly. His face doing that thing where it scrunched and unravelled in an expression that attempted amusement. “That'd be funny, wouldn’t it?! Third time!” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale forced a chuckle.

Though probably unlikely, he thought with a sinking sensation.

The rest of the meal was conducted in silence, save for the occasional moan of approval Aziraphale made while the wasabi nicely complimented the sticky rice and all the savoury insides of his California rolls.  

While Aziraphale took care of the check this time, Crowley asked another question that stunned him.

“Where’d you wanna go next?” 

Aziraphale hesitantly glanced up from signing the slip of paper.

“I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, angel. Anywhere at all.”

His breath caught in his throat. Because he understood that Crowley meant it. He suggested hopefully, “Well…there is the record shop next door?” 

Crowley made a sound of agreement before the both departed The Lazari Lounge. They strolled side by side to the building next door, which was still well lit even for this time of night. In the window there were displays of various record players that had existed throughout the ages.

As Aziraphale stepped up onto the concrete stoop he couldn’t help but pause whenever something occurred to him. He turned to face Crowley at the same time that the other man met him on the top step. 

“Do you think the lighting in here will be alright? I mean…for your eyes?”

“I’ll be fine,” he promised.

Nodding, Aziraphale reached for the shop door and made a sweeping gesture with his other hand for Crowley to enter first. When he didn’t move, Aziraphale turned his face up to notice that the other man had caught the edge of the door just above his head and was gesturing for him to do the same.

“Angels first,” he teased with a pouty half smile that made Aziraphale’s stomach turn to liquid.

He muttered his thanks, hands fretting in front of him as he tried to focus on the hundreds of records stacked together in fifty-some plastic crates. By the time they walked down the first aisle, Aziraphale realised he hadn’t properly read a single label.  

“What are you looking for exactly?” Crowley wondered. 

“Oh just uhm…just looking, really.” 

“Well maybe I can help. What sort of music do you like?”

“Ermm…classical. Show Tunes. Swing.”

He snorted, “I should’ve known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It just…suits you, angel. Fits your image.”

With a slight toss of his eyes and a wry smirk, Aziraphale teased, “And what about you? I’m sure you’re all punk rock and heavy metal.”

Crowley snickered in response, “There’s an appreciation for punk, yeah. More into classic rock all around than heavy metal. And I do like soul.”

He hooked one thumb into the belt loop of his dark denims before he began to casually flick through a crate of records. 

“Soul, you say?” Aziraphale fluttered to the next aisle over where he knew a stack of classic hits from that genre resided. After several moments of searching through one crate in particular, he exclaimed, “Ahh…here we are!” He pulled out a particular single and Crowley groaned, his nose wrinkling. 

“Oh no, not that kind of soul, angel.”

“What? But The Foundations are the very heart of classic soul!”

“If you really think I’m going to listen to that buttercup nonsense, I’m afraid I’ll just have to disappoint you.”

Slightly put out, but still determined to find something that suited Crowley’s definition of acceptable soul music, Aziraphale replaced the record in the crate. 

“Wait…wait for it…what about…this?!” 

Crowley squinted at the James Brown record and tilted his head from side to side, “Better but…still a bit too upbeat for my liking.”

“Got it,” Aziraphale noted with a raised finger. “I know…just wait…I know exactly… what you need.”

“Oh angel, really…if there’s something else you’d rather search for…”

They met in the middle of the aisle and Aziraphale shoved this particular record into the centre of his chest.

Crowley flipped it over and read the bright yellow cover. Before he could comment on it, Aziraphale indicated, placing one hand on his shoulder and pointing to the back of the store, “There’s a listening booth right there. You really ought to give Sam a listen. He’s marvellous.” 

For the first time that evening, Crowley dipped his head enough so that the gleam of his green-gold eyes peeked over the top rim of his glasses. Aziraphale saw a teasing glint sparkle there as he spoke, “I don’t know if I can trust you if your first recommendation was Build Me Up Buttercup.”

Aziraphale let out a dramatic sigh at this. 

Crowley levelled his head to reveal a smug smile that made Aziraphale’s expression contort to one of understanding. 

Then without another word, Crowley sauntered off to the listening booths, his gait long and his hips rocking with the kind of force that could create waves that would sink most ships.

And once those glorious hips dispensed with the ships, all that would remain floating in the sea was Aziraphale, ready to be snatched up by all manner of crow. 

He could feel it happening already. The feelings building beneath this current of urgent need. And he really ought to do something to stop said feelings from rising to the surface. Else he'd find himself drowning in another relationship he couldn't sustain. Only this time, he was certain his heart would never survive it.

That first night, about 7:38pm

Robert Shadwell had been the bartender at The Dizzy Duck for far longer than Aziraphale had been living in New York. He was a fixture in the local community’s mind. A faulty one, that sometimes sparked and shocked you if you didn’t know how to manage it, but a fixture all the same.

From what Aziraphale gathered in the five years he’d been coming to this particular bar, his heart was in the right place. Even his politics and his pocketbook. But his mouth sometimes went off the rails entirely and he had to be reminded that it was no longer 1969. 

To err was to be human and Robert Shadwell was probably the most human type of person that Aziraphale knew. 

Which is why he didn’t even bat an eyelash whenever he eyed him from across the bar after his new drinking companion waved him over, and remarked gruffly, “Chenin Blanc, Petunia?” 

He inclined his head and answered, “That would be lovely, Robert.”

Once he departed with a flip of his rag over his shoulder, Aziraphale’s new companion cocked his head to one side questioningly. 

“Admirer of yours?”

“Not quite.” After a beat of quiet, Aziraphale tilted his head towards the man, who had introduced himself as Anthony Jay Crowley mere seconds ago, and confessed, “But we have an understanding you see.” His eyes twinkled at the memory of how Robert Shadwell and him had grown to enjoy one another’s company. “I used to be ‘The Southern Pansy’. Before he settled on Petunia.”

“Wha-what?” Uncomfortable amusement rippled through the word as Crowley choked on his whiskey.

“I know it sounds awful. I don’t think he quite meant it in that way. But Gabe–” he cut himself off abruptly. 

There really was no need to bring up Gabriel now. Just as there was no need to think of how heroic he’d been in that moment, Robert learned just how Gabriel felt about him calling Aziraphale ‘The Southern Pansy.’

Trying to reclaim his winning smile, Aziraphale clarified, “Anyway, once we set the record straight that he really shouldn’t go around calling folks that, he apologised. And stopped altogether.”

“And…now he calls you…Petunia? And that’s better?”

“He has a thing for crossword puzzles.”

Two brows disappeared behind the dark glasses, prompting Aziraphale to tell him the rest of the story.

“I was doing a crossword here one night, you see. And I was stumped on a particular clue. Floral name for tobacco. That’s what it was. And I had three vowels populated but…it just wasn’t coming together in my mind. Anyway, he must’ve glimpsed what the clue was one of the dozen times he came to check on me. Because suddenly, he came by with my meal and just said: ‘Petunia.’ Then I said: ‘Yes?’ I don’t know why I did…maybe I was sloshed or sleep deprived or both, but I did. Anyway, he snorted and told me that it was the answer to the clue I’d been searching for, for the last half hour. Floral name for tobacco. Petunia. And so he’s been calling me that ever since.”   

“And you don’t mind?”

“No, I don’t mind. It marks the moment we became friends.”

Robert returned with the glass of white wine and Aziraphale slid over a platinum card for him to run.

“You just get back?” He asked with a scrutinising air.

With a reluctant tilt of his chin, Aziraphale answered, “Yes.”

“First one’s always on the house.” He grunted, sliding his card back across the bar. “Come on, laddie, you know that.”

Aziraphale exhaled a lofty sigh. He shook his head while he pocketed his card.

“Sure he doesn’t fancy you?” His new drinking mate teased.

Aziraphale’s lips twisted off to one side and he studied the other man for a moment. He was rather fixated on whether or not there was something between Robert and himself. It made him wonder if this was perhaps more than a friendly commiseration over a glass of spirits.

His fingers brushed along the stem of his wine glass as he probed curiously, “So…you live in London or here?”

“London. Soho. To be more precise. You?”

“Here. In The Village.”

“Really?” He shifted atop his barstool, crossing one of his legs over the other. “Now that’s got to be an interesting story.”

Aziraphale laughed a bit anxiously, “Ehm…I…I don’t know that it is, really.” 

“Well I’m curious.”

Swallowing his wine, Aziraphale could see he appeared to truly mean it. Just as he’d meant everything else he said thus far. So he told him about Divinity’s recruiting strategy. He told him about the monetary benefit. The fast track to Purser that he found appealing. And a chance to try something altogether new.

He told him everything except for the part that Gabriel had also factored into his decision. Because he was starting to have a nice time with this other man. And because it had been so long since he felt this way, Aziraphale wanted to protect it from the reality of his life for as long as possible.

Chapter Text

A loud crash made Crowley scramble upright in his bed. His heart thrummed like the bass drum in Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now,” song. Adrenaline shot out from his heart and brain, making his limbs feel so overstimulated they might as well have turned to wall putty. 

His arm blindly reached to the other side of his bed, his stomach dropping violently whenever he was met with nothing but the flat puff of his duvet. Then as his fingers frantically crab walked upward, he discovered a similarly bare pillow. 

As his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness that enveloped the room, Crowley finally saw what his hand knew all along.

Aziraphale had left. Again.

Crowley swallowed thickly as that thought took root. But he didn’t have time to appropriately mourn the loss of a man who slept with him and departed abruptly because there was the crash in the corridor outside of his bedroom he had to address.

His ears strained to hear more destructive noises or the creak of footsteps against the floorboards as some careless person set out to complete the harm they intended. 

But in the tense silence all he heard was a low whimpering and a slight clinking of ceramic pieces clumsily touching. 

“Hello?!” Crowley called out harshly, hoping the tremor only existed in his arms and legs and not his voice. “Listen if you’re gonna steal something you should know…”

“Oh Crowley! It’s only me!”

“Aziraphaaale!” He nearly tumbled out of bed, his legs tangling in the bedsheets.

He was still there. Aziraphale was still here. In his flat.

“Where are you?!” He cried out nonsensically, stumbling in the near darkness towards the door. 

“I’m just here.” Aziraphale called from the other side of the door, his tone strained. 

Distress. His angel of a man was in distress. His angel? Did he just…? 

Shaking off that particular notion, Crowley flung his body into the door and pulled it back swiftly. Then he stepped in something offensively moist and grainy.

He recoiled just as Aziraphale cried out from his stooped position, “Look out!” 

“Argh…” he grimaced, leaning against the door frame while he lifted his foot and wiggled his toes to dispel the wet soil he just full out trod on.

What the actual fuck was happening?

“Sorry. I’m ever so sorry,” Aziraphale apologised woefully. 

Crowley bent his leg so that he might dust off his foot with a harsh sweep of his hand. He looked up and discovered Aziraphale attempting to neatly arrange the pieces of the pot that housed both of his spider plants he dubbed The Spider Siblings. Their mess of green limbs tangled together in an unruly mass at the centre of the dirt that marred his hardwood floor. 

He then confessed with a pinched brow, “I think I might have killed your plants.”

Crowley snorted at this, relief replacing the adrenaline that previously streamed through him. And then the snorting gained ferocity and he was grinning like a maniac. Grinning and chuckling at the ludicrousy of the scene before him.

“Oh…oh angel…you didn’t…you…” he laughed now just before he leapt over the pile of dirt that now lay in the crossroads of where the entrance to his bedroom met his dining room and kitchen. 

Bending low to meet Aziraphale, Crowley saw the other man attempting to smile, but he still appeared concerned by the two plants whose roots now lay unburied on the floor.

“I thought someone was actually trying to rob me,” Crowley choked out through his laughter.

Aziraphale returned his own sound of restrained amusement, his attention swiftly returning to the plants. 

“S’alright, angel. They’ll be fine.” 

Crowley picked up The Spider Siblings and strode purposefully to the kitchen sink just a few feet away. He got out two tall glasses, placed the rooty mass of the plants inside and then added some water that would sate them until he could properly tidy up everything. 

He wiped his hands on one of the kitchen towels that hung on the oven door before informing Aziraphale, “These two are always getting into trouble.” 

Which was so true it was almost laughable. The amount of times Crowley nearly knocked one of them over with the swinging of his sleepy hips or arms as he passed by, surprised him that this hadn’t happened sooner. He really ought to consider a new location for these two. But then he would have to reshuffle everyone else’s position in the flat. It could be done, but it would require some thought as he considered all the needs of his plant children carefully before bringing them home.  

As Crowley was trying to rethink sleeping arrangements, Aziraphale babbled, “If I had just put my coat on instead of draping it over my arm this wouldn’t have happened.”

Reality flicked a switch inside of Crowley’s head and he was suddenly aware that Aziraphale now stood in his slightly wrinkled khakis and button down shirt. He’d even donned his bowtie, though it was a bit off centre. 

Crowley fought the urge to close the space between them and fix it. It wasn’t his place to do so. No matter how much he might want it to be his responsibility. 

And then there was the matter of Aziraphale’s light grey cardigan and how it hugged his shoulders, but remained open at the front. 

If it weren’t for the sad realisation that Aziraphale now clutched his beige overcoat in his fretting hands, Crowley might be tempted to snake his arms inside of it and pull Aziraphale close for a slow kiss. Just as he did last night when they were standing in his kitchen following a late night snack and nightcap that turned into far more than either expected.   

But now that Aziraphale stood and Crowley could see those ridiculous, electric blue tartan socks, he knew there wouldn’t be enough time for what he desired. Which was to kiss Aziraphale thoroughly and then fall to his knees until neither one of them could breathe. 

The way Aziraphale’s mournful gaze swept over the mess and then back up to Crowley’s, made his heart sink that they’d need to say goodbye. 

“What time is it?” His throat felt dry as sand asking the question. But his heart hoped for an answer that might mean they hadn’t run out of time.     

With a wilting smile, Aziraphale informed him, “Near eight, I’m afraid.”

“What?!” 

Panic seized hold of Crowley, who tapped on his watch, which of course, was dead, because he’d spent so much time last night focused on everything that had to do with Aziraphale and nothing that had to do with him being responsible. 

“Fuck!” Crowley crossed the room in three swift strides. “I thought you set an alarm!”

Aziraphale shrieked back, “I thought you did!”

“Fuck,” Crowley grumbled. He whirled around, his hands combing back through his tousled hair while he tried to think. 

Last night he envisioned them getting up early. Early enough to leave time for Crowley to make breakfast or, at the very least, tea and coffee. Maybe they’d even have a conversation about what this was. Or where they’d go from here.  

It seemed that they had spent so much time wrapped up in one another’s company and then in Crowley’s bed that they fell asleep before they could prepare for such a morning. 

And now Aziraphale had to leave so he could make the next train to Heathrow. Then he’d hop on a plane that would carry him halfway around the world. 

Well this just wouldn’t do. This would mean they would have absolutely no chance at a conversation. A conversation that, from Crowley’s observations of how reserved Aziraphale was post-coital, would require careful navigating. This was not a conversation they could rush through on the five minute walk from his building to the train station.         

So, for the first time in their acquaintanceship, Crowley disagreed. “No,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale blinked back at him. “What? Crowley, what do you mean no? I have to go now if I want to catch the next train.”

“You don’t. Just…gimme…three minutes!” He promised, long legs skipping over the dirt pile and back into his bedroom.

“What…what are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, carefully leaning over the threshold of the room.  

Crowley opened up his wardrobe, pulling out the drawer that housed his casual attire. Flicking open a folded black tee, he then declared, “I’ll drive you!”

“What?! No, no I couldn’t possibly allow you to.”

Crowley punched both arms through the sleeves and mumbled while he shoved his head through, “Shirt’s on. I’m driving you.”

He practically tripped over his black denims from last night that were haphazardly discarded near the foot of his bed. Which reminded him to remark, “Wallet.” He pulled it from his back pocket and shoved it inside the low hanging, black joggers he now wore. 

Once he passed Aziraphale, he spun around, backpedalling with a crooked grin. “Once I’m more dressed than you, angel, there won’t be any stopping me.”

Aziraphale slowly padded after him, asking, “What about socks?” 

Crowley made a hissing sound that led into a ripple of laughter. “Gahh…who needs socks? I got loafers that’ll work just fine.”

He pulled a black, faux leather pair from his shoe rack, forcing his feet into them with fierce determination. They did feel a bit roomy and odd without socks, but he wasn’t about to allow this to slow them down.

“With joggers?”

Swiping his keys from the pink, lilypad shaped dish on the table by the door, Crowley glanced over his shoulder and caught Aziraphale’s appraising look.

His chest hollowed out whenever their eyes met, and Aziraphale quickly focused his efforts on shrugging into his coat and slipping into his own brown wingtips that sat neatly by the rack.  

Crowley smirked, unable to stop from teasing, “You’re wearing tartan socks, what’s the difference?”

With a pointed expression and two hands that swept down his front, Aziraphale countered, “But they match my ensemble!”

“So do mine!” Crowley gestured to himself from top to bottom, kicking out a leg and slowly falling back into the door.

Closing the space between them, Aziraphale retorted, “Black on black is hardly a fashion statement, my dear.”

“Look, we can argue this in the car.” Crowley told him as he shouldered open the door, gesturing for Aziraphale to go ahead of him down the wide staircase.

With a smug expression, the angel of a man, seemingly pulled a black leather jacket out of thin air. “Forgetting something, my dear?”

Crowley grumbled something like thanks, tossing the coat over his shoulders while he locked up his flat.

And he swore he heard Aziraphale remark, “Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

Though whenever Crowley turned, Aziraphale was already halfway down the first flight of stairs.

“You really don’t have to do this, you know,” the other man intoned. “The train will be much faster.”

“Says who?!” Crowley hopped down the steps at twice the speed as Aziraphale’s sure, measured gait, passing him within a matter of seconds.

“Well…it’s basic maths, really,” Aziraphale explained. “The train takes about…thirty minutes…and…well…you…I mean…”

Crowley turned once he reached the bottom of the staircase, leaning an arm against the railing. He watched Aziraphale squint while he murmured to himself, his fingers ticking off numbers in his mind while he attempted to calculate how fast one might have to go in order to match the time of the London Underground. 

When he reached the last step, he hovered just above Crowley’s head. His focus sharpened onto him, and he burst out, “Crowley, you’d have to go ninety miles an hour through Central London!” His tone dripped with trepidation while he added, “And you can’t!” 

Scrunching up his nose and hitting the post, Crowley purred at the prospect of a challenge, “Oh you don’t know what my baby can do!”

Aziraphale dropped off the last step, his brow arching in disbelief. “I’m sorry did you just call your car your…”

“...so what if I did?” Crowley interjected, emulating a familiar fussiness he’d grown rather fond of. 

Aziraphale’s lips twitched and he breathed out amusedly. 

Knowing they couldn’t afford to drag the heavy silence out any longer, Crowley tipped his head and growled, “She’s a beauty.” Then he seized hold of Aziraphale’s elbow and dragged him towards the entrance of the building while exclaiming, “And I can’t wait for you to meet her!”

Once they were outside in the predawn morning, Crowley noticed Aziraphale peering back over his shoulder.

“Crowley, what about your plants?”

His lingering concern was touching. But they couldn’t allow for sentimentality to slow them down. So Crowley tugged his arm encouragingly before taunting, “Oh don’t worry, angel. I’ll give them a stern talking to later.”

Aziraphale let out a whimpering titter at this remark, and Crowley’s devious grin grew.

After about thirty seconds of being in the car with him, Aziraphale looked as though he stopped breathing altogether. Perhaps it was the manic jolt of the Bentley as Crowley madly shifted gears and took turns so precisely it felt as though they were balancing on the head of a pin. 

Though they came close to the curb or a stray pedestrian on a few occasions, Crowley knew he was in complete control, so there was nothing to fear. 

But judging from the way Aziraphale clutched the door handle and inhaled rather sharply, he distinctly disagreed.

Sensing this, and wanting to keep their parting from one another light, Crowley stirred up some casual conversation.  

“Will you have some days off when you return?”

Aziraphale gasped as Crowley swerved into the opposing lane, “Th-three.” 

“Good.” Crowley righted the car into the appropriate lane, allowing them to pass a slow moving vehicle. “You deserve a rest.”

Satisfied that there was no one now in front of them, the tension in the car eased. Perhaps it would be easy driving for a bit. 

Crowley was about to raise another question, when Aziraphale took the lead.

“What will you do today? Besides resurrecting your plants?”

A snort rose up within him. He really needed to relax about The Spider Siblings. They would be perfectly fine.

But the question remained, would he be fine once Aziraphale left this time around?

The first time had been disappointing, but not particularly difficult. Expectations were low then. Even with it being such a stellar shag. But now it felt as though fate had intervened with their second meeting. Now expectations had risen. At least, for Crowley. Now that he’d had Aziraphale a second time, he craved more of him.   

“Dunno,” Crowley answered with a shift of his shoulders. 

“What do you normally do on Sundays?”

“Err ahh…” 

He was a little thrown off course by this because it wasn’t something people usually asked him. It had been about two years since he’d ever done the let’s get to know one another game with someone. Then when they got to a certain point in the gameplay, it was like they purposefully changed the rules so he couldn’t win. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he fought, Crowley always lost.  

And here he was, already halfway through another round of a game he swore he wouldn’t play again. Not only was he playing, but he was enjoying it.  

Though he doubted Aziraphale would enjoy it once he recognised how dull of a person Crowley was in comparison to him. 

“Surely you have hobbies?” Aziraphale probed.

“I’m…not really…a hobby person.” Crowley admitted with a reluctance that made his foot press harder on the gas. 

“No? Surely you must spend your free time doing something ?”

He did do things, to be sure. Everyone did. But he wouldn’t really consider his morning stretches or tending to his plants or trying out new recipes or even laying on the couch marathoning The Golden Girls while playing brainrotting games hobbies, per se. They were more or less just things that filled his time when he didn’t have work or plans with his siblings. 

Crowley tried not to feel the nerves creep in once he heard the disappointment in Aziraphale’s tone as he explained all of this to him.

But they buzzed about within him, making him a bit jumpy and hyper aware. With that dark self-deprecation, he mused, “Not all of us are smart enough to do crosswords.”

“Oh, but you should give it a go!” Aziraphale encouraged with a level of enthusiasm that softened all of Crowley’s hard edges. “At least once. You never know, you might surprise yourself.”

“Mmm…” 

Perhaps he ought to consider it. Perhaps it would endear Aziraphale to like him more.

Shit, there you go again. He chastised, changing yourself just to please another person.

But perhaps he could try it once. There was no harm in that. And if he hated it and Aziraphale couldn’t let go of his disappointment about it, well, that was where Crowley would draw up the boundary lines and move on from the attempted hobby. 

And depending on how this next question was received, Crowley might be moving on without him a lot sooner. 

“Could I…maybe…tell you? How I did? If I tried one?”

In the silence that followed it immediately felt like the car was on fire. Maybe it was. Crowley would just ignore it as best he could if that were the case. He had a rather vivid imagination, after all.

He stared ahead and waited for this delightful morning full of quips and first rays of sunlight to suddenly combust into hellfire and disappointment.

But it didn’t. Because Aziraphale murmured softly, and oh, so sweetly (at least, from Crowley’s point of view), “I think that would be alright.”

“I know you don’t have international text,” Crowley put in swiftly, “but do you have a messaging app?”

“Like…WhatsApp?”

“Yeah!”

“I do. Yes.” 

“Would you…want my number?”

“I wouldn’t mind having it. If you want me to have it, of course.”

He made a slightly choking sound to stop himself from parroting Aziraphale’s words. 

If you want me to have it…of course I want you to have it! I’ve wanted you to have it since yesterday at baggage claim!

But that reaction would likely seem rude. Or desperate. And Crowley really didn’t want to come across as either. So he cleared his throat and tried to sound calm as he said, “Let me know when you’re ready.” 

He rattled off the eleven digit number while Aziraphale punched it into his mobile, and Crowley’s despair receded a fraction. 

This wouldn’t be the end of their…well whatever this was. And while he would enjoy having some sort of definition to whatever this was they shared, he would settle for a continuation so that they might be able to figure it out. 

Aziraphale’s willingness to accept his number led Crowley to share what nearly burst out of his chest whenever the other man had been half curled up on top of him last night.    

He tried to make it sound casual now. Like it made sense for him to bring it up at this particular moment. Not like he’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do so like some kind of maniac.

“Oh and, if it means anything to you, I’ll be back in New York on the eleventh. For three days.” 

Crowley couldn’t hear anything except his heart pulsing in his ears. He chanced a swift glance over and saw Aziraphale scrolling on his phone.

“I was thinking,” Crowley went on, the words sounding kind of strangled, “I might need to check out The Duck again. Some of those specialty pizzas sounded good and…well, I’d like to give them a go.”

More silence enveloped them. Crowley thought he might black out once he heard the polite rejection he suspected Aziraphale was formulating. 

But when the other man spoke, his tone was all business. “The eleventh you said?”

Oh thank fuck he had heard his prattling on just now. 

“Y-y-yeah! I get in early in the morning and have to roll straight into a lunchtime meeting but afterwards I could meet up. If you like.”

Aziraphale’s thumb and forefinger pinched the screen, zooming in on something. And then he informed Crowley, “I’m afraid I’ll be in Paris on the eleventh.”

“Oh.” His stomach dropped and he mumbled, “Bugger.” 

“I return on the thirteenth though. Late afternoon, but…we could still try for dinner?”

Crowley saw out of his peripheral that Aziraphale was looking over at him. A promising sign that he was just as interested in this idea as Crowley was.

But for some reason, the thirteenth stuck out in Crowley’s mind as significant already. As he mentally tried to roll through the business itinerary he’d been provided a few days ago, he remembered, “Ahh…I think I have a stuffy dinner on the thirteenth.”

Damn it all to hell. Why did he have to do bullshit dinners with stuffy shirts anyway? Couldn’t that just be a task reserved for his project manager? But Luc had barely been showing up to work these days, so it was unlikely he'd even make the trip in New York. The stuff their Ops Manager, Polly, let him get away with was maddening.

The office drama soon erased from Crowley's mind because it appeared Aziraphale wasn’t about to give up. He asked, a tentative quality hanging in his question, “Will you need a drink afterwards to recover from it?”

“I might.” Though he most certainly would. Crowley prompted wryly, “You offering?”

“I might be.”

He could practically hear the smile in Aziraphale’s answer. 

Soon after, it registered in Crowley’s brain that they were nearing the drop off lane, and he looked over to see the soft smile shining back at him.

Fuck. His head was even tilted back in that unassuming manner, those pale eyes sparkling like light dancing across the top of a calm sea.

Crowley felt his heart engorge at how sweet Aziraphale looked just now. At how he wanted to reach over and do something to drain the mass of emotions within him that made it near impossible to breathe.

A frantic horn from outside the car, reminded Crowley that even though he was coasting to a slow stop, he still wasn’t stopped. And he slammed on the brakes to narrowly avoid a collision.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry!” He called out, offering an apologetic wave to the driver of the car he nearly bumped.

“Here is fine,” Aziraphale told him while he unclicked his seatbelt.

“Ok.” Crowley agreed, keeping his foot firmly on the brake pedal. He drummed his fingers at the steering wheel and said, “Well you have my number. So let me know. About the thirteenth.”

“I will.”

Uncertain of how he should end this, Crowley glanced at the clock on his radio dash and announced, “Only took us forty-one minutes. That’s not too bad, is it?”

“No.” Aziraphale assured that dreamy smile clouding his expression once more. “And the company was most enjoyable. So thank you for the drive.”

“Sure thing, angel. Anytime.”

Aziraphale’s smile deepened and he inhaled a long breath. Crowley’s left arm leaned on the rest between the two seats and he wondered if the other man would deem a kiss on the cheek appropriate enough.

“Well I ought to go,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Even though it’s a quick jaunt from my hotel room to the terminal, I still have to gather my belongings, dress, and take a bus.”

The way he said jaunt caught Crowley in between the ribs. Could this man be any more charming if he tried? 

His breathing had gone ragged now and he swallowed hard. His gaze remained fixed on Aziraphale. It would be on him from the moment he exited the car to when he disappeared from view into the hotel lobby.

But seeing as Aziraphale wasn’t instantly departing, Crowley took that as a sign that he was just as conflicted on how to end things. 

It was during this moment of hesitation, that Crowley tried to monopolise on the quiet. But it came out a stammering mess, “Can I...that is...I think...”

He watched Aziraphale's eyes travel from his mouth to his gaze as Crowley's did the same. Aziraphale's head tilted to one side suggestively and Crowley felt himself shifting closer to the centre console. 

"I have to go."

The sharp click of a door being opened and then the bang of it closing, burst the hopeful bubble that ballooned inside Crowley's chest. Aziraphale stalked off, the entrance of Heathrow swallowing him up without so much as glance spared. 

Crowley felt dizzy from the anticipation of what almost happened and sick with what hadn't. He sat back with these feelings, waiting until some ignorant wanker laid on the horn behind him. Then he pulled off the curb, his focus solely on returning home to a quiet flat he could fill with the many things he didn't say but should have.

That first night, approximately 9:20pm

Upon turning around with the styrofoam cup of tea, Crowley caught a rather interesting sight.

Aziraphale had somehow procured one of the hangers from inside the closet and was now poking at the closed curtains draped over the windows. 

He couldn’t help but jest, “I want to stab those curtains as well. Could they have chosen a more awful shade of pink?”

Aziraphale laughed a bit anxiously, “Oh uhm…yes I know it’s strange but…safety first and all that.”

Frowning in confusion, Crowley waited for him to explain. 

“When one travels alone, one just likes to ensure they are truly alone in their room. And well, this is a common hiding area for bad people.”

“Well you aren’t alone tonight, angel,” Crowley informed him with a reassuring smile as he passed him the tea. “But it’s only me. And I don’t feel the need to hide behind a curtain. Unless of course, you prefer me to.”

Their fingers brushed briefly in the tea exchange and Aziraphale chuckled. “No, I…I don’t think that would be necessary.” 

“Any other safety measures you’d like to take that I ought to be aware of?” Crowley wondered while he retreated to tend to his own cup of decaf.

“I think not,” Aziraphale replied. “Though I did let a friend know I was here. And your name. In case you decided to chop me up into little bits and leave me in a tub full of acid.”

Crowley cackled at this. “That got dark quickly.”

“Sorry.” A rosy tint worked its way across Aziraphale’s face and he grimaced, “I know it was a bit much and a bit unlikely but…”

“No I…I thought it was funny,” Crowley assured. Then he looked up from the coffee pot and promised, “And I swear, I’m not the next Dahmer.”

Aziraphale brushed the back of his hand over his brow and sighed, “What a relief.”

Crowley let out another low laugh. As the water in the pot puttered to a standstill, he vocalised, “But that’s smart. Maybe I ought to text someone as well.”

“If it makes you feel more comfortable, by all means.” Aziraphale waved his hand and took a sip of his tea.

Deciding it was probably the responsible thing to do, Crowley quickly opened up his phone and started a message to the group chat he had going with Nina and Ligur. 

Yeah so, hanging out at the hotel with a flight attendant from Divinity Airways. Name Aziraphale Fell. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Seems nice but you never know, might be the next Dahmer. Though he already made a joke about it, so…probably unlikely but…just letting you know my last known whereabouts as a precaution. Not that this feels unsafe. In fact, this feels…

Crowley stopped himself before he could say ‘ridiculously safe.’ He deleted the bit about how he actually felt and then finished the message.  

 Anyway, miss you and love you, talk soon.

“Right. That’s done.” He clicked his phone off, setting it down on the counter. 

Aziraphale had already perched on the edge of the queen sized bed nearest to the window, his focus on the tele. He paused to take a sip of tea as he watched Crowley sit on the edge of the other bed.

“What’s this?” He wondered, waving in the direction of the tele.

After a moment’s consideration, they determined it was The Office. Which of course, offered up several opportunities for them to debate the merits of it compared to its British counterpart. 

Crowley learned that Aziraphale enjoyed the American adaptation better due to its focus on sentimentality and strong character development. Crowley didn’t know enough about the sitcom to form an opinion, but he found Aziraphale’s analysis curious enough that he might need to look into streaming the show when he found some time.

After they finished an episode, Crowley decided it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was amusing but also a little bit dark and tragic. Though his attention had mainly been on stealthily watching for Aziraphale’s reaction to things, more so than the actual content.  

Once the next episode’s opening credits played, Aziraphale rose from his seat and placed his now emptied cup in the recyclable portion of the trash bin shoved beneath the desk. 

He smoothed down the front of his clothes and remarked, “Well it’s getting late. You probably want to turn in.”

“Yeah.” Crowley rocked backwards on the bed a bit before shooting upward onto his feet and closing the space between them to toss away his own emptied cup. 

They found themselves with less than a foot between their bodies. Both of them silently wondering the same things as their eyes scanned the other’s face. 

When Crowley spoke again, the words grated in the back of his throat in a low rumbling sound. “That would be the responsible thing, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s breath hitched, and somehow he managed to agree, “It would be.”

Crowley licked his lips and watched Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes dart down to his mouth.

“I have something to confess, angel.” His own eyes shifted to Aziraphale’s pillowy lips and he wondered if they felt as soft as they appeared. 

“Oh?” 

Crowley’s right hip pressed into the television stand. He cocked his head to one side, fingers marching along the grainy wood. His hand moved closer and closer to Aziraphale’s elbow. 

“I’m not really …the responsible type.”

“Well,” Aziraphale cleared his throat as he murmured, “it’s a good thing I don’t need you to be.”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t so much a quick jaunt as it was a mad dash to Terminal Two. The ratatattat of his luggage wheels rolling swiftly against the sparkling tile floor matched the urgency within Aziraphale as he all but sprinted to his departure gate at Heathrow. 

By the time he arrived, there were already several passengers seated in the chairs and a small line was forming at the desk. The gate attendant behind it tried to appear prepared for their various questions. 

Aziraphale nodded politely at them, scanning his identification badge to access the door. As he strode through the empty jetway, he could only imagine what his colleagues would think, him being nearly ten minutes behind schedule.

It wasn’t a good look, he knew. Particularly after all the issues he had with Shax and Timothy on the flight here. He was almost certain they would use his tardiness against him. At least, Shax would. Timothy would probably just make some lewd remark about his whereabouts last night. 

He already read several messages in their crew members chat, enquiring as to where he’d been, how they checked his room before they took the bus over and found it deserted. 

Aziraphale kept his response brief and cordial. 

My sincerest apologies. A personal matter arose. Took longer than expected. I’ll be there shortly.

He hoped to have enough time to message Crowley just a quick, Hi, hello, it’s Aziraphale. So sorry I panicked just now. I thought I might never leave if I let you kiss me. And then well...wouldn't that just be the most ridiculous thing in the world?  

But no such opportunity presented itself. Which he told himself was probably for the best. He needed to seize control of his head in order to successfully lead this flight home. And he knew if he messaged Crowley now, he’d fixate on his lack of response or he’d be unable to ignore whatever it was Crowley replied back with. Aziraphale couldn’t risk anymore distractions this morning. He’d already been distracted enough by Crowley.

The car ride to the hotel had been mildly terrifying. Only just because Aziraphale felt out of control being in the passenger seat. Not that he enjoyed driving cars. He hadn’t owned one since moving to New York. But he kept a valid licence both in The States and The UK. One just never knew when one might need to use it. And if he were to step into Crowley’s Bentley again, Aziraphale felt as though he would definitely need to use it.

Once he arrived at the aircraft, he immediately encountered Shax, whose lips curled smugly, his checklist in her hand.   

“We were afraid you wouldn’t make it, Az,” she remarked.

“Yes well, I’m here now,” he assured pleasantly.

He opened the closet that belonged to The Purser, to discover by some miracle that Shax hadn’t placed her own belongings inside.

“Thank you for managing in the meantime, Shax,” he added with a grateful air. 

After shoving his multiple bags in the space and locking the door, he faced her and asked, “Where are we on the list?”

“Lavatory checks,” she instructed plainly before handing him the clipboard.

He supposed he deserved that. He took the list without complaint and shouldered his way into the tiny lav. His eyes darted around the space, checking off each item as he assessed its functionality.    

Functioning light, check. Lock in order, check. Smoke detector working, check. Working toilet, check. Fully stocked paper products, check. Running water, check. Soap dispenser dispensing, check. Mirror intact, check. 

Aziraphale momentarily glanced at his reflection, double checking he didn’t appear rumpled in spite of his rush to arrive here. The knot in his cravat was a little off centre. So he set down his clipboard and leaned forward to adjust its position at his throat. 

As he tilted his head back in a way that he could still take in his reflection while adjusting its length, Aziraphale caught a dark patch at the underside of his jaw. 

His hands fell away from his tie and moved to the dark purple bruise that looked like the imprint of someone else’s mouth. 

Aziraphale gasped. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

How did this happen?

Well, he knew how it happened. He just didn’t realise that whenever he’d been so deep inside of Crowley that the man bit and sucked on the skin beneath his jaw this hard.

“Shit,” he muttered again. 

If he had noticed in his hotel room, he might’ve been able to dab on some tinted moisturiser to conceal it. But he’d been so rushed and then disoriented when his standard issued bowtie was far too rumpled and he had to substitute it with his long tie that the mark somehow escaped his notice.

Now his moisturiser was buried several bags deep in the closet and Aziraphale swore the more he touched this bruise, the redder the surrounding skin grew. 

He lowered his face to eye level, attempting to assess just how visible the mark would be from every possible angle. But no matter which way he tilted or turned his head, folks would likely catch a glimpse of it, particularly passengers who would be glancing up at him as he served them. 

“Everything alright, Az?!”

It was Elsbeth calling from the otherside of the door.

“Yes, fine! All’s in order!” He returned.

There was nothing to be done about the love bite except carry on as though nothing unusual had happened. Gathering his clipboard, Aziraphale unlatched the door and slid it open.

“Lunch inventory’s all set,” Elsbeth informed him.

With a nod and a brush of his pen, he dutifully checked off another thing on his list.

“Onto the bar stock then,” he commented. 

Elsbeth chimed in, “Already done!” 

“Perfect. Seatbelts in working order?”

She bobbed her head affirmatively.

“Cushions?” He asked.

“All good.”

“Screens on?”

“Yes, though seat C5 seems to be a little finicky.”

He nodded and then informed her, “Right. We ought to double check whether or not it’s a full flight in case it turns out to be a problem.”

“Everything’s all finished in the back,” Shax announced. She offered her completed paperwork to Aziraphale with an expectant look.

He tucked it below his arm, muttering his thanks. His eyes darted at the overhead luggage bins and he marked each of them off as Elsbeth strolled up and down the aisle, securing each of them.

Shax intoned, “I have Tim and Ricardo working on the meal prep in the back.”

Aziraphale shot her a meaningful look. Well this was certainly a marked improvement from their previous flight. So he offered encouragingly, “Well done.”

She hovered close by, putting in hopefully over his shoulder, “I suppose you might consider that when you have to give my peer review?”

“Certainly. Now would you mind checking the passenger list? C5 has a finicky screen and I want to see if seat substitutions can be made if necessary.”

She muttered a sound of agreement and then Aziraphale noticed Elsbeth struggling to close one of the overhead bins. Setting aside the clipboards, he attempted to assist her, only to discover that the bin was, in fact, defunct. 

He instructed plainly, “Well we’ll just have to rope it off and hope it’s not a full flight.”

“Az!” Shax called from the galley at the front of the aircraft. 

He whirled around to face her, tablet and stylus in hand.

She updated him on the passenger, “Looks like we’re full in premium plus, but there are a few openings in first class. If we need to upgrade C5.”

“Right, thank you, Shax.” He glanced back at Elsbeth, who awaited further instruction on the overhead bin. “I’d ask Hannah and Ricardo to see if they can tie this off. And can you be sure to speak with C5 whenever they board?”

“You got it.”

“Otherwise,” he inhaled a steady breath before remarking, “I think we’re ready to go home.”

There was always an undercurrent of sadness that ran through Aziraphale anytime he left London. While he made New York his new home, leaving London meant putting distance between himself and his grandmother. And even though they both had their own lives, Aziraphale couldn’t help but worry each time he left that something might happen in his absence. 

He felt he did a fairly decent job of communicating through email and video chats that the wonderful staff at Nightingale facilitated. But for all the advances in technology that made transatlantic communication easier, it wasn’t the same as being a bus ride away. 

Once he was strapped in his jumpseat beside Elsbeth, Aziraphale punched out a quick message to Muriel, the aid who typically worked Sunday through Tuesday and facilitated the video chats for him and Gran. He told her that they were about to take off and he’d let her know whenever they landed on the other side.

His phone buzzed a mere five seconds later and a smile touched Aziraphale’s lips.

There was an image of his grandmother seated in the cafeteria with Pat beside her. Both of their plates were full of sandwiches. It appeared Muriel had caught Gran midbite, for she offered up her cheesiest closed mouthed grin, her cheeks ballooning out comically. Pat draped an arm over her shoulders as if to draw her close, offering a thumbs up with her free hand.  

Aziraphale quickly scanned the caption below with his eyes: Gran and Pat say hello and safe travels!

Unable to come up with a quick response, he merely reacted to this message with a little heart bubble. Exiting this chat, his eyes were drawn to the blue plus sign in the top right of the app.

What would the harm be in starting up a new chat? He’d have to silence his phone anyway for the remainder of the flight, so perhaps now was the best possible time to send something. 

He wouldn’t be able to check his phone until he landed in New York anyway. And maybe if Crowley didn’t respond at all, the hurt he felt could be silently nursed as opposed to put on display for a flight of two hundred and fifteen passengers to bear witness to. 

He could pick up Harry from The Wensleydales for a long cuddle session while his TV streamed in the background. He’d indulge in that place around the corner with the excellent Pad Thai and pick up a bottle of white on his way home.

Yes, he should do it now, so that he could prepare for the worst possible outcome before he made it home and was suffocated by the silence in his flat as he waited for a response that might never come.

Not to mention, there was the time difference that would stretch between them. If he hadn’t already known what that was, he would have calculated it just to be aware of the position of the sun in Crowley’s world. All so he could ask questions like What’s for dinner? Or How's the weather? Because suddenly, he wished to know those miniscule things. 

Oh. This was bad. This was very, very bad and not altogether the behaviour of someone who was engaging in casual sex with a near stranger whose life occasionally orbited his own.

Or maybe you're merely being polite, he told himself. Yes, that was it. He was being polite. Making conversation. So that the next time they met again, it wasn't an awkward encounter, but as enjoyable as it had been thus far. Yes, that's all it was.  

Aziraphale was halfway through an extremely polite message whenever the plane jolted and his opposite thumb slammed down on the send button.

“Damn,” he mumbled to himself as the half formed message glared up at him mockingly. 

Hi, this is Aziraphale. How are

His fingers clumsily punched: The plants!  

Double damn. Why did the exclamation point have to be right beside the question mark on the keyboard? And why hadn't he backtracked to lowercase the "T" in the "the?"

Gracious, his first message was such a grammatical disaster. Should he try to correct himself? Or would he only appear to be more a lunatic if he did that?

No, he best leave it alone. The plane was picking up speed anyway, and he wasn't going to set a bad example to the passengers who could see him from their seats. Aziraphale swiped downward on the top of the screen and plunged his phone into aeroplane mode before stowing it in his trouser pocket.  

As they gained speed on the ground, he leaned his head against the rest and exhaled.

“Everything ok, Az?” Elsbeth asked.

Suddenly aware of how he’d let the side down, Aziraphale’s head rebounded from his seat and he gave her an agreeable response, “Oh uhm. Yes.”

“Have a good visit with your family?” 

“Oh, yes. Yes, it was nice.” And then he wondered, “What did you all get up to last night?”

“We ended up at a karaoke bar.” Elsbeth smirked. “Got pretty wild. ‘Mister Brown’ did karaoke.”

“Mister Brown?” Aziraphale echoed amusedly at her need to place air quotations around Timothy’s formal name.

She practically giggled with an enthusiastic nod, “After three jack and cokes he asked that we call him that. Right before he gave us his best impression of Like A Prayer. ”

“Oh dear.” 

Though Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle at learning this bit of information. Something about Timothy becoming quite so loose that he’d dedicate a performance to Madonna was amusing. 

Which led him to add quietly to Elsbeth, “Who knew he had the upper register for such a song?”

“Right?!” Her brown eyes gleamed. Then she admitted with a slight nudge of her elbow, “He was pretty hammered though.” After a brief pause, she tried to explain through the hint of laughter that came through her words, “Told us he was going to move to London and open a carpet shop. Said he would name it Brown’s World of Carpets.” 

She laughed at this and Aziraphale merely stared at her dumbfounded. 

“Ahhh…guess you had to be there to find it funny.”

“Sounds like it.” He agreed.

Several seconds of silence later, Elsbeth suddenly burst in excitedly, “But what about you? Get up to anything fun?”

“Oh well…you know…lunch with my grandmother.” He explained with a flash of a smile, momentarily reminiscing on the day he spent with her. Then he suddenly admitted, “I think she has a boyfriend?”

“Good for her!” Elsbeth cheered, making him chortle.

While he was in the habit of admitting things, Aziraphale added quietly, “Then I…met with a friend. We had dinner. And went to a record shop.”

“Oh? Did you buy any?”

“No. Just browsed.” 

But Crowley bought the Sam Cooke vinyl he recommended. Aziraphale wasn’t going to confess that to Elsbeth. Because that was the point in time where their evening turned strikingly intimate.

“Wanna come back to mine and give this a listen? Together?”

The question still made his breath hitch. He found his thoughts venturing down a path he couldn’t allow himself to travel. Not with all the work he had left to do before his shift ended.

So Aziraphale mindlessly added, “Still, it was nice.”

“Do they live in London?”

Aziraphale cocked his head in her direction.

“Your friend?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

What a pity that was, he thought glumly, chewing on his bottom lip.

Which was a startling thought when he allowed it to take shape in his mind. This wasn’t meant to be anything serious. He made that clear when he didn't stay that first night they slept together. And yet, here he was, feeling an odd sense of melancholy at the thought that Crowley lived in London and he lived in New York. That and, he pulled away before they could properly say goodbye. 

Why hadn't he allowed Crowley to kiss him?

Because you're already romanticising a situation that is void of it.

He supposed that was true. Solid relationships were rarely built off of one night stands. Or in their case, two night stands.

But he is so sweet.

Gabriel was always very sweet in the beginning though. Wasn't he? Aziraphale forced himself to remember. It was difficult though because so much had happened in the subsequent years that fed into the contrary. But Gabriel had to have been sweet at one point in time, hadn't he? How else had Aziraphale fallen in love with him?

How sad it was that he couldn't even remember. All he knew was that honeyed words eventually crystallised. And when they were hard they lost all their sweetness. And when sweetness vanished, so did love. And in its place, resentment was born. A quiet thing that wore one down over time. 

Aziraphale was tired enough on his own. He couldn't have a relationship depleting him further. 

So he told himself it was for the best that he didn't kiss Crowley goodbye. That in doing so, he made his position plain. They would be friends. If Crowley could accept this, then they could still meet up on the thirteenth. They could still chat. And perhaps, if they decided it was appropriate to engage in carnal acts again, they could draw up some boundaries to ensure neither one of them got hurt.

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile, his gaze floating out to the brilliant sunrise that painted the sky in the warmest colours. Perhaps it really could be that simple.  

“Right well, that went fairly smoothly,” Elsbeth remarked as they sat side by side on the AirTrain that would take both of them to Jamaica Station in Queens.

Aziraphale learned that the mortuary Elsbeth lived at was situated in Kew Gardens Hills. Which was a ten minute walk from the train station he frequented en route to Lower Manhattan. 

“Do you walk home by yourself?” Aziraphale wondered, a touch of concern in his words. 

“If I’m not getting home too late, I do. Sometimes Morag meets me and we walk together. But it’s not very far.” 

Her own assurances gave him no reason to press further. He knew it wasn’t his business, really. But he liked Elsbeth. And he knew what the city could be like late at night, particularly if you were viewed as female and alone by the wrong sort. 

It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t common. But things like that occasionally happened. 

Still, Elsbeth seemed sturdy. She had a partner who’d done jiu jitsu and taught her the basics. And she seemed smart when it came to handling difficult situations. 

He shouldn’t worry. But it was part of his nature to worry for people he came to care about. 

As their train slowed into the station, Aziraphale spoke,  “Well it’s unlikely we shall work together again but I hope there’s a chance we do.”

He extended his hand for her to shake and she heartily pumped it.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” 

They gathered their belongings and stepped off the train, poised to head in opposite directions.

With a tilt back of her head, Elsbeth bid, “You be safe in the skies, Az.”

“You as well. Good luck to you and Morag.”

In that moment, he discovered she had dimples. With a cheeky glance up at him she offered her thanks before jeering, “Yeah, and good luck with your friend. You ought to give them hell for leaving you that sweet mark on your neck.”

His hand clamped down on the mark, and she giggled a “see you,” before turning to make it down the platform ramp.

A ripple of laughter escaped him and a rush of heat flooded his cheeks, but Aziraphale swiftly ducked his head and made his way to the crosswalk that would take him to platform seven.

He wondered when she noticed, but he was grateful to her for not saying anything until they were alone.

Once Aziraphale arrived on the platform for his next train, he read the board that indicated the train would depart in five minutes. He found an empty seat on one of the nearby benches, his arm draped over his stack of luggage. 

Pulling out his phone, Aziraphale finally reconnected it to the rest of civilization. He was immediately bombarded with several banner messages, suggesting he received some things from WhatsApp. 

His heart leapt excitedly and he thought with a fond smile suddenly appearing: Crowley. 

He opened up that particular chat and saw a string of five separate messages. 

Scrolling upward he saw an image of the two plants with long leafy arms situated side by side in a black, rectangular potter. They now appeared to be on his spotless grey countertop to the right of the sink and beneath his white cabinets. 

There was another image, a screenshot of a crossword puzzle with only a few of the spaces filled in. 

Aziraphale set to replying to each of the messages, his cheeks hurting from how his smile grew at hearing back from the other man. That and, well him having the decency to not mention the almost kiss.

After a moment of thought of how he might continue this conversation, Aziraphale then added. 

He’d be surprised if Crowley hadn’t. It seemed to be the single thing that united the world when a global pandemic took over everything. 

Taking a moment to type out a message to Muriel, even though she had likely left for the evening, Aziraphale likewise did the same in an email to Deidre. 

His grandmother was probably fast asleep anyway, it being after ten o’clock in London. But at least he would feel better about reporting to both of her caregivers his whereabouts.

His phone buzzed twice in quick succession. He had a message from both Muriel and Crowley. 

Muriel said: I’ll try ringing her now to let her know. Sorry to have missed you this trip!

I know! There’s always next time, I suppose. Thank you for trying her, my dear. Your efforts are most appreciated.

Anything for Val! She’s a real treat!

He couldn’t help but smile at this. 

Then he clicked on the chat with Crowley.

Aziraphale let loose a breath of laughter at this, feeling his face grow warm at hearing such praise. Before he could deny that he wasn’t particularly brilliant, that he merely enjoyed word games, the train rolled into the station and he grabbed his belongings before clicking his phone off and pocketing it in his long coat.      

As Aziraphale took a seat that was towards the back of the car, he found himself reminiscing about the last time he’d heard such an expletive spill from Crowley’s lips. 

His stomach turned to liquid as he faintly recounted the way Crowley’s fingers slipped through his ruffled locks, their mouths parting in a synchronised adagio that might’ve brought him to tears had it been set to a real instrument.

Parting was always such sweet sorrow. It was a sentiment he often felt anytime he left those he cared about for his work, so how could he disagree with it? 

And it would be several morrows until he would have the opportunity to meet up with Crowley again.

Aziraphale’s fingers flexed, longing to grip that soft, leather lapel of the other man’s jacket, suddenly wishing he had done so this morning.    

Before he could wonder about their near kiss again, his buzzing phone demanded that he retrieve it from his pocket. He saw the message pop up on the front of his screen. 

Once Aziraphale explained how he took two trains to make it to Greenwich Village, it was his turn to casually pry.

There was a pause and then Aziraphale caught sight of a darkened image. The overhead lights in the room were clearly off, but a low lamp behind Crowley must’ve been flicked on for Azirphale could see him holding a glass with less than two fingers full of an amber liquid.

Aziraphale could tell from the camera angle and the way he positioned his hand that Crowley was truly lounging on his black, leather settee. Both of his legs were bent and splayed open, the bottom of his glass positioned at the inside of his right thigh. 

It was a position that seemed to defy all laws of gravity. Unless of course, he was laying with his back on a mountain of pillows. It seemed highly unlikely, given the minimalistic style of his flat. But without being there, Aziraphale had no way of truly knowing. 

Clearing his throat and his mind of any potential scenarios in which he could see where certain shapes and outlines that may or may not exist in the frame, Aziraphale focused on his reply. 

Very nice.

Crowley wore the exact same joggers he had that morning. Joggers that hung so low on those hips he knew how to manoeuvre to catch the whole world’s attention.

Suddenly, the train felt exceptionally warm. And slow. Gracious, couldn’t it go any faster?

His insides felt hollowed out from sternum to stomach as visions of last night threatened to resurface. 

He couldn’t possibly think of that now. No. If he did, the rising need he felt in his groin would intensify and he’d probably be arrested and make the late night news as one of those perverts who did dirty things on public transit.

And then you’d never be able to talk to Crowley again.  

That was it. That sad thought kept his more primal desires in check. 

Though he did have one particular “grievance” to air with the other man. 

The way Crowley gave his feelings so much thought made Aziraphale’s heart swell. In Aziraphale's experience, this was far more you'd do for someone you were engaging in casual sex with. Not that Aziraphale had a great deal of experience with this sort of arrangement. And not that he didn’t appreciate it. But the level of care Crowley took in ensuring that he felt secure, made him wonder how often Crowley did this. If there were a lot of others he made feel as special as he made Aziraphale feel. 

Dangerous line of thinking, my dear. He told himself. Focus on the question at hand. 

Only that Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about all the times that Crowley’s mouth was on his neck, trying to determine the precise moment he created the purple bruise.

The man truly was a demon in disguise. 

Wanting to indulge him, but also knowing he possibly couldn’t in the middle of an afternoon train ride without dire consequences, Aziraphale steered the conversation in another direction.

Aziraphale's breath hitched at this. Because it was certainly nice to feel important.

But before this could turn into a volley of praise, Aziraphale quickly informed him.

Oh Lord, Aziraphale thought. Crowley’s rambling did unexplainable things to his heart. It made him want to set the man's mind at ease. 

His message was accompanied by the emoji that Maggie told him was officially called “a warm smile.”

It felt fitting, considering there was one spreading across his face.

That first night about 7:55pm

They finished their first round of drinks whenever Crowley asked, “You like it here?”

Aziraphale inclined his head, “I do.”

“And you have no desire to go back to England?”

Opening his mouth before exhaling, he answered tentatively, “I wouldn’t say that. My job’s here. And…well I have friends here too, so…” 

In the middle of his shrug and Crowley’s seemingly steady gaze from behind his dark glasses, Robert returned with another glass of white and a stout glass for Crowley. 

“Cheers, Robert!” Crowley lifted his whiskey in thanks.

The grisled, old man whirled round. The edges of his grey moustache twitching as he growled, “That’s Sergeant S to you for now.”

Aziraphale snorted a bit as he saw Crowley visibly flinch and sit up straighter in his seat.

“I should’ve told you,” Aziraphale murmured, “Robert is only for regulars. And even then he yells at most of them to call him Sergeant S.”

“Yeah, a little head’s up on that would’ve been nice.”

Aziraphale gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

Crowley turned on his stool to face him and gently placed a hand on his arm. His voice had lost its sarcastic edge whenever he said, “I was only teasing.”

The touch was so fleeting. Because before Aziraphale could properly react, Crowley’s hand was already curling back around his glass.

“Are you hungry?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly hoping to prolong their interaction under seemingly reasonable circumstances. “Robert’s cook here makes one of the best pizzas in New York you can find in a bar.”

“I could eat,” Crowley decided.

“Very good.” Aziraphale nodded. 

He was grateful to have a task set before them. Pulling one of the small, trifold menus from the condiment carrier, they leaned in to decipher which pizza might both suit their needs. 

Either Crowley was the least picky eater Aziraphale met or he was simply indulging him for desiring peperoni, mushrooms, and black olives. 

He hoped it was the former, not the latter. 

Then there was a brief debate as to whose tab the pizza order ought to be deposited onto. In the end, Crowley won. Simply because he half stood on the stool and waved his card overhead like it was the French flag in a scene from Les Miserables. 

That, and he told Aziraphale it was his company credit card, so he didn’t feel as though he was taking anything from him personally. 

Once it was all sorted, Aziraphale asked him, “So what does Eden Visionaries do?”

“We’re an architecture firm. International.”

“You’re an architect?”

Crowley tapped his temple with his forefinger and half saluted Aziraphale while he clicked his teeth. 

“So are you here for work?”

“Yup. Trying to roll out a pretty big project here. Organization dedicated to mental health is the one who commissioned it. But now they're having some issues with some of their original investors. So we're having to pitch the idea to another group as a safeguard. Then gotta get city planning approval. All that blah, blah, blah, corporate kind of stuff before the real magic can happen.”

He made it sound so intriguing that Aziraphale couldn’t help but lean in and deadpan, “Is it top secret?”

Crowley’s lips split into a sudden grin. “Not as such, no.” After a beat, he carried on, “You know the RÉSO? In Montreal?”

“The underground city?”

“Yeah. We’re thinking of…something like that. Not as…extensive mind you. Since city planners here never accounted for anything quite like that. But the general concept is one and the same. Americanized, of course. But. We’re hopeful to use New York as a blueprint for other major cities here.”

“That sounds fascinating!” Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he dipped his head nearer to Crowley’s. “How would that work with the subway systems?”

“Yeahhhh….” he drew out the word thoughtfully. “That’s the thing…we’ve not considered a full integration into the subway at this stage of things. We’re just trying to get a couple of underground pop up shops up and running, see how those do. Surveys suggest that these would be desirable among most residents here.”

“Well I hope it all works out for you.”

“Me too.” Crowley blew out a breath, talking into his whiskey, “Truthfully this idea could make or break my career.”

Aziraphale attempted to sound encouraging, “You don’t know what you can achieve until you try. And I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

His thin lips curled and then Crowley cocked his head in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Really?”

“Yes! The RÉSO works so well because of the longevity of cold weather in Montreal. While New York doesn’t get quite as cold…it would still be an appealing prospect for many folks. Assuming you go about properly insulating the space, of course. Even underground some of the subway stations can be frightfully chilly here.”

“So I’ve been told. And the plan would be to insulate some of the stations impacted all around. Not just where the shops crop up. Not only that, but we’d also integrate lighting that would mimic the sun. Studies show that only 5% of New Yorkers suffer from SAD–seasonal affective disorder–”

“It is not known as SAD, is it?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but muse.

Crowley matched his humour with a similar sound before carrying on, “Only 5% are the reported cases. We can’t fully know how many people truly get a little gloomy during the winter months. Since further research suggests that most people don’t feel comfortable disclosing that information.” 

“Too true.”

“Anyway, we could fine tune the lighting to imitate the sun in those underground areas, which might help improve overall mental health as well?” His voice lifted hopefully.

“That sounds wonderful!” 

It truly did. Not only did Crowley’s designs seem fashionable and appealing to small business shoppers, but the fact that it would also aim its efforts to improve mental health, made it impossible for Aziraphale not to gush.  

“I’m sure the citizens of New York will laud your efforts come wintertime!”

He wrinkled his nose while he disclosed, “It will have to be next year, I’m afraid. We probably won’t be able to break ground until next spring, possibly summer.” Another grimace-like expression twitched across his face, “Assuming we receive the necessary funding and city approvals. We can’t very well disrupt public transit long term either, so there’s that to consider as well.”

“Well whenever you make it happen, I’m sure we’ll all be supremely grateful for all of your efforts.” Aziraphale raised his glass before taking a sip.

Crowley noted wryly, “I thought New Yorkers weren’t the thankful type?”

“Well…some of us are.” He confessed into his wine glass. 

“I don’t think you count, Aziraphale.”

He couldn’t help but feel himself blush at the way his name sounded on Crowley’s lips. Or maybe it was just the wine. Or perhaps both.

Biting on his bottom lip, he cast Crowley a sideways glance. “Don’t I?”

“Well for one, your accent hasn’t changed.”

Aziraphale burst out into laughter here, wholly not expecting that. Then he continued in a pseudo air of horror, “Was it supposed to? Heavens, there goes my perfect score on the next naturalisation exam!”

A brow arched just above the top rim of Crowley’s glasses whenever he asked, “Studying for it?”

Aziraphale shook his head, allowing a string of several high notes of laughter escape his mouth.

“And there’s your second count against you.” Crowley lifted two fingers up while he continued to mock, “No unapologetic patriotism. You aren’t ready to die and bleed red, white, and blue, for that examination?”

Aziraphale snorted, feeling his last sip of wine burning in his nostrils.

Once he recovered himself, Aziraphale insisted softly, “Don’t tease them too hard now, my dear. Someone might sock you in the lip if they hear you.” He did his best imitation of a New York accent when he emphasised that particular phrase.

“Let ‘em,” Crowley attempted his best old western accent. “This city ain’t seen someone like me clean the likes of them off the heels of my snakeskin boots.”

At this Aziraphale tittered in a high pitched manner, “Oh stop!”

Crowley kicked out his leg, showing off a black snakeskin boot that cut just above his ankle.

“Oh dear god, you really are wearing snakeskin…” Aziraphale laughed into his palm.

“This is the wild, wild, west ain’t it?!” Crowley drawled with all the solemnity of a comedian truly committed to a particular character that would earn him laughs. “No man better be caught without a good pair of boots to rough up some…yellow bellied gizzard…”

“Yellow bellied…they don’t…not here…or anywhere…” Aziraphale managed in between his gut wrenching laughs that had his body rocking forward and then tossing his head back rather uncharacteristically. 

Crowley was hysterical like this. And once his amusement subsided, another jolt coursed through him.

Somehow in all of this, his hand had landed in the crook of Crowley’s bent arm.

Aziraphale immediately pulled back. Polishing off his second glass of wine.

“We can’t possibly be that drunk,” he confessed breezily.

“Nahh,” Crowley replied, “we ain’t.”

Aziraphale coughed on his wine for a second time, catching Crowley’s warm expression studying him. Suddenly, he wished to see his eyes, to fully know what he was thinking. 

“Can I ask you something?” Aziraphale prompted.

“Shoot partner,” Crowley broke through the tension with his old west persona, even blowing on the end of his finger gun.

Smiling broadly at this, Aziraphale remarked hesitantly, “I hope you don’t think I’m rude for asking. And please tell me if I am. But…why do you wear those glasses?”

“Oh, s’not rude at all.” Crowley reassured with a smile. “I get migraines. Pretty often. Lighting is a big trigger for me. Sometimes I even forget they’re on, to be honest. Should I take them off?”

“Oh you don’t have to if it’s…” 

Aziraphale was reaching for his hand that was halfway towards his face, but then he froze. He really shouldn’t be touching the man. Not whenever they weren’t…when this wasn’t…

Before he could identify a descriptor for what this was, Crowley peeled his glasses off and then blinked a few times. Then rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Once they seemed to adjust to the new light, Aziraphale found himself stunned whenever he looked into them.

Crowley’s eyes weren’t just green. No, they were green with bursts of gold in the centre. Like the way light exploded each time a star was born. Or so he heard from one of the many documentaries Gabriel insisted they watch. 

The colour was striking. Just like everything was about Crowley upon first glance. So really, it only made sense to Aziraphale for him to have eyes like this. So hypnotic that he never wanted to look away. So pretty he wanted to paint the walls of his flat in this colour. 

Well, perhaps that last thought was just the wine making him feel utterly dramatic. 

“Surprise.” Crowley raised his brows and flashed a crooked grin. 

Aziraphale chuckled softly, breaking all eye contact. 

He checked his watch and observed, “Pizza should be here soon.”     

He was bluffing his way through that statement. Because he hadn’t noted the time from when they ordered the pizza until now. 

But if Crowley noticed, he didn’t remark on anything. He merely answered, “Sounds good.” 

They sat in some companionable silence while they sipped on their drinks (and then waters). They discussed the unique decor of the bar, which was a cross between Old Americana trinkets and random British style oil paintings. Why Robert kept a portrait of Queen Victoria above the corridor leading to the laves and beside a 1940s tricycle mounted on the wall, Aziraphale could not explain to Crowley.

There was also a corded duck phone that quacked nonsensically anytime someone rang in for a to go order. Which wasn’t all that often, but enough for Crowley to jump and clutch his chest and for Aziraphale to laugh politely behind his loosely balled hand. 

Then the pizza arrived and they both found themselves moaning and groaning their delight at the experience. Halfway through his second slice, Crowley asked Aziraphale for several more restaurant recommendations. Which Aziraphale had far too many for Crowley to memorise, so he picked up his phone and began studiously taking notes. It was at this point in the evening that Aziraphale saw the face of Crowley’s watch illuminate.

The fact that it was now nine o’clock surprised him. But not as much as the rainbow block of colours that lit up the face of his watch.

Aziraphale’s heart beat faster at this revelation. Though he had suspected through the touches they both initiated and didn’t brush away and through Crowley’s curious questions  about his relationship with Robert that Crowley wasn’t exactly straight, Aziraphale hadn’t been one hundred percent certain. 

But seeing this delightful block of colours now, led Aziraphale to believe that perhaps they were the same. That perhaps this was more than friendly. And his stomach tightened at the possibility.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted it to be anything more than this. But thus far, spending time with Crowley had been far more fun and exciting than anything he recently experienced. And the thought of it ending filled him with a surprising gloom.   

“Anything else I should be aware of?” Crowley asked.

“Pardon?”

“Anything else I should put on my to visit list? ”

“Oh erm…” Aziraphale collected himself and tried to recall the last suggestion he made. “I’m sure there are but…you likely won’t have much time for more than a few meals out, will you?”

He knew he was making assumptions here, but he didn’t wish to overload him with more than he could possibly take on.

“Yeahh, sadly,” Crowley agreed. “But I’ll probably have to come back. This will be a long term project.” His tone edged on hopefulness again, a slight curve to the corners of his mouth. 

“I see,” was all Aziraphale could intelligently say. 

“So…I’d be happy to take more recommendations. For things to do. In my spare time.”

Aziraphale felt his expression softening as he looked over at Crowley, eager to hear what he had to say.

Even if he never did any of those things, Crowley would have that list. And he might even think of Aziraphale if he ever glanced down at it. 

The thought itself was motivation enough for Aziraphale to continue.

Chapter Text

Over the course of the next week, they carried on texting one another nonstop; discussing everything and nothing at all. 

They filled the mundane parts of their existence with daily meal photos. Aziraphale’s commentary was bursting with compliments regarding Crowley’s amateur culinary skills while Crowley kept notes on the places Aziraphale dined at; hoping to one day try them himself.

They shared their Wordle scores because Crowley discovered he didn’t hate it and he rather liked how competitive Aziraphale got about who got the better score. 

Aziraphale told him all about his upcoming trips, shared details about the different aircrafts he worked on, which allowed Crowley to ask about a dozen questions that spanned the course of a few hours. But when he felt like he shared too much of himself and not given enough space for Crowley, Aziraphale allowed him to go into all the office drama Eden Visionaries was experiencing. 

And the current drama included Crowley’s project manager cutting and running without any explanation, which left them scrambling to find a replacement. Then FurFur (a nickname bestowed to him by his colleagues due to the unfortunate alliterative quality of his given name) and Polly suspected that Taura was denying Hastur sex again, which made both of them intolerable to be around.

Conversing with Aziraphale about these things was, for lack of a better term, delightful. He was funny in a kindhearted way. He was thoughtful in that he remembered certain things Crowley told him and asked about them afterwards. And there was a flirty edge that occasionally made its way into the dialogue that excited Crowley. Though he kept this last bit of information to himself for fear of Aziraphale becoming aware of it and stopping altogether.   

His mornings no longer felt lonely. Because each day, Crowley found himself greeted with a red balloon above the WhatsApp icon, a sign that Aziraphale thought of him while he was sleeping. And each day, Crowley felt a rush of excitement whenever he discovered everything Aziraphale saw fit to send him.  

This particular Monday morning was no exception.  

Crowley scrolled up to a photo of Harry the Rabbit awaiting him, his head tentatively lifted and ears pinned back as he took something from Aziraphale’s hand. It appeared from the frame that they were seated on a bed. Aziraphale’s bed. 

His heart fluttered at the thought, but he promptly chastised himself for wondering what that particular bed felt like and read on.      

Harry says good evening. Or in your case, morning, I suppose. He hopes it all goes well with meeting the new boss. As do I. 

Crowley’s heart surged inside his chest. Both at how adorable, Harry, in all his white fluffiness with those pale blue eyes, appeared. Also at how thoughtful Aziraphale was to remember that today Crowley would be meeting his new project manager. 

Before he even rolled out of bed, Crowley replied: Thanks. Hope your flight to Vegas goes well!

Glancing at the time, Crowley took a moment to consider the time difference between them. 7:15 Greenwich Mean Time roughly equated to 2:15 Eastern Standard Time. Aziraphale would still be asleep, so he proceeded with his usual routine, leaving his phone behind.

Once the comforting aroma of coffee filled the air, Crowley commenced with his daily stretches. They generally began with him standing in the middle of his kitchen with his feet shoulder width apart, arms lifting overhead with interlaced fingers as he arched his body back before releasing all of the tension in a deflating breath that brought his body over his legs and his hands over his shins. 

Sometimes he’d make it down into a plank position before diving gracefully into cobra and then shoving his body back into child’s pose. Other times, he’d take a wide runner’s stance and slowly spiral his body on the left before repeating the action on the right.

It wasn’t yoga per se. And even if it was, Crowley would never call it that, simply because his last ex had been a hardcore yogi. And because things ended so badly with Sol, Crowley refused to officially take up the practice out of spite. Even though it had been about a year since their relationship ended.  

Still, body health was more important than spite. Especially as one got older. So he told himself that these morning stretches didn’t exactly count as yoga. After all, he didn’t have a blanket or a mat, and he wasn’t training his breath or holding poses, but more or less limbering up for the day ahead.

The coffee sputtered to a stop whenever Crowley was looking skyward, his spine inverting. He released his body back into child’s pose feeling that relaxing rush spread through his muscles. He allowed himself a lengthy exhalation and then ambled to his feet. 

Reaching into a cupboard for one of his forest green mugs, Crowley poured himself a cup of black and took a slow sip. 

“Ahh…that’s the stuff.” He smacked his lips and then reached for The Spider Siblings who now sat to the right of the coffee machine. He tickled their tangled leaves and cooed, “Isn’t it my beauties?! Yes, you two are doing far better over here, aren’t you? And your brother, Lele, seems to like your old stomping grounds, doesn’t he?” 

Crowley glanced over at the lemon manata plant that now sat outside his bedroom door. It was smaller and would grow more vertical than horizontal, its leaves curled skyward, striped with yellow green over their dark lushness.

Taking a longer sip of coffee, Crowley surveyed the rest of his plants around the flat. While he did have some art on the walls, his plants were the true masterpieces of this space. He took great care in ensuring they were blossoming to full potential and disciplining them (in his own special way) when they were not. 

There was a monthly care schedule posted on the door of his fridge that detailed when he completed each watering, pruning, sun rotation, and anything additional each might require. When one had close to twenty plants to consider, rote memorization of each care routine grew murky. Plus there was something satisfying about crossing things off from a list.

After consulting the chart to see who required caring for this morning, Crowley took up his watering can and set to work. It took him about fifteen minutes, mainly because he always liked to chat with each plant.

And today’s main topic of conversation was none other than…his unique relationship with Aziraphale.

“He kissed me, you know? I mean…twice now…he kissed me and it led to…well…you sort of can guess where it went from where you’re seated, right?” He questioned his ficus, named Caligula, for its temperamental mood.

Caligula likely had a front row view of the kiss from that night they came up to hear the Sam Cooke record. As Crowley made his way into the living room where his multi-tiered plant stand was pressed in the corner, he couldn't help but recall that particular kiss in his kitchen.

Aziraphale's warm hands encircled the back of his neck, pulling him closer until their foreheads pressed together. Their noses brushed over one another's, two sets of hips chasing the soulful rhythm of 'You Send Me.' 

It was Aziraphale who leant in all the way. The softness of his mouth covering Crowley's for a fleeting moment in time.  

And then he pulled back to whisper through a heavy lidded gaze, "Ok?"

"Again," came Crowley's gravelly demand. 

Tenderness gave way to an urgency both of them needed as they hastily disrobed on their way back to Crowley's bedroom. But even in the aftermath of it all, Crowley craved that combination. That tenderness that pulsed beneath the urgency was like a drug and Crowley was becoming addicted to it.

He knew he shouldn't feel this way, but it was rather difficult when there was an intimacy that seemed to naturally exist between them. He just couldn't help but hope that perhaps, this casual arrangement, wasn't as casual as Aziraphale made it out to be. And he vocalised such hope to his plants. 

“I mean, I know this wasn’t meant to be anything serious but…well, he texts. All. The time. All the time, Amy.” He spoke directly to one of the peperomias with their hypnotic white and green striped leaves that sat on the second shelf. 

Amy didn’t remark, but that didn’t stop Crowley from stroking one of her broad leaves affectionately. Amy, after Amy March, always got a bad rap, but he understood her in ways most people couldn’t. Therefore, she was one of his favourites. 

“I mean, even you have to admit, Laurie,” he carried on while stooping to water his other peperomia that was on the shelf below Amy, “if it were meant to be just a casual thing…he wouldn’t go out of his way to communicate. Right?”     

He turned Laurie just a fraction so the less verdant part of him received some scrap of sunlight.

“I won’t even ask your opinion Aunt March,” Crowley announced while he turned towards the white bird of paradise in the opposite corner of the sitting room. “I know you’d find this whole arrangement wholly unsuitable, being a classy broad of a certain time and all.” He noticed one of her split leaves had nearly come apart and hastened the process by tearing it off altogether. “Though the fact that you never married always did make me wonder about you.”

Crowley winked at her and then let out a soft cackle, “Don’t die on me today, you old biddy.” 

After pouring the rest of his water from the can, he picked up his mister and ventured into the bedroom.

“Hiya Rafe,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. His staghorn fern had seen quite a lot last weekend from his perch on Crowley’s bedside table. “Good to see you’re still upright.” He ran a finger below one of the antler shaped fronds that curved downward. “Well as upright as you’ll ever be.”

Aziraphale and him certainly hadn't been anything but horizontal in this room. 

He gave the leaves a quick spritz before slowly pivoting to face the far corner of his bedroom. He strolled towards the snake plant that stood tall and proud in the corner near his wardrobe. “And how’s Jo?” He asked before kneeling to check her soil. “Not yet dry,” he observed. “Ah well, I’ll check in with you again tomorrow.”

Then there was Friedrich, a vine-like creature who sat beside Jo on a little pedestal, his lengthy leaves creeping up one side of Crowley’s wardrobe, stretching across the top, and then dangling off the other side.

Regarding the soil, Crowley murmured, “Ahh…you can stand to wait as well, Freddie boy.”

His eyes checked the adhesive clips on his wardrobe that allowed Friedrich’s lengthy vines to defy gravity. All appeared to be well there too.

With all the plants on his list now cared for, Crowley swiped his phone from the nightstand and his coffee mug from the kitchen counter before heading into the bathroom for a shower. As he waited for the water to warm, he took a slurping sip. The coffee was tepid, but still drink worthy. He’d never waste a drop of much needed caffeine to jumpstart his brain.     

Once he commenced with his shower, a loud buzzing on the sink counter, made him nearly leap out of the stall to double check who might be contacting him at this early hour.

Maybe it was Aziraphale.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Crowley mumbled through gritted teeth as he aggressively scrubbed his shoulders with the green loofa. 

Of course it wasn’t Aziraphale. Aziraphale would likely still be asleep or on a plane somewhere.  

Crowley quickly tampered down the hopeful part of his brain that longed for this to be true, in spite of all probability and he washed away the rest of the suds from his hair and body. 

As if to further the belief that he was in total and complete control of his impulses when it came to texting Aziraphale, Crowley abandoned his phone in the bathroom, picked up his coffee and started to dress for the day. 

It was in his boxers and nothing else that Crowley paused in front of his open wardrobe, contemplating his outfit. His eyes moved to the left portion of his wardrobe where the slimmer, silk dress shirts hung. He reached out to stroke the sleeve of a burgundy one with pearl buttons. 

He never wore it to work before. But he thought about doing so at least once a week since he bought it two months ago.

What always gave him pause were how it might raise some questions he wasn’t quite prepared to answer. 

He wore feminine accents before, but never an actual article of clothing on its own that anyone could instantly recognise as such. 

His hesitation was ridiculous. He knew it was. He’d done drag in the early 90’s for heaven or hell or whomever’s sake. Wearing this would be like a mere whisper compared to the outspoken statements he made whenever he appeared as Sithera, Serpent Queen of Soho. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel like he was opening himself up to more criticism and ridicule than ever before.

His colleagues weren’t intolerant. Well, he liked to think they weren’t at least. Then again, they never really discussed such things like gender and sexuality. They were architects and engineers, even the problems that existed within shades of grey had black and white solutions that worked because of science and mathematics.

Sure, they all knew he was gay. But no one was wearing rainbow pins as a show of allyship during the month of June. They more or less ignored that piece of him and focused on what they needed from him to get their own job’s done. 

And he was fine with that, really. He had no friends at the office, but he felt he didn’t need any. As long as he had Nina and Ligur, he was content.

Which also made him more angry. If he didn’t want to be friends with any of these people, why did he even fucking care what they had to say about the bloody clothes he wore?

Because you want them to respect you, that nagging voice rang out.

Which was some kind of sexist bullshit he’d have to unpack later because, why would they respect him any less if he dressed softer?

“Fuck it,” he decided gruffly. And fuck the patriarchy, he thought for good measure. 

Crowley pulled the shirt from the wooden hanger, hearing it bang against the inside of the wardrobe. His fingers fumbled at the pearl buttons, but he soon shrugged it on over his shoulders and had them done up in no time. 

It was only a shirt and anyone who had something shitty to say about it could piss off. His new project manager included. 

Except. He couldn’t afford to tell his new project manager to piss off. Not whenever they had the power to delegate his workload. He needed their continued buy in if he wanted to be the lead on his New York RÉSO project. Which he most certainly wanted to see through. For reasons beyond the project’s success.

But his project manager being new could potentially work in his favour. They had no preconceived notions of who he was or how he presented himself. So perhaps this was the perfect opportunity for him to start this new journey of self-expression at work. 

Or perhaps it could horribly backfire, the demonic part of his brain put in.  

“Shut ittttt.” Crowley growled in an attempt to silence any more self-doubting affirmations that might pop up. 

He’d nix the gold chain he got with this shirt in mind. He shoved into what he believed to be a pair of baggy men’s trousers, carefully tucking and then fluffing the shirt out. He’d later finish the look with a shapeless black blazer and it would all be fine. 

Crowley examined himself in the long mirror he propped up on the wall beside his wardrobe for a moment. He ran his fingers through his damp, flat hair before retreating back to the bathroom to style it in the swept back, polished sort of way. 

Pulling out his hair wax from one of the drawers, another buzz drew his attention immediately to his mobile screen.

And his heart took on an exciting rhythm as he noticed he had four new messages from Aziraphale. 

Scrolling up, he encountered the first message followed by a photo. 

Thank you, my dear. 

Large tea at the ready for the occasion!

Then there was an image of a tall, white mug with a rainbow handle full of a dark brown liquid. Crowley saw a bag floating in there and some indiscernible writing on the front of it.

The latest message was a photo of Harry eating something out of Aziraphale’s hand.

He gets cornflowers for breakfast whenever I have a three day line.

Crowley thought his heart might actually burst out of his chest. Aziraphale loved Harry like Crowley loved his plants. And he wasn’t afraid to show him, a near stranger, just how much. 

Regaining control of his senses, Crowley’s thumbs flew across the screen as he texted back. 

What’s your mug say?

Because he was genuinely curious. And it would eliminate his need to keyboard smash his emotions in response to the image of Harry and Aziraphale’s hand. Which might be viewed as slightly psychotic. So it really was a win-win situation for all. 

He then tried to bundle up all of his shock and enthusiasm for his second message. 

Shit, angel! It’s gotta be like? 3am or somethin?

He waited a beat until Aziraphale replied with: 

To answer your first question, it reads: “Stay close to people who feel like sunshine.” Maggie bought it for me one Christmas. 

And yes, it is an ungodly hour, but we depart at 6:15 and I don’t like to rush out if I can help it.

‘Stay close to people who feel like…’ Crowley’s lungs deflated fast and hard. Someone must have been thinking of Aziraphale whenever they designed that one. Because he was the absolute definition of sunshine. 

Not that he would ever say anything like that in a reply. Instead Crowley remarked: Shit. I’m sorry. Will you sleep at all once you get there?   

No need to apologise. I am quite used to it. And I suppose I will. Though I will probably try to stay awake until at least lunchtime and only allow myself an hour or two nap. Maggie has a layover there as well. I think we might try and get brunch. 

Crowley smiled at this and mumbled while he typed, “Oh how nice.”

What about you? Came Aziraphale’s next set of messages. All ready to meet your new boss?

Not quite. Working on the hair now.

I’ll leave you to it then. Once I finish my tea, I’ll need to get started on my own.

Crowley blinked his shock at this. What’d you have to do? Thought those curls just sprung up on their own?

They do. But they’re a right mess if I don’t at least work some curling cream through them.

He couldn’t quite explain it, but the image of Aziraphale’s fingers working product through those bright blonde locks, made Crowley’s stomach clench. Not necessarily with want, but with a desire to just watch him complete the task at hand. 

Was he particular with his technique? Did he only worry about the front part and just do the best he could with the back? Or did he have a three way mirror that enabled him to shape all sides expertly?

He never really studied Aziraphale’s hair beyond what he threaded his fingers through. And even then, all he recalled was just how incredibly fluffy and natural the curls felt before Aziraphale’s mouth lowered to his skin and Crowley lost all semblance of rational thought. So the product he used was either minimal or some miraculous formula that left one feeling soft and fluffy. 

But now he was curious. Now that he had this bit of information, Crowley wanted to ask Aziraphale to show him just how he did up his hair each morning. Which was so incredibly stupid, really. Because that was something one did with a partner. And what they were, well it wasn’t that . 

Suppressing the urge to further indulge these thoughts, Crowley unscrewed the lid of his hair wax and began sculpting his own.

Not only was it one of the few things he could control at the moment, but once finished, he’d have something interesting to send Aziraphale’s way. And the longer he could appear interesting to Aziraphale, the better off this arrangement would be. 

That first night, approximately 9:45pm

It sounded like an invitation, but Crowley liked to be certain. He lifted a hand, carefully brushing his forefinger along the outside of Aziraphale’s soft, grey cardigan sleeve. 

“What do you need me to be?”

Unflinchingly, Aziraphale took half a step closer, sending Crowley’s hand up the back of his arm. Aziraphale’s own hands gently landed at the front of Crowley’s chest. His gaze flicked downward to discover the shape of Crowley’s lips then back up again to search his gaze.  

“Someone who wants this.”

It didn’t quite compute whose lips touched upon whose first. It also didn’t register in Crowley’s brain whether they surged together or it was a slow lean in before they were full on kissing with their arms wrapped around one another. All Crowley knew was that whenever Aziraphale uttered the emphatic this, his eyes fluttered shut and he was a goner.  

He vaguely noted one of his arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, the other coursing up through his shocked, blonde hair. He noticed the thrum at the front of his trousers as their bodies pressed closer and Aziraphale’s lips parted against his . 

It was with that last observation, Crowley couldn’t help himself. Or rather, his tongue couldn’t. It slipped inside Aziraphale’s waiting mouth, probing curiously for what he hoped was a desirable reaction.  

But it was Aziraphale who took him by surprise, capturing Crowley’s tongue between his soft, pillowy lips, and sucking languidly.

Crowley moaned, the pull on his tongue a sensation that shot straight through his core, right down to his rising member. His fingers tugged on blonde locks and dug into the smooth poly blend of Aziraphale’s cardigan.

Everything about Aziraphale felt incredibly warm beneath his touch. And even Crowley’s generally cold self felt as though he was standing in front of an overworked electric heater whenever Aziraphale’s head fell back, exposing the expanse of his neck to Crowley’s persistent lips and tongue.

After laying down a line of kisses from the centre of Aziraphale’s throat, back up along his jugular, and then beneath his jawline, Crowley hissed hotly in his ear, “Like this? ”

“Uhn-hum.” Was the sound that escaped Aziraphale. 

Crowley took his earlobe between his lips and sucked greedily before rolling his teeth across the soft flesh, testing for a response.

“Ohhh…” 

At this more enthusiastic affirmative, Crowley couldn’t help but grin to himself.

“Good?” He asked, tracing the outside of Aziraphale’s ear with his tongue. 

“Yes. Very. Good.” 

Aziraphale nuzzled the side of his face, blindly searching for Crowley's mouth before indulging in another breathless kiss that Crowley ate right up.   

It was here that Crowley released his hold on Aziraphale’s hair and their foreheads fell together.

“You’re really good at that,” he confessed.

Aziraphale let out a breath of laughter, his face tilting back to reveal a dark desire pooling in his eyes.

Crowley’s fingers moved to the front of the man’s button down and he asked, “Can I undo this?”

There was a bob in his throat before Aziraphale nodded.

With unpractised fingers, Crowley struggled for a few moments before he finally found a cadence popping the buttons open on Aziraphale’s flannel shirt.  

Once he discovered an appropriate pace, Aziraphale snaked his face around to pepper light kisses beneath Crowley’s jaw. His hands snuck lower to the front of Crowley’s belt and he murmured directly in his ear, “May I take this off?”

“Ye-yesss,” Crowley groaned, feeling his stomach clench and his desire mount.

Aziraphale tugged on the front of his belt, making everything feel far too confined and far too hot. He nipped at Crowley’s neck, and a desperation stirred within him. He wanted Aziraphale to tear everything away just to feel his touch.

But Aziraphale was maddeningly deliberate with each motion. The way he slowly unfurled the belt from its buckle. How he reached for the bottom of Crowley’s shirt and untucked it with a graceful jerk.

How Crowley longed for him to pop the button of his trousers and shirk them down until they hit the floor. How sweet it would feel to have his perfectly manicured hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him.  

The anticipation of the act made him ache.  

But if Crowley was learning anything from this encounter it was that Aziraphale took his time. 

“May I?” This angel of a man asked him.  

His hands were now poised to undo the knot on his crimson tie. Which made Crowley’s hips jolt forward needily. 

“Please do.”

“Someone’s eager,” Aziraphale taunted with a sweet lilt to his words. He tugged on the knot at Crowley’s throat in a sharp, downward motion. 

“Someone’s a fucking tease,” Crowley growled back.

Aziraphale chortled, pulling the tie the rest of the way apart and then laying the fabric flat against the nearby desk.  

Crowley didn’t wait for Aziraphale to make the next move or the next request. His mouth flew to the other man’s neck that lay exposed by his half buttoned shirt. His hands dived beneath a layer of cardigan and then flannel, fingers brushing over the ribbed vest he wore beneath it all.

“Will you take these off for me?” Crowley pleaded.

“Only if you return the favour,” Aziraphale rumbled.    

Grunting his agreement, both men pulled away, to finish unbuttoning their shirts as swiftly as their shaking fingers would allow.

Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s once pale blue eyes were a sharp slate whenever he flung his cardigan off his shoulders. His gaze was intense and unyielding to the point where Crowley nearly tore his own shirt off. He tried shucking it overhead once it was loosened enough, but his stupid wrists caught in the sleeves and he scrunched and shook out his hands until the shirt fell freely to the floor. 

When he finished, he saw Aziraphale standing before him, white ribbed vest still tucked neatly into his khakis, snug around his middle and showing off the bulk of his arms. 

And goddamn, was he still wearing a gold watch on his wrist and a ring on his pinkie finger? Crowley couldn’t explain it, but this version of Aziraphale half clothed with glinting jewellery and a heady expression, was extremely sexy. 

Especially those arms. Arms that Crowley was fairly certain would soon be wrapped around him from the way Aziraphale’s stare bore into him. Arms that would make him feel safe and wanted, even if only just for a few hours. Maybe even only for a few minutes, because it had been so long for Crowley since he’d last done this and he likely wasn’t bound to last a substantial amount of time. And if Aziraphale decided to bolt directly after what Crowley suspected was about to happen here, he would mourn the loss of those arms around him when it was all over.

A particularly loud moment was occurring on screen and Crowley hastily fumbled with the remote, stabbing the red power button a few times until the screen cut to black. He didn’t need any more distractions. Because Aziraphale standing before him like this was enough of a distraction for him. 

He was really deep in his own head because it took Aziraphale closing the minimal space between them again for him to snap back to reality.

Crowley saw his gaze sweep over his right shoulder appreciatively.

His fingers brushed along Crowley’s collarbone where a greyscale snake tattoo wound around the bone as if it were melded to his body. The touch sent chills across his skin.  

“That’s stunning,” Aziraphale whispered as his fingers continued to stroke the leaves of the ficus that sprouted out behind the snake. “Then again,” he mumbled, now brushing his fingers across the triangular leaves of his dark purple mambo that stretched across his right pectoral, “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Crowley shuddered beneath such attention, reaching for the hem of Aziraphale’s vest as the man drew a lazy circle around his hardening nipple. Hastily unleashing the shirt from his unbelted khaki’s, Crowley wrapped his arms around him, touching the soft skin beneath.

He slowly drew the man against him, murmuring into the curve of his neck, “And you’re so soft and precious and…heaven and hell be damned…I want to feel you against me.”  

Then Crowley heard himself whimper as those wonderfully thick arms linked beneath his own, curving upward until Aziraphale’s palms rested flat against Crowley’s upper back.

Aziraphale angled his face in the opposite direction, kissing the curve of Crowley’s neck. 

“May I take you to bed then?” Aziraphale rasped, the need evident from the way he held tight to Crowley. 

He almost fell over. But instead, Crowley kissed him back, nodded and grumbled something like, “Ungguhuhhh.”

Aziraphale slowly backed them up, nudging Crowley’s legs one leg at a time with each of his own until the back of his knees came in contact with the mattress and he fell backwards.

The whole thing was such a quiet display of dominance even though Crowley had at least three inches on the man that he would have begged until his lungs caved in and his lips turned blue, just to have Aziraphale do it all over again.      

Aziraphale leaned over him for another firm kiss before Crowley scrambled backward to the centre of the bed.

His hand came back up around Aziraphale’s neck, fingers curling among his downy locks, bringing those soft lips back down for more. 

Crowley felt a thigh wedge between his legs. He whined and arched towards it, painfully aware of the unforgiving strain at the front of his trousers.  

“Ohhh…”

Breaking his lips off of Aziraphale’s, his upper body fell to the mattress below and he relished in the sensation of this angel of a man’s thigh rubbing up and down his hardened length. 

He rasped unintelligently on the third stroke, hands gripping Aziraphale’s forearms.

And then on the fourth or fifth or whatever fucking number came afterwards whatever fucking previous number Crowley counted in his head, he moaned, “You’re killing me, angel.”  

Aziraphale’s thigh stopped. His lips lowered to Crowley’s parted ones while his fingers found the top button of his trousers.

“This alright?” He gazed at Crowley, blue eyes glinting like mysterious sapphires, as his hand dipped just a fraction below the dark trousers and cotton pants to touch the flushed skin.   

“Yes,” Crowley told him. His hips wriggled and he took half of Aziraphale’s face in one of his hands as he murmured throatily, “Touch me.”

The zipper snicked down the rest of the way as Aziraphale’s hand sank down two layers of clothing, palming the heat of Crowley’s need.  

“Oh fuck…Aziraaaphale…” Crowley let out a lazy moan, his head lifting to seek out another kiss while the other man lightly touched his length with the pads of his fingers.

The gentle pressure that Azirapahle used nearly sent Crowley over the edge. He didn’t know how Aziraphale did it. Perhaps he did this quite often, which is why he was already leaking so much. 

But Crowley pushed those thoughts aside and with a lift of his hips, he shoved his trousers and pants down, uncovering Aziraphale’s hand that tentatively curled around his dick.  

He saw a thoughtful glance, a bob from Aziraphale’s throat, followed by a discreet licking of lips that sent his hips jerking upward. Voluntarily and most dramatically, of course. 

Aziraphale caught his eye just then, no doubt seeing the cheeky grin that broke across his face.

“See? I knew it. Stunning.” A fiendish smile curled at the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth and he focused on the cock in his hand, thumb moving to slowly spread the wetness all around the tip.

“Ohhh…” Crowley moaned. He reached down to shimmy his clothes down further, needing more space for Aziraphale to move. 

He hadn’t expected it all to feel so nice. Foreplay was always nice, as a rule, but this, this was different. The way Aziraphale took his time. The way every move seemed thought out, every reaction considered before he progressed further, this made his heart beat so hard and fast, he wondered if it was possible to crack a rib.  

Sensing his needs were far greater than he presently gave, Aziraphale brushed his lips to Crowley’s and asked, “What do you like, my dear?”

“Ev-everything,” he stuttered.

Bringing his mouth down to Crowley’s jaw, Aziraphale murmured, “Shall I top you off?”

His heart skipped a beat. And he heard an, “Ohhh fuck, yes…” roll off his own tongue.

Sucking on Crowley’s neck as he lazily stroked him down below, Aziraphale paused to breathlessly ask, “Anything off limits?”

“No,” he answered. 

His brain short circuited as kisses continued along the front of his shoulders and then a tongue swirled around each of his nipples.  

“No, I...” he gasped suddenly. 

Aziraphale paused, his head and eyes lifting from just above his sternum.

“Except…some…humiliation kinks…aren’t really my…”

The angel smiled reassuringly and spoke, “Not at all what I had in mind for this evening, so have no fear.”

“Yeah…yeah I figured your tastes were…fairly classic.” Crowley flashed a grin, running a hand through Aziraphale’s hair once more. 

Smirking up at him, the man rejoined, “There’s a reason why they never go out of style.” As if to illustrate his point, he lightly pinched Crowley’s right nipple with his fingers before laving at it with his tongue.

Crowley let out a shuddering breath, “Suppose not.”

He repeated the same process with his other nipple, inciting another sound of approval from Crowley.  

The lower Aziraphale inched with his tongue and lips and hands, the more Crowley’s body tensed in anticipation for all the promises made that were about to be fulfilled. 

“Just sit back…” Aziraphale nipped at a soft spot just below his ribs, sending a jolt of pleasure right down his middle. “And relax…” He shucked Crowley’s clothes the rest of the way down his legs in a few jagged pulls.

In the tense quiet of Aziraphale fully disrobing him, a set of words jiggled loose a recent memory in Crowley’s mind that prompted him to input jokingly, “And enjoy the flight?”

He watched a crown of blonde descend just above his knee, a low rumble that might’ve been laughter, or at the least, mild amusement, running up the inside of his thigh and shooting straight up through his cock.  

Strong palms stroked up his legs, thumbs dipping into his groin before his whole hands ran over the dips of his hips, catching the softness right above the joint before moving below his body, to grab Crowley’s ass.  

“If you’re into that sort of thing,” was Aziraphale’s delayed retort.

Angling his face downward to catch the intensity of the angel’s hungry eyes, Crowley gulped and tugged at his length. “I think you can see that I am into you. Very into. You.”

Aziraphale’s lips layered kiss after kiss on the top and inside of each thigh, fingernails digging into the flesh of Crowley’s ass the nearer he got to his erection. He licked several stripes along the curve of his pelvis, the heat of his mouth so incredibly close to Crowley’s cock, he practically bumped it with his nose.

Crowley’s hand rested at the base, giving Aziraphale both the room and permission to carry on like he promised. And then a devious glint sparkled in his gaze as he placed a quick kiss at the tip. 

“I can recite the rest of the inflight announcements if that would get you off.”

His chest constricted painfully from another contained peal of laughter that threatened to escape him. Still, it was impossible not to smile at this. But it was more helpful to his cause to taunt right back.

“We can roleplay later.”

It felt like the world had stopped spinning. The curve to Aziraphale’s mouth vanished, his eyes drifted away, and his hands pulled out from underneath Crowley’s ass.

Crowley’s heart stopped, his face was on fire, and from the way his mind blanked, he thought he might be having a stroke.

He cringed, ready to curl into a ball of shame. “Fuck I didn’t mean…I…” 

“Shame I don’t have my uniform on standby,” Aziraphale rejoined with a smirk before his lips lined loose kisses up and down Crowley’s length. “But you create things for a living,” he mumbled before giving a soft suck at the head. 

Crowley inhaled sharply, his head and hand falling back against the bed.

“I’m sure you can create the image in your mind to make this...” This pause was followed by another, albeit lengthier, suck that had Crowley groaning until it scraped his throat. “…more pleasurable.”

It was impossible to even remember what Aziraphale’s uniform looked like whenever the man wrapped his lips around him, leaning forward until his entire length fit inside the hollowed cavern of his mouth. But it hardly mattered because being inside of Aziraphale’s mouth was all the pleasure he needed.

Crowley was naturally curved to one side, and he rather enjoyed a very particular angle that didn’t come with head on oral or even straight forward penetration whenever he topped. After a few bobs up and down his cock, Aziraphale must have noticed the way he kept trying to discreetly manoeuvre his hips to find the much desired spot within his mouth.  

With a hard suck that forced a whimper out of Crowley, Aziraphale pulled off and replaced his mouth with his hand. 

“Tell me Crowley.” He growled while rubbing the slick from his mouth up and down his cock. “Tell me what you need from me. To make you come undone like this.” He licked up the bottom of his cock, making Crowley forget that there was ever even a problem to begin with. 

“Tell me,” he said again. 

His hand worked more urgently and Crowley couldn’t help but thrust up into his hand.  

“Fuck Aziraphale I…” 

His words died on his tongue as the angel man’s lips fluttered the whole way down his sex until he softly mouthed at his balls.  

“I want to know how you like this,” he confessed.

“Fuck…” That was sexy. So sexy he almost forgot that Aziraphale was waiting for him to explain his preference on the matter.

“If you…turn sideways…” He grunted, trying to illustrate just what he meant with flailing arms.

Aziraphale swung himself out from between Crowley’s legs until he was laying sideways across the bed. It was done with such finesse that almost made another drawn out expletive dance along his tongue. 

He got on all fours, his left hand, the one with the gold watch, pressing into the mattress by Crowley’s left hip. His right hand continued stroking Crowley, and that damn ring Aziraphale wore on his pinkie rubbed quite pleasurably over him.  

“Yeah…and then just…oh yess…that…that’s good…really good, angel.”

Crowley’s other hand moved to touch the base of Aziraphale’s still covered ass while he continued doing a marvellous job of sucking his cock.  

“God I wanna touch you too,” he admitted with a whine. 

He tried dipping his hand inside of the slacks, finding smooth silk pants beneath the surface. 

Fuck, that was sexy he wore silk underthings. Just whenever Crowley somehow reached the highest threshold of sexiness, he rose up like some holy sex god.  

Crowley’s hand searched further and he felt Aziraphale grind his front against his outer thigh in response. Crowley felt a seeping heat touch his leg and he groaned. The other man was making a mess of his clothes just as he was currently making a mess on Crowley’s cock.

It was so incredibly tight, the space between the fine curve of Aziraphale’s ass, his clothes, and Crowley’s hand. But he would sacrifice the limb entirely if it meant touching him.  

Aziraphale paused all motion, his mouth still stretched around Crowley. 

Crowley glanced down as Aziraphale glanced up, and he watched the other man single handedly unfasten the front of his trousers, the snick of the zip filling the quiet in such a sensual manner.  

The pressure on Crowley’s hand eased up and he slipped his hand deeper inside Aziraphale’s pants. With his fingers, he carefully spread him open, forefinger circling the rim of his opening. 

Before he could ask if this was ok or if Aziraphale wanted more, he felt his mouth work with renewed enthusiasm, a moan vibrating over Crowley’s dick. Which only made the intense coiling within Crowley’s belly to curl tighter and tighter. A wave of heat burned within the pit of his stomach before the flames caught and slowly fanned downward. The sensation singed his legs and gained movement deep within his balls, the slow yet fierce burn slowly overwhelming him.  

He warned, “Oh god Angel…I can’t…I’m going to…you have to stop…or else…”  

He squirmed beneath Aziraphale’s mouth in an attempt to shift away.

Aziraphale turned his face sideways, those hooded eyelids catching Crowley’s notice. A trail of spit strung off his lip, still clinging to Crowley’s length as he reluctantly pulled off.

Crowley explained thickly, “I want you inside of me whenever I finish.”

Neither one of them moved for a beat and Aziraphale’s unreadable expression sent Crowley’s mind and then his mouth into overdrive.

“I mean…I assumed when you said you wanted to… top me off …you didn’t just mean…with…your mouth…but you…maybe you meant…you know…”

“I don’t…”

Feeling completely unravelled now, Crowley let out a casually anxious laugh, “It’s alright. I probably misunderstood. Just. Ignore me. Carry on. I’ll enjoy what you’ve been doing. It’s been bloody brilliant by the way…’fore me and my big, idiotic mouth…got in the way.”

“No!” Concern flooded Aziraphale’s gaze and then he bit his bottom lip.  

He shifted upright and Crowley’s hand left his ass so that he might sit back on his heels. His eyes fell to some empty space on the mattress and explained in the same anxiously stuttering cadence, “No, it isn’t that I don’t want to…” his brow rose on that particular word, “…I only meant…I don’t have a way for us to… safely do that.”

Relief ballooned in Crowley’s chest that he hadn’t made an entire fool of himself. He let out a grateful breath before swinging his upper body into a seated position. He grinned as he announced, “Ahh…well…good news…I do.”

Aziraphale’s gaze lifted towards him and a curious gleam shone within his eyes.  

Chapter Text

There were three things Aziraphale enjoyed about a layover in Las Vegas. Brunch at Bardot Brasserie; a 1920s French inspired restaurant. Magic shows that left him awestruck; Shin Lim was one of his current favourite performers. And the luxurious accommodations Divinity Airways provided; this time he was staying in the Luxor.

On this trip in particular, Aziraphale could add a fourth item to his list of usual enjoyables…spending the day with Maggie.

With her based out of Seattle and him out of New York, Vegas was a common meeting point for them. Though upon reflection, it had been some time since they last met here. Which made his stomach flutter at the prospect of catching up.

The pair of them flew together a few times when both of them worked for the UK sect of Divinity. But they’d grown particularly close when the company began transferring some folks to their US bases. They both got their start in New York, living together in the same crew pad, commiserating about the younger crowds' disregard for quiet hours and discovering the vast differences between British and American living.

He could always count on Maggie for baked goods to go. She could always rely on him for a freshly pressed uniform. And then there was constant talk about Big Brother, one of their shared guilty tv pleasures.

There were other things too that drew them together, of course. Sightseeing New York City landmarks. Shopping down side streets to support local business owners. Walks in Central Park. The infamous rush to sign up for lottery tickets to the hottest shows on Broadway. Discovering local fare that wasn’t going to break the bank.

Then there was Newt Pulsifer, a first officer transplant from the UK, who sometimes tagged along with them. Though Newt’s interests were more in the sciences than arts and culture, Aziraphale and he got along just fine, both largely due to being perceived as “a little odd,” to the majority of flight attendants who were almost all in their mid-to-late twenties. And the Hayden Planetarium was one of the exhibits Aziraphale kept on his list of recommendations to visit anytime someone asked. He wasn’t entirely sure he would have ever considered visiting it, if Newt hadn’t suggested it as something for them to do one afternoon when it was just the two of them in the house. 

It had been nearly two years of knowing you always had someone to go do something with (whenever Gabriel wasn’t around). Two years of having someone else he could always talk to about his latest adventure (whenever it was something Gabriel wasn’t particularly interested in).

It wasn’t until the temporary housing arrangement with Divinity drew to an end and Maggie received her long awaited transfer to Seattle and Newt moved in with Anathema, his Phoenix based girlfriend, that Aziraphale realised just how much he relied on them. 

Of course Aziraphale encouraged them both to go off and not worry about him. Even if it stung whenever Gabriel showed little interest in them moving together. He could be happy for his friends. Even if his relationship wasn’t progressing at quite the rate he hoped it would be. 

Fortunately, he discovered an ad the Wensleydales posted online for a reasonably priced studio apartment on a third floor walkup, and Aziraphale jumped at the chance before anyone else could. New York real estate being what it was, one couldn’t afford to hesitate.

Gabriel seemed so proud of him whenever he told him about that apartment. Whereas Aziraphale thought it would be easy to give up one day for something bigger and better for the two of them, Gabriel was just relieved they could put off that conversation for a while. Of course, Aziraphale didn’t learn this until after they broke up the extent of how he'd really felt about them.

Shaking those thoughts away now, Aziraphale waited for Maggie (Newt was on a Canadian holiday with Anathema) at one of the small bistro tables in the bar room at Bardot Brasserie. He angled the menu in a way he could read it through his round spectacles, frowning at the realisation that crêpes had not yet returned to the menu.

Such a pity as he enjoyed a well made crêpe. Though nothing compared to Paris, of course. Still, Bardot’s were a fairly close imitation. When they were on the menu.  

Aziraphale picked up his phone to mention this in their group chat, whenever he noticed someone loitering by his side.

Glancing up, he discovered Maggie, her lips done up in her Classic Hollywood red colour that then broke into an absolutely enthused smile.

“Maggie!”

Her pale blue eyes lit up as she returned the greeting, “Hello stranger.”

“Hello!” He stood swiftly and drew her into a tight embrace. 

“It’s been too long,” she remarked before they pulled back.

“I know.” He cocked his head to one side before brushing his hands over the front of his light blue cardigan. “Such is the life we lead though.”

She slid onto the black, iron chair opposite him and asked cheerily, “How are things?”

“Good,” he returned. “Things are good.”

He briefly told her about his last trip to London with his Gran. About the mysterious flowers from her “friend.” They laughed about the connection to Mr Metatron and commiserated over strict teachers for several moments. 

He mentioned the record store, which had Maggie groaning out of mild jealousy since she had an entire wall of records in her flat. She chastised him for not telling her that he was there as she would’ve loved to see what new rarities the shop had and Aziraphale briefly lamented the error on his part. He purposefully held back on mentioning the reason he'd been distracted from texting her while pursuing the wares, when it felt like the universe was intent on making that reason known. 

Aziraphale's phone buzzed a few times in quick succession, Crowley's name flashing up at him. But Aziraphale swiftly hit the side button to dismiss the notifications and changed the subject.

“What about you? How is Seattle?”

“Lovely. I did a group hike the other day on Whidbey Island. The pictures! Oh Az…we even saw an orca! Here.” She momentarily fumbled with her phone and then turned the screen around to show him the pictures.

“My, that seems rather peaceful,” he commented whenever he saw the flat grassy trail overlooking the Puget Sound. 

“It was.” 

She clicked off her phone just as a waiter appeared to take their drink orders, which included coffee with almond milk for Maggie and a mimosa for Aziraphale.

“Ooh champagne?” Maggie cooed, which made him smile. “Celebrating anything good?”

“Not particularly. Just feeling a bit indulgent.”

“What is it they say these days… treat yo self?”

He chuckled at this as they both perused the menu.

“Crêpes back yet?” Maggie asked.

Aziraphaled sighed, “I’m afraid not.” 

“Hmm…pity.”

“But!” With a lifted finger and a desire to make the most of their situation, Aziraphale informed her, “They do have a delightful looking pastry basket I thought we could order to go!” He pointed it out on the menu.

“Ooh yes! I like that idea. Snackies for later,” Maggie answered, her blonde ponytail swaying in agreement. She sat back for a beat, eyes flicking over the menu before she burst out suddenly, “Oh! Did you book a show for tonight? ”

“Not yet,” Aziraphale admitted. “But I saw there were still tickets left for Shin Lim.”

She snorted, “Still trying to uncover the mystery of the plastic card trick?”

“It’s simply astonishing!” He marvelled, dropping his menu on the table. “He takes a deck of cards, has another person place their hands on it, and presto!” His hands flew about excitedly as he attempted to mimic the gesture. “They’re encased in plastic. And then…!”

“...and then they disappear after he picks them up, yes, darling. You’ve told me about it at least six times now.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out. “Sorry.”

He picked up the menu again, trying to mask his disappointment at Maggie’s lack of enthusiasm at a trick he found utterly brilliant. She didn’t mean anything rude by it, he was sure. And he did get a bit one track minded whenever it came to illusions. She wasn’t the only one who felt that way.  

Gabriel had scoffed at his post-analysis of a magic show they went to once at one of those clubs that up and coming performers tried their skills at. 

“You know you can just watch videos on YouTube where people explain how the tricks work?”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Had been Aziraphale’s reply. Then he received a look that he later learned his friends nicknamed The Shit Scowl.

Aziraphale firmly believed Gabriel thought he was being cute. Or humorous. But after many years of being on the receiving end of it, Aziraphale had grown hyper defensive. And then, after a time, exhausted by it.    

His phone buzzed again, and wanting to cast out any additional thoughts of Gabriel, he turned his attention to the person who’d been blowing it up. 

Aziraphale began texting back a reply whenever Maggie interrupted.  

“So…smoked salmon benedict and…?”

“Oh uhm…” Aziraphale peered back at her with a suggestive half smile, “...quiche?”

“Parfait!”

And on that note, he resumed crafting his response.

Aziraphale set his phone down as the waiter came back and they placed their orders without further delay. Once left alone, he saw a spark of curiosity in Maggie’s gaze, her lips twisting off to one side as though she saw something he didn’t and she couldn’t wait to point it out to him. 

“What?” He egged her on with this simple question. 

“It’s been a while since you smiled like that.”

“What?!” The word was draped in laughter now.

“You were smiling. At your phone. Typing furiously away.”

Willing his mouth in a stern line, Aziraphale shot her a level look, “I was not.”

“Aziraphaaale…” she teased out his name far longer than was necessary. “I might not see you every day anymore, but I know a genuine smile when I see one.”

He took a sip from his champagne flute.  

“So…who is he?”

With a lifted brow and a falsetto of unaffectedness, Aziraphale retorted, “Who is who?”

Maggie took up her coffee mug between her palms and shook her head at him. “You know you’re just as cagey as your gran, right?”

He placed his hands on his lap and glanced in the direction of the bar. Aziraphale inwardly deliberated what it was he could actually say about Crowley. He knew he shouldn’t be ashamed of having a friend with a particular type of benefit. He knew Maggie would never judge him for such an arrangement. But he couldn’t help but feel a bit protective about it.

Mostly because he knew Maggie would feel a bit protective of him once he told her how things were with Crowley. 

He saw how she got from the way Gabriel treated him towards the end. How it nearly destroyed their friendship because he refused to see the bad when it was dressed up in smiles and words that sounded like I care about you so much, but really meant something else entirely. 

Just as Aziraphale overly cared for people, so did Maggie. And he didn’t want her thinking poorly of Crowley whenever this arrangement was just as much Aziraphale’s idea as it was the other man’s.

In fact, he’d been the one to initiate things, hadn’t he? At least, that’s how he remembered their last two times together. If anyone would ever be perceived as holding the power in this arrangement, it would be him, wouldn’t it?

It was this thought that had him less worried about Maggie’s reaction. It was this thought coupled with another buzz from his mobile with the message: Tell Maggie I say hi. Unless that’s weird then don’t, that gave him the push to open up to her. 

“His name is Crowley.”

“Crowley?”

He smiled at her astonished reaction and elaborated, “Anthony Crowley is his full name. But he prefers to be called by his surname.”

“Hmm…” Maggie hummed with rapt interest. She leaned forward her bleached brows wiggling as she asked, “And how did you meet Mr Anthony Crowley?”

Aziraphale breathed out a laugh as he told her, “It’s…an interesting story, really.”

“Well, we have time, don’t we?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose we do.”

It was one of the best layovers Aziraphale had in a long while. And he’d gotten laid on the last one, so that was saying something. 

After their delightful brunch at Bardot, Maggie and Aziraphale took turns luxuriating in the jacuzzi bath her suite at The Delano provided. They turned on When Harry Met Sally and napped through most of the afternoon, rousing momentarily to snack on the pastries from the basket they took from brunch.

Then Aziraphale returned to his hotel room to change for dinner and the magic show they were set to attend that evening.

In between the day’s events, he found that Crowley had a message (or seven) waiting for him. And he responded to everything he could. 

Maggie seemed sceptical of Aziraphale’s explanation of who Crowley was to him, particularly whenever he kept picking up his phone and audibly reacting to the majority of his messages. But she kept any strong opinions of the arrangement to herself, remarking instead on how good it was to see Aziraphale so happy once more.    

Shin Lim’s show was amazing. Even though Aziraphale had seen the same tricks at least half a dozen times now, he was dazzled by the man’s showmanship. And by the end of the evening when they had to part ways to head back to their respective hotel rooms, Aziraphale was a little sad to say goodbye to Maggie. 

They promised to try and meet on a layover another time soon. There was even the suggestion that she maybe catch a long haul flight to London for the holidays. While Maggie had several brothers there, they were often off doing their own thing, and she did love Aziraphale’s Gran as though she were another grandkid of hers. 

Maggie told him, as she often did with a tightened smile, “I’ll consider it.” Then after a moment, she added with a lilting edge to her words, “But perhaps you’ll have someone else to take home to your Gran this Christmas?”

“Oh I doubt it very much!” He scoffed in return, but the words stuck with him as he walked down The Strip to his room at the Luxor.

Would this arrangement with Crowley last all the way to Christmas? That was almost three months away. And yet, Aziraphale could not imagine Crowley not being in his life in some way. While it had been only a week of their near constant messaging, there was an ease and continuous flow to their communication that suggested it could go like this forever.

But would Crowley come to expect something more from this? Or would he be content, just as Gabriel had been content, with a seemingly committed relationship that had casual elements attached to it?

Dread suddenly pooled in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. He wasn’t so sure he could do that all over again. He was still healing from the hurt Gabriel caused him. He didn’t want to project any of that onto a future arrangement with Crowley.

Though you sort of have already, a voice reminded him.  

He tried not to think about the disaster of the aftermath of their first time. The tears. Stifling the urge to vomit up Earl Grey tea. His hasty departure with his head bent low. And the second time, well it had been better, except for the nerves that overtook him and had him almost committing plantocide before he could leave without a trace. There was that awkward moment in the car as well.

He should have just kissed Crowley there. He had wanted to. But that part of his brain that told him he was being ridiculous for thinking this was anything more than another casual hookup sprang to life and he departed without a second glance back.  

Because if he had not been able to get Gabriel, who had been committed to him for years, to love him as he felt he deserved, how could he possibly expect a near stranger to feel anything real for him? 

Then he heard Crowley's desperate voice, echoing from a moment in time, not so long ago.

You’re so soft and precious…I want to feel you against me. 

He couldn’t recall the last time anyone called him soft in such a tender way. In his experience, soft was something you didn’t want to be. Yet the way Crowley uttered it in that moment with his arms wrapped around Aziraphale, it was like it was the single most important thing Crowley ever wanted him to be. 

Perhaps he was merely being kind when he said it. He couldn't very well gracefully back away from an evening with someone whenever they were standing half clothed with hard ons, even if he was secretly disappointed by what he saw.

Regardless if Crowley meant the words or not, or if it was merely a particular predilection he looked for in his sexual partners, Aziraphale knew he couldn’t possibly start something serious with anyone until he got over the hurt Gabriel left within him. It simply wouldn’t be fair for another person to have to stitch all of that up. 

But even with Maggie’s quip, even with Aziraphale’s concerns about this relationship taking off before all weather conditions had been considered, he still felt a thrum of excitement within him at the prospect of returning his hotel room and potentially chatting with Crowley. 

With nine hours between them, Crowley would likely be waking up for work soon. And Aziraphale was far too wired from the magic show to even consider the prospect of sleep.

So he pulled open their conversation and began typing.

I’m back at my room for the night. The show was truly mesmerising! I wish you could’ve seen it! 

He’d asked Crowley earlier in the day if he enjoyed magic and he’d been met with the answer of: I don’t dislike magic. But don’t generally seek it out. But I’d go to a show. Any recommendations for my next trip?

Aziraphale offered the name of the club he went to once with Gabriel and a few times with Newt and Anathema. 

He hoped if Crowley went he’d enjoy it and want to tell him all about it. And he told him as such.

Which had led to Crowley saying: Sure angel, and if youre in town, maybe we can go together.

Aziraphale would likely not be in New York the same time as Crowley, so he told him it was a good idea if the timing was right. 

Halfway through changing into his velour lounge pants, his phone buzzed to life and his heart lifted at seeing Crowley’s name illuminated across the home screen. 

Aziraphale sank down on the edge of his bed to converse with him. 

Either Crowley was boycotting proper punctuation at present or he intentionally responded as such. It hardly mattered because the message had its desired effect. Aziraphale felt the air escape his lungs.

He shifted back on the bed to a more relaxed position, half laying on his side. He began typing: Am I just the one? but then promptly stopped because he saw Crowley was also typing. Which was just as well because that question was clearly crossing over the line of ‘this is a casual arrangement.’ A line, very much like the ones marked on a runway to ensure a plane got parked in its proper position, that he knew he must remain to one side of, for his own safety.  

Aziraphale deleted his previous remark and replied with:

There was a stirring deep within Aziraphale’s belly. A longing to be close to Crowley at this very moment. But since there was an entire ocean and now half a continent between them, all he could do was roll over on the bed until he was face down on the mattress. 

He groaned against the duvet before a mild whimpering escaped his throat. His hips drove forward, searching for a grip that wasn’t anywhere in sight but existed at the forefront of his mind.

Another rhythmic thrum stilled his thrusting into the mattress. His face turned to one side as he read another message from Crowley. 

Aziraphale smiled at this, fingers pausing over the letters on the keyboard. At a loss for what to say next, he set his phone down on the end table, trading it for the book in question. He slid up to rest against the small mountain of pillows at the head of the bed and attempted to busy his mind with the story. 

After trying and failing to absorb a few paragraphs, Aziraphale found his mind wandering back to Crowley’s earlier words. 

He wanted to continue talking to the man, but he found himself at a loss for where to safely take this conversation next. They were veering into territory he told himself he would never veer. Perhaps if he ended things for the night, he wouldn’t be tempted to indulge in the sensation that curled in the bottom of his abdomen with Crowley in hand. Perhaps he could return to the tragic love story of Achilles and Patroclus, gorging himself on the beautiful writing that struck melancholic chords within his heart.

Aziraphale trilled a laugh and bit down on his bottom lip.

Aziraphale sucked in a long breath. 

Aziraphale exhaled shakily. His head tipped back against the headboard and he closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He really shouldn’t do this. Sending a photo was rather exploitative. Even if it was just of his grey velour joggers.

But Crowley was now musing if purple tartan was a thing. And Aziraphale had a feeling he wouldn’t let up until he sent the proof he sought. 

He breathed in and out another beat before turning the camera round on his legs, stretching out in front of him, his ankles crossed. He verified that no particular outlines could be seen and then heard the shutter click.  

Without overthinking it, Aziraphale sent the image and then tossed the phone onto the bed beside him.

It took all of three breaths before Crowley returned with: Matching up top? Or...au natural?

Aziraphale gasped at this. What a devious thing to ask. Swallowing hard, he typed back a straightforward: Neither. 

Aziraphale felt like Crowley had taken a melon baller to his insides and scooped out all the parts responsible for any semblance of deep feeling. He blinked fast, feeling a lump rise in his throat, mainly because he couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke so emphatically about him in such a way.

Gabriel certainly hadn’t approached this topic with anything other than critique.

Do you know how many calories there are in beignets? Two is pushing it, but three, well that would account for half of my daily.

Deep fried artichokes? I can feel my blood vessels shrinking from the sodium content alone. And with your family history of high blood pressure you really ought to pay attention to what you’re eating.

Another thrum saved Aziraphale thoughts from spiralling further into that dark place that often threatened to pull him under when the topic turned to this.

Their conversation continued on and on like that until Aziraphale’s eyelids felt heavy. And he found a fifth reason to be glad for a layover in Las Vegas…falling asleep talking to Crowley.

That first night, approximately 8:25pm

They ordered water when Shadwell came around next and their conversation flowed a bit slower as they finished the pizza.

Aziraphale’s earlier enthusiasm was a bit tempered by the knowledge that the pizza was nearly finished and once their glasses were emptied of water, that would be the end of this. Not that he had any expectations from this interaction. But he had been enjoying himself. And up until the reality of going home to his lonely studio flat, Aziraphale had nearly forgotten about his break up with Gabriel.

Crowley must have noticed a change in his demeanour because he commented, “Well this has been nice. I didn’t expect to have such enjoyable company tonight.”

His words warmed the cool dread that threatened to lap at Aziraphale’s insides. And he found himself replying softly, “Neither did I.”

As Crowley’s gaze fixed in his general direction, Aziraphale suddenly found his water glass particularly interesting. 

Fortunately, the other man saw fit to change the direction of their conversation with a question. “Where you off to next?”

He answered without a beat of hesitation, “San Antonio. With a brief stop in St Louis.” 

There was a flutter of amusement that came from Crowley before he elaborated, “I meant…tonight.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale chortled, feeling a bit foolish by the misunderstanding. 

Of course Crowley wasn’t thinking that far into the future. Of course, he was merely thinking about tonight. 

A slightly embarrassed heat covered Aziraphale’s cheeks as he remarked, “Well I…home, I think. You?”

He forced himself to look at Crowley now.

His head cocked to one side, fingers stroking the outside of his glass while he casually remarked, “I’m just at the Radisson. In Times Square.” 

Aziraphale made a sound of understanding. He didn’t feel particularly equipped to carry on a conversation that relied heavily on suggestion at this point in time.  

“Guess I need to take a cab there?” Crowley prompted with a curious edge to his words.

Aziraphale merely swallowed before nodding. “That would be sensible. Especially at this time of day.”

Scrunching up his nose, Crowley confessed, “Have a bit of a silly request, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Alright.”

“Will you…walk me to the curb and show me how it’s done? Hailing a cab in New York, I mean?”

Aziraphale was about to question how Crowley managed to make it to this part of town. It was about a forty minute ride from the airport to here. But he quickly resisted the urge to question the current request laid out before him. Because this was an opening, or possibly an invitation, to something he knew he could never initiate without Crowley’s help.  

So Aziraphale went along with this likely charade, for it would mean more time for…well, for what, Aziraphale didn’t know exactly. But it would mean more time spent in Crowley’s presence. Which he found to be unexpectedly comforting.

Once they settled up with Robert and said their goodbyes, the pair exited the bar together.

It was a warm summer night, perhaps far too warm for Aziraphale to be wearing a button down and a cardigan, especially after a couple of glasses of Chenin Blanc. But dressing for the weather when one travelled as he did, could be disorienting at times.

His hands wound together as he led the way to the edge of the sidewalk, certain his face was most inconveniently flushed from the many layers he chose to wear. 

But all of that aside, Aziraphaled lifted his arm as a yellow car with its top light on, approached. It was done with all the confidence of someone who had experience in this area.  

“You’re looking for the top light to be on,” he explained as the driver rolled to a stop in front of them.  

When Crowley approached the car, Aziraphale realised he didn’t have any luggage. His earlier suspicions confirmed, Aziraphale quipped, “But something tells me you already knew that.”

Crowley scuffed his shoes along the sidewalk, bowing his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I did. Maybe I just…” His hands landed on the top of the car door near Aziraphale's pinkie stroking the outside of his hand, “…don’t like goodbyes.”

“Listen buddy! You gettin’ in? The meter’s runnin’!”

The cab driver startled both of them out of the tunnel vision they experienced.

Crowley frowned. “That’s my cue, I guess.” He briefly squeezed Aziraphale’s hand before telling him, “G’night, Aziraphale.”

“Goodnight.” His hand reluctantly slipped away whenever Crowley climbed into the cab and shut the door behind him. 

A familiar ache of loneliness tore into Aziraphale’s chest for the second time that evening. And with slumped shoulders he turned to start in the opposite direction whenever a blustering Robert Shadwell burst out of the front door of The Duck.

“Oi, Petunia! Was hoping to catch you!” 

Aziraphale spun round and regarded Robert with an arched brow.

“Your boy left this. Looks expensive.”

He opened his palm to reveal what appeared to be a golden tie clip, shaped like a snake with two ruby red eyes. 

Aziraphala hadn’t noticed it on Crowley’s person. But for some reason, as Robert dropped the clip into his outstretched hand, Aziraphale felt like it couldn’t belong to anyone else. 

He couldn’t explain why he felt this way. Maybe because he knew Robert was highly observant when it came to his patrons. Maybe because he hoped this was Crowley’s so he had some sort of excuse to follow him to his hotel.   

Either way, he looked up at Robert and replied cordially, “Thank you, Robert. I’ll see that he gets it.”

With a brusque nod and a grunted, “night,” Aziraphale was left on the curb. He raised his arm for a second time that evening, searching for a cab that would bring him back into Crowley’s orbit.

Chapter Text

He gaped, “I do not have a big…!”

“Alright Crowley?”

He glanced up from his phone to see Bee shoving their carryon in the bin above him. 

Letting out a long breath, Crowley leaned back in his seat. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s cool. Are you…here?” He pointed to the empty aisle seat beside him. 

“Mhm.” Bee nodded and slipped onto the seat. 

“Ah. It’s just…normally when I travel with Eden…”

“...you rack up the bill by sitting in Premium Plus?” They finished for him with a knowing smirk.

He let out a sheepish chortle, “Was that…not allowed? Because no one ever told me I couldn’t do that.” His voice hit a higher octave on that word, which seemed to deepen the amused look on Bee’s face.  

“Hmmm…well until we know one another a bit better, I’d prefer we sit together. In economy. Besides…I need you to brief me on our presentation for the city planning committee.”

Great, a working flight. Just what he wanted. At least they wouldn’t be able to pull out their laptops for the first twenty minutes of the flight or so. 

Bee Elzebul, his new project manager, jumped from rival firm, Inferno Studios, to join Eden. Their qualifications were excellent. Their connections, even better. Tired of the monotony of work provided to them at Inferno, they were seemingly energised by the promised projectload at Eden. And they seemed particularly keen on getting Crowley’s NYC RESO project up and running. Which is why they were now accompanying him on his trips to New York. Crowley only hoped that Bee being around wouldn’t pose an issue for him meeting up with Aziraphale once they finished all their meetings.

Because Crowley’s first impression of Bee was that they were mildly terrifying. Their confidence was both irritating and admirable. Irritating because they were comfortable enough to introduce themselves to the entirety of Eden as: “Bee Elzebul. I’m not your lady or ma'am. Nor am I your man or dude. Just Bee. I'm here to ensure we build the best fucking buildings out there. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. And you should be too.”   

The way they took charge of a room without barely taking up any space at all was impressive. Even Taura didn’t scoff and roll her eyes, which was fairly common anytime anyone who wasn’t Polly asserted some level of authority. Crowley thought about asking Bee if they had any dirt on Taura (aside from the nudes she sent to Hastur that everyone in the office had either seen or heard about, fortunately Crowley was in the latter camp and didn’t have to gouge out his eyes) to get her to comply. 

But before they could get any pleasantries out of the way, Bee was already asking him about the status of the Project NYC RESO and what he needed from them. 

“Uh…nothing really.” Had been his first inclination. 

His previous project manager sort of left the majority of the project tasks up to him. So a symbiotic relationship sounded absolutely foreign to Crowley during this first meeting he had with Bee. 

“Nonsense,” they insisted. “Every architect needs a project manager in some capacity. Even if you successfully herd all the cats, someone still has to clean the shit from the litter box and replace it.”

“I don’t do cats,” Crowley told them lamely.

They shrugged, picking something from beneath their black glitter painted fingernails. “Choose the metaphor that suits you best. Just know I’m here to make a name for myself, love. I didn’t leave the drudgery of Inferno for nothing.”

Their plainly stated ambitions gave Crowley pause. And he regarded them quizzically, “So you want to take over my project, is that it?”

Bee’s dark brown eyes flashed in his direction. They uncrossed their legs and leaned forward, hands folded atop their desk. 

“Not take over, no. You’ll be credited for all the designs. But your financial proposals…” they gestured towards the file folder, “...I mean…just with a single glance, I can tell you're off by several digits.” 

Crowley’s jaw tensed at this critique, but he respectfully remained silent.

“Your project plan.” Bee tapped on another folder and explained, “Hardly any details of the full scope of the implementation.” 

His mouth dropped open at this one. Crowley had spent months determining the scope of his project. “Now wait just a minute…”

“And,” Bee intoned firmly, effectively quieting him, “I know a far superior construction company at a third of the cost.” 

Splaying their hands open, they told him with a thoughtful air, “None of this is your fault, by the way. Well, aside from not saying anything to Polly about what a shit for brains project manager Luc was. It seems to me you were doing both jobs and getting paid for just the one.”

Crowley exhaled and shifted in his seat. He wasn’t going to throw his previous boss under the bus. Bad mouthing didn’t make for a good first impression. Even if he felt that Bee had read the situation with a frightening amount of clarity.

Luc Steifer was from a well to do family who owned dozens of properties in Berlin. From what Crowley gathered, he hadn’t done much when pursuing his architectural degree, but wanting to appease his father, went into the family business in some other way. 

Of course, his father, a successful architect, cast him out of the family, save for whatever money Luc’s grandfather left him in a trust. It was all very dramatic and likely traumatising. As a result, Luc was an arsehole to just about everyone. Entitled and a born delegator, no one was entirely sure what it was he did for Eden. But having his name attached to projects helped open doors and connections that Crowley that he didn’t previously have.

Which is why he kept his mouth shut, his head down, and tried to shoulder all of the work on his own. 

That is, until Luc vanished one day without any real explanation.

At least Bee was willing to help him pick up the pieces and work with him to make this project a success. Even though they were annoyingly ambitious.

His phone buzzed to life on his lap, bringing him back to the present. The corners of Crowley’s lips twitched whenever he saw it was Aziraphale.         

Pas de réponse intelligente? Quelle surprise! 

He snorted but then bit on the inside of his cheek. His eyes darted to the right, checking to see if Bee had noticed. But they were busy furiously typing away at something themselves. Relief spread through Crowley’s chest at the realisation that he wouldn’t have to explain his reaction. 

Not that he was ashamed of Aziraphale and what they were doing. But if asked, Crowley felt it would be rather difficult to explain their relationship to others. Mainly because he didn’t know how Aziraphale wanted to be perceived, if at all, to anyone else in his life. 

He was so fortunate that Ligur and Nina were so busy with their own lives that they hadn’t had a family dinner in nearly two months. Because they would be sure to notice that the same Aziraphale who continuously texted Crowley and painted a near permanent smile on his face was the same one he mentioned to them whenever they initially hooked up. 

And he knew they would have at least half a dozen things to say about that. Nothing judgmental, mind you. But they could be annoying little shits anytime there was an inkling of anyone new in Crowley’s life.

So it was just easier to keep Aziraphale all to himself. By doing this, there was no added pressure that this absolutely had to work out so that others might not suffer disappointment. By doing this, they could simply enjoy one another.

Smiling to himself as he reread this latest strand of messages, Crowley responded.  

Crowley tucked his phone in the pocket of the seat in front of him and then leaned back in his seat. As he closed his eyes, he noticed the brilliant rays of sunlight coming through the round window of the plane streaming across his face.

It was then that the visions of reuniting with Aziraphale and what that might look like danced to the front of his mind. And he couldn’t help but think, even with all the work that was still left to be done, it was going to be a good trip. 

That first night, approximately 10:00pm

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. A sharp breath pierced through the tense silence of the moment before he mumbled, “Oh. I see.”

“Should I get the condom now?”

He watched Aziraphale’s chest balloon out and his chin dipped down on his next exhale. 

Which led Crowley to burst out, “Unless you don’t want to. Which is totally fine if…” 

He slid closer to where Aziraphale perched on his knees. Crowley ran his hands over the man’s thighs until their eyes met once more. 

“If you don’t want to…we can just…” he trailed off again with a shrug. 

His hands stopped just above Aziraphale’s knees. He wasn’t exactly sure what he ought to suggest as an alternative to this, but it felt like an important thing to do.  

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face, gaze bearing into him as he replied, “I want to.” He left a swift kiss at the tip of Crowley’s nose and then suggested, “You ought to get the condom.”

Crowley half rolled over onto one side and started rifling through his trousers that lay a short distance away from them on the bed. He pulled out his wallet and then in the secret compartment behind his ID, was the shiny, light blue foil. 

With a crooked grin, he presented it to Aziraphale, who looked as though he were studying for some sort of complicated maths examination. 

Aziraphale regarded him with those solemn, steely eyes for several moments before he took the condom from Crowley. Then he took one of Crowley’s hands and placed it against the bulging wet spot at the front of his beige trousers. 

“Touch me?”

It was a whispered plea that made Crowley inhale shakily. He hadn’t expected that sort of tone to break through the look of unaffectedness Aziraphale wore like some kind of protective mask.

Crowley’s mouth surged upward to the other man’s lips just as his hand rubbed Aziraphale’s erection more purposefully.

After wrapping his free hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley swallowed another groan, his teeth lightly grazing those soft swollen lips. 

“I’m gonna take these off, ok?” Crowley rasped, hand pressing firmer into the front of his trousers.

Aziraphale made an affirmative noise, his lip still captured between Crowley’s teeth. 

Crowley’s gaze snapped to full attention. He saw a break in Aziraphale’s otherwise calm exterior. The other man glanced at the ceiling, blinking several times before sounding effusive, “I-I’d like to do this a certain way and I…well, I want to be sure it’s ok with you before I…” 

He exhaled steadily, arched a brow, and then lifted the condom as if that explained everything.

“Well what you’re suggesting can’t be too daring,” Crowley assured teasingly. He tipped back his head, mirroring the same study Aziraphale made of the ceiling. “Seeing as there is no chandelier to hang me from.”

Aziraphale managed a weak laugh. 

Crowley smiled and their eyes slowly found one another once more. He waited for Aziraphale to explain precisely what he meant.

“I’d prefer if you would…turn around? Is that alright?”

Crowley blinked in surprise. Because to him, discussing preferred positions seemed like such a reasonable request. Then he answered easily, “Sure. I like it from behind just fine.”

“Alright.”

“But first…can I please …see you?” 

Aziraphale chuckled and nodded before finally undoing the belt at his trousers. He slid off the bed and used his feet to slip off his shoes that thunked against the hotel room carpet and then he lowered two layers of clothes down to the floor. 

Crowley took in the sight of his thick, uncut member, standing upright. Without any hesitation, he crawled across the mattress towards him, his desire to touch it and taste it overriding everything else.

“So fucking thick. I wonder if you’ll even fit.” He breathed in the musky smell of the other man and wrapped his hands around the back of Aziraphale’s thighs to draw him closer. 

“Oh uhm…if you do that I won’t be able…ohhh…alright…if you insist.”

Crowley worked his mouth over Aziraphale’s cock, drawing out string after string of half sensible words from him.

“Ohh…unf…I won’t…oh I won’t last…if you…keep that up…” 

It was at this mild protest that Crowley abandoned all efforts and got up on his knees, one hand stroking Aziraphale’s now slick cock. Their mouths urgently sought one another in a heady, open mouthed kiss. 

Crowley’s head began to spin from it all. And when he began to feel weightless, like he might suddenly float away from consciousness, he broke contact and murmured wryly, “Bet you’re always the sensible one.” 

Aziraphale flashed a fleeting smile and returned, “No, not always, I’m afraid.”  

Before Crowley could offer up another smart retort, his body bowed back whenever Aziraphale crawled towards him. There were several thoughtful kisses left against his lips before Aziraphale pressed a hand at Crowley’s hip, slowly turning him around.  

Tearing his mouth away from Aziraphale to get on all fours, Crowley shivered beneath the soft touch of two hands running up from the back of his waist to his shoulders. A perfectly manicured hand landed beside his left one on the mattress and then the welcoming weight of Aziraphale’s body covered him like a blanket, the surprising jolt of his cock brushing between Crowley’s thighs giving him reason to gasp. 

Aziraphale’s pillowy lips laid kiss after kiss along the side of his neck, breathing hard and fast as he reached for Crowley’s chest. He took a nipple between his fingers and gently pinched it before brushing his fingers across it and the flushed skin of his body below.

“Is this ok?” He asked, his lips dragging against the shell of Crowley’s ear. 

“Hell yes.” 

His hips pushed back as if to articulate this point further, driving Aziraphale’s cock deeper between his legs.

With a shuddering breath, the other man left a line of kisses across the expanse of his shoulder blade.

“Will you lie down for me?” Aziraphale breathed out while he drew wet kisses down his spine.

He moved back, hands skating downward to Crowley’s hips, holding them close as his upper body descended to the mattress. 

“Like that?” Crowley asked with his cheek propped up against the soft, heavenly pillow.

Aziraphale whispered hoarsely, “Yes, just like that.” 

His fingers brushed over Crowley’s aching cock again. 

“Oh please…” He moaned his need, hips wriggling high in the air.

With a ripple of amusement, Crowley heard the other man murmur, “Impatient, dear?”

“I’ve been very bloody patient, thank you!”

Another soft peal of laughter rang out just before a set of lips touched down at the base of Crowley’s spine. The words sailed over his skin in between each kiss Aziraphale left on either side of his arse. “Hmmm…I suppose…you…have…been…exceed…ingly…patient.” 

“Ohhhh…” Crowley whined, desperate to feel something breach him now. 

Sensing his heightened desire, there was a slow intake of breath right before two thumbs parted him. He waited. One second. Then two. Finally on the third beat of his heart, Aziraphale closed the space between them with his mouth. 

It was a slow kiss that upon parting, allowed Aziraphale’s tongue to sweep flatly across the puckered flesh of his arsehole. 

“Fuckk…” Crowley cried out encouragingly, feeling two sets of fingernails dig deeper into his flesh as Aziraphale set to work.

He circled the outer edge a few times with his tongue before laying messy kiss after messy kiss against his tight opening. 

Crowley’s hand flew to his cock, mad desperation seizing hold of him as a muffled moan roared straight through him.

“Oh sweetheart I…oh fuck…”

He hadn’t meant that oh fuck to escape. Just as he hadn’t meant for the sweetheart to ever be heard either. 

But if Aziraphale was bothered by it, he didn’t allow it to show. Instead, he continued slicking Crowley up with his tongue and lips until Crowley felt himself positively dripping from both ends. 

“More?” 

His finger caressed the tight opening suggestively, and Crowley managed to croak out a pleading affirmative that broke off the moment Aziraphale’s finger gently pressed inside of him. 

“Fuck,” Crowley whimpered.

“Good?” Aziraphale prompted with his free arm wrapped tightly around Crowley’s waist.

He hissed, “Yessss.”

And they continued in monosyllabic sentences while Aziraphale gently fucked him with one finger, then two. Crowley forced his hand to slow, otherwise this would all before over because he could feel the other man fill him up inside. And he had wanted to know what that felt like from the moment he saw Aziraphale’s cock. 

Which is what prompted him to growl over his shoulder, “I need you in me. Now .”

Aziraphale moaned at this and his teeth grazed a soft spot along Crowley’s side, inciting another rush of pleasure in his lower abdomen. 

There was the loss of fingers for a few moments as the foil tore and the rubber rolled onto Aziraphale’s length, but then Crowley felt whole again whenever Aziraphale gradually slid back into him. 

“Oh. Fuck .”  

Hearing Aziraphale mutter such a profanity made Crowley tighten around him. He wasn’t entirely certain this man was capable of swearing until now. In an attempt to relax, he lifted his backside, and exhaled at length, “Hnnng…yessss angel. Yesss…”  

Aziraphale grunted, “You are…sooo…incredibly tight.”

“Or you are just…sooo…incredibly big,” he returned weakly.

“We could continue debating the reasons for why this feels so wonderful or I could…”

“...just fuck me? Yeah, I choose option two.”

Aziraphale let out another breathy sound that might’ve been a soft laugh. He shifted behind Crowley, sending his dick deeper inside and eliciting a gravelly moan from him. 

“Is this…you alright?”

Crowley whined, “Bloody perfect!” 

With both hands tightly gripping Crowley’s hips, guiding him further back along his length until he was fully sheathed inside, Aziraphale instructed, “You’ll tell me what you need, won’t you? Because I would very much like for you to come undone like this.”

“Yessss…” Crowley whimpered. 

“Good.”

Aziraphale's hips rocked back until he nearly slipped out and when he pushed forward with fierce determination, he made Crowley see stars of his own making. Which was just as well because it had been such a long since he’d gone stargazing. So long in fact, he forgot how hot they needed to burn in order to achieve their beauty. And he knew, even without having to see, because Aziraphale was fucking him so urgently that there was a chance his skin might catch fire and they might shine just as beautiful as two pinpricks in a midnight sky. Even if only for a single night. 

Chapter Text

While Aziraphale was accustomed to hauling his luggage up three flights of stairs each time he returned home, there were some days when his exhaustion caught up with him and he longed for an elevator. 

He wasn’t the sort to bother his neighbours by allowing his wheeled suitcase to thunk against the edge of eighty-four steps either. So he awkwardly waddled upwards, with one bag thumping rhythmically into his hip, his arms straining from hugging the wheeled luggage to his broad chest.

By the time he made it to his apartment landing, he’d broken out into a slight sweat. It didn’t matter how often he did this, it was still strenuous work. Particularly whenever he was eager to get home and unknowingly increased his pace up the stairs.

Which, it seemed, on this particular occasion he’d done.

He regained his breathing as he fumbled with getting the key in the lock and then he lifted his suitcase handle, dragging it inside before closing the door behind him. 

The fresh sweetness of his lavender vanilla air freshener greeted him as did the quiet rustling that came from within Harry’s pen situated across the room.

“Alright Harry. I’m here now,” he crooned. 

It was a short walk from his front closet to the bedroom-living room that comprised his studio apartment. En route to greet his scampering bunny, Aziraphale lay his luggage on top of his neatly made bed and unslung his smaller bag from his shoulder before arriving at Harry's pen, which was situated below one of the windows.

Harry leapt across the artificial grass that ran the whole length of his dominium, turned to jump inside the section of leftover kitchen cabinets Aziraphale hollowed out to make a multilayered hutch, before zooming back into the penned-in section that stretched about three feet in front of it.

Aziraphale chuckled as he watched Harry’s back legs kicking with additional excitement.

“Hellloo you.” 

He bent over and reached a hand inside.  

Harry began bouncing on his back feet, front paws extended upright to practically clasp the proffered hand.

With his other hand, Aziraphale opened the metal gate that he kept locked whenever Harry was left alone and the white ball of energy sped out of the pen, binkying his way towards the kitchen.

While Harry completed his usual welcome circuit of kitchen, pen, living room, bed (via the foam steps Aziraphale installed on the right side), pen, bathroom, living room, before bouncing a little less enthusiastically across the bed, Aziraphale began unpacking his bags. 

“I’ll be here for another three days,” he told Harry as he separated his uniforms from the rest of the clothes he took to Paris. 

Aziraphale glanced up and saw his rabbit scratching at the microfiber throw he kept on top of his comforter (he really did miss the concept of a duvet). With a soft smile he added, “Then just two day trips. You won’t even realise I’m gone.”

Harry turned to chase his tail. 

“I’ll be going out tonight. But we’ll have plenty of cuddles until then.”

Aziraphale moved to the far corner of the living space to where the laundry closet was, shoving his uniforms into the washer that rested atop the dryer.

Once the laundry was sorted, he stowed his suitcase under the full sized bed and kicked his toiletry bag in the general direction of the nook (because it wasn't exactly long enough to be deemed a corridor) that existed outside his bathroom. A notable clunking sound reminded him of the cardboard box that remained pressed up against the corner of the living room wall.

At the sight of it, Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh. He couldn’t believe he still had to deal with its presence. Finding his phone half lodged underneath Harry’s behind, he picked it up to open up a chat full of unanswered messages.

I just wanted to follow up with you and see when you might be able to stop by to gather your things. As a reminder, I will be here until Friday, so if you would like to collect them prior to then, please let me know so we can arrange a time that works for the both of us.

He took in a deep breath before hitting send. As he watched it update to status “sent,” paused before allowing himself to exhale.

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure why he was still so anxious about messaging Gabriel. It wasn’t as though he still worried what Gabriel thought of him. 

So why was he still giving Gabriel the power to cause him great distress? 

Perhaps if he was still in therapy, he might understand this better. But he stopped going whenever she helped him come to the conclusion that Gabriel was not good for him. 

Perhaps he ought to consider talking to Tracy again. He could tell her that he left Gabriel. But then he'd have to explain what was happening with Crowley and well, what if she dissuaded him from continuing that relationship just as she'd done when he was with Gabriel? He couldn't bear for her to be right again.  

Though, he could be wrong. She could tell him that Crowley wasn't Gabriel. That he ought to give him a real chance. But what could they even be really? Crowley lived in London and had no interest in returning. Aziraphale's life was in New York. Even if they did continue casually meeting up like this, it likely wouldn't turn into anything real anyway.  

He was likely worrying for nothing. Gabriel had been good at getting him to do that.

"Stop it," he told himself audibly before allowing himself to check his phone once.

Unsurprisingly, Gabriel had not read his message yet. He wondered if he ever would truthfully. Aziraphale thought perhaps he ought to google how long should you keep your exes things in your flat before tossing them out? Surely they were approaching an unacceptable sort of timeline.

With a long yawn and a look at Harry curled up in a ball on his bed, Aziraphale decided he'd think about it later. The long day’s work along with the time difference was slowly catching up to him. And the thought of being fresh and alert for Crowley later had Aziraphale settling down for a much needed kip.

Tossing Gabriel's shit could wait.

The rustling of tiny paws digging into his bed coverings stirred Aziraphale’s sluggish mind awake. Slowly blinking his way back to consciousness, his stomach dropped as he became aware of the darkness that filled his apartment.

He gasped, “Shit!” 

His body lurched upright and he blindly fumbled for his phone, which he believed he left somewhere on the bed. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

Clutching the device, he tapped the screen to life and his heart picked up its pace whenever he saw it was full of WhatsApp notifications. All from Crowley.

“Nooo!” He wailed as he worked to unlock his phone on the third attempt of typing in his passcode and clumsily found his way to the app (nearly deleting the contacts book icon in the process).

His stomach clenched as he read through all of Crowley’s messages, beginning with a cluster time stamped at 7:55pm.

Then a lone message around 8:25pm.

Followed by another one sent about thirty minutes later.

Then there was a string of heartbreaking messages shortly after nine.

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip whenever he got to the next cluster, sent closer to ten.

He then let out a choked sound of despair as he learned it was currently half eleven. And then his fingers frantically danced across the screen to offer up an explanation.

He paused then, waiting for the greyed out checkmarks to turn blue. When they didn’t after a few minutes, Aziraphale leaned over to the left side of his bed, lightly touching the brass base of his floral lamp. He squinted against the sharpness of the light that suddenly filled the room. 

He considered his options while his eyes grew accustomed to the change. He could wait for Crowley to respond to him and then act. Or he could hastily freshen up and go without the confirmation that Crowley was still there. The second option might indicate his genuine desire to meet up, regardless if it was three hours later than they originally planned. But that would only be viewed in that light if Crowley was still at the bar.

And what sort of state would he be in upon seeing Aziraphale? If he’d been drinking large scotches all night, he might cuss him out. Or he might be so angry that he gave Aziraphale the silent treatment until he begged for forgiveness.

Both of these were possible realities that shook Aziraphale’s confidence until it chipped like the edge of a teacup when it was accidentally dropped inside the kitchen sink.

But then he remembered a particular quote from Maya Angelou that stuck with him.

When people show you who they are, believe them.

Such a simple sentiment. And yet, wholly true.

If Aziraphale learned anything from his last failed relationship, it was that he could do better at asserting himself and his needs. Just as he could accept that not everyone was as inherently good as he’d like to believe.

Perhaps showing up at The Duck would allow him to put what he learned about himself to use again. And, if he had any more luck sprinkled about in this universe, perhaps in showing up he’d cross paths with Crowley.

He checked his phone one more time. He was still on unread. 

His mind continued conjuring up possibilities. Crowley might have silenced his notifications. Or he could have gone back to his hotel room and fallen asleep.

Whatever the reason he hadn’t seen the messages, Aziraphale decided to take his chances and show up anyway. It would either go horribly wrong or, like with many things in his life, not nearly as bad as he convinced himself it might be. 

And if things didn’t go completely tits up, he’d show Crowley precisely the type of person he was in the process.

In spite of it being a Tuesday and nearly midnight, The Duck was moderately crowded. All of the barstools were occupied. As were most of the high top tables situated at the front of the establishment.

Aziraphale scanned the entirety of the bar, hoping for a glimpse of red hair, glinting beneath the low lights, or to catch Crowley’s noticeable glasses. But he could not find either at the bar nor at the high tops.  

That just left the booths near the back. Which upon first glance, appeared to be empty. But Aziraphale hadn’t moisturised his face and exchanged his rumpled white undershirt and sweats for a brown corduroy jacket and dark jeans to operate under appearances alone. He had to be certain that Crowley wasn’t there.

And he became certain the moment he dropped down the single step that separated the front of the bar from the back and turned his head to the right. He became certain that Crowley was there, practically squatting on his booth seat, his body leaning over the table to animatedly engage someone across from him.

And that someone, a dark and relatively handsome (from what Aziraphale could glean at this short distance, anyway) man, was stroking the back of Crowley’s hand and giggling at whatever it was Crowley was rambling on and on about.

Aziraphale felt like he’d been punched in the gut. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. 

They weren’t a couple. But they weren’t exactly friends either.

Because friends didn’t hook up with one another and endlessly flirt. But they did.

Friends didn’t feel like their heart was tearing in two whenever they saw their pal flirting with someone else. But that’s precisely what Aziraphale felt now.

If he was a different sort of man he might go over and confront Crowley about engaging with someone else in a way that was difficult to interpret any other way. Particularly as Crowley kept leaning in, his other hand now on the table, reaching towards the other man.

But Aziraphale was mostly even tempered. It took a lot to upset him to the point of confrontation.    

And while it was upsetting to see Crowley flirt with someone else in his absence, they never discussed what they were to one another. But now it was fairly apparent what they were. Or weren’t. 

So Aziraphale swiftly turned on his heel and hurried back out of the bar. His breath fluttered in and out, like nightingale wings attempting to brave a strong headwind. And his eyes burned in a painfully embarrassing manner. His movements were clumsy as he tried to navigate his way outside the bar.

When the crisp night air hit him in the face, he was grateful that the anonymity that living in a city like New York City brought him. 

For even though quiet tears were forming and he was sniffing harshly, people passed by him without stopping to ask what was wrong. And for that, he was eternally grateful. Because he couldn’t quite understand what was wrong himself. 

They were casual. He asked for something casual. Or at least, he thought he did. Suddenly, Aziraphale couldn’t remember if he’d actually asked for that or simply thought it in Crowley’s presence.

Regardless, they hadn’t had any sort of conversation clarifying what they were to one another. So he really had no right to be this upset. Logically he knew this. But if there was one language the heart was not fluent in, it was logic.

The stroll home was meant to be a short, hurried one. He was only a block and a half away from The Duck. But apparently it was not a short enough stroll. Nor was he hurrying enough. 

Because somewhere in between the honking of car horns and the general whiz of movement he swore he heard someone shouting something that mildly resembled his name.

“‘Zirafel!”

He slowed, but did not stop or turn. He could very well be hallucinating (or hoping) he heard someone, who sounded like Crowley, chasing after him. But in reality, it probably wasn’t happening. People didn’t chase after Aziraphale. He chased after them. Until he was so winded and so tired of doing it that he simply gave up. 

He shook his head and pressed on, convinced the noise had been something other than his name.

That is, until he heard it again. More clearly and this time, uttered in a string of frantic, elongated syllables that most definitely sounded like his name.

“‘Ziraaafellll! Zira! Ziraaphel–!”

Alarmed by this revelation, he halted and whipped around to see Crowley wildly leaping from one side of the sidewalk to the other. It was outlandish that anyone could move in such a manner. Like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to be a long jumper or a ballerina. 

But leave it to Crowley to turn chasing after someone into a sort of game that consisted of him leaping to avoid people, fire hydrants, and carefully curated patches of sidewalk trees.

When he finally found a clear path, Crowley rushed towards him before skidding to a sudden stop. He bounced between his two feet, shifting his weight a few times before he settled mainly on his right leg.

His arms flailed out to the side, brow arching above his dark glasses whenever he asked, “Wot’re you…doingg?” 

“I was just going home.” 

Aziraphale gestured to the direction of where his building was. He kept his focus in that direction until Crowley spoke again.

“I mean…you…I thaawt you…that wassn…he…’Zirafail he wassn…naawt ‘mportantt…”

He gently lifted a halting hand. “Crowley, you don’t need to explain yourself. We had a date. I mean–” He winced at his poor choice of words. “Not a date, but a…a…a meetup!” 

Yes, that was a much better word, he thought. 

“Anyway we scheduled a meetup and I didn’t stick to the timing so…”

“Whyyy? Whyyy didn’ youu? Thought you…didn’ waaaant…that you…overme…”

The desperation in Crowley’s voice struck Aziraphale square in the chest. He took in a breath to give him a calm response.

“I missed my alarm. Again. I must’ve forgotten to set it before I had a lie down. And…oh it’s so silly, really. I can’t believe I did it.”

He paused here, watching Crowley peer back at him. It was difficult to know what he was thinking with his dark glasses on.

So Aziraphale continued explaining, “I wanted to come. I was sooo looking forward to it and I tried messaging you, I did, but I don’t think you saw it and-and-and all I can say is, I’m sorry, Crowley. Really I am.”

All that worry, all that regret bubbled up in his throat, forcing Aziraphale to lift his gaze up to the heavens. He really didn’t want to cry. Not in the middle of the New York City sidewalk. Not in front of Crowley. Not again.

Movement caught Aziraphale’s attention and Crowley’s hands worked up through his own hair, practically tugging his expertly styled quiff apart. “Arghhh I’m succchhaaaarse.” 

Aziraphale seized hold of those hands, not wanting Crowley to harm himself. “You aren’t.”

Crowley’s head fell back and he stamped a foot. “M’am.”

“You aren’t, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezed his hands more insistently. “I swear.”

When Crowley appeared to look at him once more, his head tilted to one side and those lovely, dark eyebrows of his inverted above the rim of his glasses. “I wasssjust saaadd. And I-I cocked’it all up. Eric wasssn’...wasnnanythin…”

“Oh I did a pretty good job cocking it up as well,” Aziraphale mused as he tilted his head opposite Crowley’s.  

There was a beat of silence where they studied one another. Though to what end result, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure. It just felt as though this was something Crowley needed. Just like he needed to forget that the flirty man’s name was Eric. And so, they just stood there, staring and waiting to see who would speak next.

It was Crowley who broke the silence by asking, “You reeeallly wanded to come?”

“I did,” Aziraphale confessed.

Crowley exhaled, his head bowing forward so violently that he threw himself off balance and into the front of Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Oof!” He stumbled back, arms coming round Crowley’s body in an attempt to steady them both.

“Ohgoddss…help,” he croaked out.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale breathed, squeezing Crowley’s middle encouragingly. He asked softly, “How much did you have to drink?”

“Tutu muchh,” Crowley whimpered.

“It’s alright,” he reassured. A lump of guilt working its way to the back of his throat. “You’re alright.”

A guttural noise that sounded like, “fuckedup,” escaped the other man.

“Nooo…” Aziraphale soothed, rubbing his back. “Nothing of the sort.”

Another choked sound came from the front of Aziraphale’s jacket that he couldn’t quite comprehend. So instead of asking Crowley to repeat himself, Aziraphale bent his face and murmured into his ear, “Do you want to come back to mine?”

Sniffing hard, Crowley slowly peeled himself away from Aziraphale’s embrace. His head bobbed and he choked out, “Just…dunno if I…probababably  useless…”

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s shoulders, forcing his eye. “My dear, I just want to make sure you’re safe. I don’t expect a single thing from you. So put that from your mind, if you please.”

Crowley brought the back of his hand up to his nose and swiped. He muttered lowly, “Don’t deserve…”

“You do deserve,” Aziraphale asserted. “Now, shall we?”

He half turned until they were facing the right direction, one hand pressed into the centre of Crowley’s back, the other gesturing for them to walk on together.

Crowley’s head fell into the the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder and he mumbled sleepily, “Feel safe wiff you…aaagel.”

“I’m glad,” he returned, finding that he truly was.

That first night, approximately 10:10pm

Aziraphale wasn’t exactly keeping time, but it couldn’t have been very long from the moment he slipped into Crowley to when the man clenched down around him as he finished. And even less time passed before Aziraphale arched his back and moaned through his own release.

The noise he made was a low, growling sound that drowned out Crowley’s quiet panting. Aziraphale’s face tilted skyward as though he could see beyond the cheap plastered ceiling to the stars painted in the sky above them. He wondered if the ones he saw now, twinkling behind his eyelids, could rival the real thing. But now was not the time to be thinking such thoughts.

I’ll have you seeing stars every time.

The ghostly whisper of old words resounded in his mind, prompting his eyes to fly open and Aziraphale to slip swiftly out of position. 

Turning around until his legs hung off the bed, he disposed of the used condom in the rubbish bin under the desk.

He didn’t quite know how to fill the awkward silence that unfurled between them. Glancing to the floor at the foot of the bed, he noticed his silk boxers, still tucked within his trousers. He stooped to shove his legs back inside them. 

From over his shoulder, Crowley heaved in astonishment, “That was…wow. I’m still seeing stars. You…you are…spectacular…at that.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched as he tugged his clothing up to his waist, carefully tucking in the white, ribbed vest he kept on this whole time. Such praise was…unexpected. 

He was more accustomed to a smack on the bottom followed by a: Well played. Or an even cringier: Good game, bae.

Gabriel treated sex like a sport. To him, it was about conquering or being conquered more so than intimate expression. The focus was on the release and who could get there faster. And when it was all over, he’d shower, head to the gym, or busy himself with his work. The few times Aziraphale tried talking to him about how it made him feel, he’d been met with varying degrees of dismissiveness. 

I told you it was great, bae. What else do you want me to say?

With an ass like that, what’s not to enjoy?

Aziraphale, it was fine. Do you think I would have finished if it wasn’t good for me?

Any outsider might judge him for deeming Gabriel’s responses as acceptable. For believing that this was just how he communicated: bluntly with a hint of exasperation in his tone. 

It wasn’t until Aziraphale sought therapy that he realised Gabriel was lacking the emotional intelligence he needed in a partner. There were other things too, like the objectification of his body and the gaslighting, but the emotional intelligence deficiency had been the first revelation. Which was the beginning of the end for their partnership.

An ending that had led Aziraphale to this moment here. This night of passion where Crowley, who’d known him all of a few hours, was already eagerly offering up his appreciation for Aziraphale’s efforts without any self conscious airs. Crowley, who didn’t make him feel like his worth was only tied to the way he looked or how he behaved, but how they came together. And because of this unexpected compliment, it took Aziraphale several seconds before he turned on a genial smile and murmured, “You were pretty grand yourself.”

Crowley slowly sat upright on the bed, drawing his knees up into his chest until his long arms came round to hug them in place. He almost looked shy now with his chin propped atop his knee and head cocked to one side as he peered up at Aziraphale with those hypnotic, golden green eyes of his. 

It appeared that Crowley wanted to say more. That he was on the verge of making this into something more. 

And Aziraphale couldn’t have that.

Clearing his throat and looking about the room for something, he stammered, “I’ll uhm…I’ll get you a washcloth.”

He bowed his head and hastily slipped into the bathroom. It was the only place he could find momentarily relief from what he was feeling. Which was, quite a lot of jumbled up feelings he couldn’t quite articulate. And he was a Speaker for a major airline for Satan's sake. His annunciation was impeccable. 

After the door slid shut, Aziraphale turned on the tap and busied himself with wetting one of the white cloths. His breath trembled as he worked, replaying the moment over and over in his head. As certain words and gestures made their way to the forefront of his mind, they nearly brought him to tears. 

Crowley told him he was soft and precious. Crowley said we can roleplay next time. Crowley called him sweetheart.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was done with the intent of getting both of them off. Either way, Aziraphale felt each of those words deeply. 

Which was foolish really. Because this was supposed to be a night between strangers and nothing more. That’s all it could be for Aziraphale. Right?

Resigned to this reality, Aziraphale turned off the tap and took a moment to collect himself before exiting the bathroom. 

When he returned to the main room, Crowley remained in the same place he left him. 

Aziraphale offered him the warm washcloth, and the other man carelessly accepted it so their fingers intentionally touched. 

Crowley’s mouth curved upward, gratitude flashing in his gaze before he wiped himself off with the rag. 

Aziraphale averted his eyes and moved to pick up his discarded clothes. He set each item on the bed before slowly putting each thing back on.

It was Crowley who broke through the tense quiet first. “You could… stay …if you wanted.”

Aziraphale sighed, “Actually I can’t.”

“Ok.”

The silence that followed Crowley’s simple response was so terribly awkward that Aziraphale couldn’t help but fill it with words. Even if they seemed ridiculous and brought him little comfort. 

“I have a pet at home, you see. A rabbit. Harry.”

Crowley cracked a dazzling grin and snorted, “You don’t have to explain yourself, angel. I just thought I’d offer. Seemed like a gentlemanly thing to do.”

There was a humorous deference about him that forced a smile out of Aziraphale. “Well it was very considerate of you.”

Crowley made a grunting sound of acknowledgement as he slid across the mattress, likely in search of his own discarded clothes.

Aziraphale was nearer to Crowley’s boxers than he was, so he moved to hand them over to him.

“Thanks.” 

There was another flash of a crooked smile that made Aziraphale’s heart skip and his mind go totally blank.

He wanted to say more, but he didn’t quite know what he could say. So he just stood there, watching Crowley, all long graceful limbs, pull up his pants. They clung so impossibly tight to his body, and upon recognising this, a faint blush crept across his visage. 

Aziraphale immediately glanced upward, refocusing on Crowley’s tattoo sleeve that appeared to be a variety of plants and flowers all done up in grayscale ink.

“Like what you see?” Crowley teased. 

He winced, “Sorry I…”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” Crowley stood and started to close the space between them again. 

Aziraphale shuffled back, not entirely sure he ought to allow himself to be this close to Crowley. His nerves were already frayed from this experience, emotions simmering close to the surface for him.

Sensing this, Crowley didn’t do more than flip out the collar of his flannel over the neckline of his cardigan. Stepping back again, he confessed, still smiling, “I like what I see too.”

Aziraphale breathed out an anxious, “I don’t know how that’s possible but…”

“It is.”

When Aziraphale dared to meet Crowley’s gaze again, he saw the sincerity radiating in his expression. Other men hesitated when offering him a compliment like that. Or it took them years to perfect a sincere sounding compliment that he could actually believe.

And the fact that Crowley spoke so openly, so easily about how he felt about Aziraphale and the events of this evening, well, it made that lump in the back of his throat tighten until he practically choked.

He couldn't do this. Not to Crowley.

Glancing off to one side, he inhaled a sharp breath and nodded. He would need to find a way out of here, and fast. For it would be entirely unbecoming to cry, post-coital, in front of a very considerate stranger.

Bending his head low, Aziraphale searched for his loafers, glad he opted for the slip on variety tonight. 

As he shoved his feet inside, he felt the wave of emotions building, particularly when he heard Crowley ask, “Hey…are you ok?”

“Fine…I’m fine…truly, I-I-I am.”

It wasn’t convincing at all. But he’d gotten good at automatic responses like this, spending nearly five years with a narcissist. 

What he hadn’t gotten good at was whenever people said things like: “You’re not. And that’s ok.” 

Urging himself not to blubber, but rather breathe through the tears, Aziraphale shook his head and lifted what he hoped was a reassuring hand.

“I’m sorry I don’t know why I’m like this. I’m not normally…like this…I think I’m just tired. It was a long flight and we were drinking…and…it’s late and…I should just go home and get some rest.”

At some point, his fingers came up to press into the corners of his eyes, and he forced himself to breathe steadily. Once he seemed to regain control of himself, he chanced a glance at Crowley who was peering at him with a look of mild concern.

But when Aziraphale could hold his gaze for several seconds, he nodded before turning to rummage in his suitcase he placed on the other bed.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he should go or say something to signal his departure. Instead, he buttoned his cardigan at the same time Crowley pulled a black, cotton tee from his luggage, talking as though he hadn’t just bore witness to a rather embarrassing display of emotions.

“Yeah. Sometimes a good night's sleep is all you need to feel right again. Do you have any time off soon?”

So preoccupied with watching Crowley tug the tee overheard, it took Aziraphale a second to answer his question. 

“The next three days.”

“Nice.” Crowley exhaled before sinking down on the mattress they occupied mere moments ago. He lay back on his side, regarding Aziraphale thoughtfully, “And then San Antonio, right?”

“Y-y-yes.”

He was stunned that Crowley even remembered what they discussed in the bar. 

“Is it nice there? San Antonio?”

Aziraphale lifted a shoulder, trying to find a way to reasonably describe the place. “From what I’ve seen, it is. Unbearably hot in the summer. Thank goodness for airco though.”

Crowley inclined his head before a jaw cracking yawn overtook him.

Feeling mild relief that it was the perfect opening for his departure, Aziraphale gestured towards the door. “Anyway, I don’t mean to keep you up.” 

“Oh I don’t mind. I like listening to you.” Crowley shrugged, but another large yawn made it clear that it was time for them to part.

“Well, in any event, you’re tired so…I should be off.” He shuffled towards the door, waving awkwardly behind him as he added, “Thank you again for tonight.”

“Thank you. Angel. Really, you are. That tie clip means a lot to me.”

Smiling politely, Aziraphale placed his hand on the door handle. “Well…goodnight then.”

“Night!” Crowley yelped out in the middle of another yawn. 

Aziraphale twisted the door handle and pulled back on the door just as Crowley yelled teasingly, “Send me a postcard if you like! From San Antonio!”

This made Aziraphale chuckle and pause. With one final glance over his shoulder he caught Crowley seated now, his legs crossed in front of him. He gripped his ankles and sat with his spine ramrod straight.

A tempting curve drew Crowley’s lips up to one side. His dark brows arching suggestively. 

But Aziraphale couldn’t allow himself to be pulled back into the charming man’s orbit. Just as he couldn’t necessarily let the comment go without a response.

So he hummed out of amusement, “Perhaps I will.”

He stepped out of the hotel room, knowing Crowley had given him enough to at least consider the proposition. Even if it was highly unlikely he'd ever follow through with the act.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s first thought whenever he roused with a start was: What the fuck did I drink?

The sour taste of alcohol coated his tongue like an inconvenient second skin. A dull thudding sounded in his head, pain radiating outward into his temples. 

Awareness slowly took hold of him, and the events of last night came into slow focus, sort of like a photo after it’d been removed from a bath of darkroom chemicals.

He remembered he was seated at a bar. The Duck, more specifically. His phone lay flat across the sticky counter, disappointingly dark. His fingers curled around a large Talisker. 

Fuck. He’d had whiskey. Now the only question that remained was: how much? 

From what he could recollect there’d been at least three glasses. But Sergeant S had kept them coming. Particularly whenever Aziraphale failed to show up or text him back.

It probably wasn’t the best decision, considering extraordinary amounts of alcohol were a migraine trigger for him. But sometimes Crowley made bad, impulsive decisions, his health and well being be damned. 

And if the downy duvet covering his body was any indication, last night he’d been full of bad, impulsive decisions. The duvet was heavier than a standard issued hotel one. And there was a print on it that he could vaguely make out as tartan in the semi darkness of the space. 

Sweat clung to the back of his neck and shoulders, prompting him to toss off the blanket. Cool air breathed across his nipples, making him wholly aware that he discarded his shirt at some point in the middle of the night. 

At least he had a pair of cotton sweats covering his lower half. Though they weren’t his cotton sweats so that was…interesting. 

What the fuck kind of shenanigans had he gotten into last night?

He didn’t feel as though he’d had sex. But it was difficult to know for sure, given that he was waking up in a strange bed with someone else’s clothes on him. 

An image of a dark, handsome man with luscious curls came into grainy focus in his mind’s eye. Eric, his name had been. And he had such a dazzling smile. His hand was warm as it touched Crowley’s arm and then…

Crowley’s stomach clenched with dread.

Oh slithering serpent, they’d gotten a booth. In the back of the pub. That was a level of intimacy he hadn’t counted on. A level of intimacy he didn’t need. Not from a stranger, anyway.

Had he kissed Eric? He couldn’t fucking remember. And that concerned him. Perhaps it was best to ask. Assuming that he was here, in Eric’s flat.

Blinking against the soft glow of a distant light, Crowley slowly rose up on his elbows to find that the room tilted slightly to the left. Once seated, he found himself jarred by the unexpected revelation that it wasn’t Eric, but rather Aziraphale, seated in an armchair with a book open across his lap and a set of wiry, round glasses perched on his nose.

How in the fucking fuck did he end up in Aziraphale’s flat? 

He must be dreaming. Because there was no other explanation as to why he’d be in Aziraphale’s bed just now. 

Yes, this had to be a cruel, horrid dream that would leave him with a hollow ache whenever he woke up somewhere else with someone else. Because Aziraphale hadn’t shown up at The Duck last night as planned. Or… had he? Fuck he really didn’t have a clear read on things. 

After several seconds of rubbing his eyes, Crowley heard Aziraphale’s soft enquiry. “The light didn’t wake you, did it?”  

“No,” Crowley grumbled, still trying to process everything. “Time is it?”

“Just a little after four.”

Crowley squinted up at him. “In the morning?” 

Aziraphale nodded and then asked quietly, “When is your flight?”

“Ten something or other.” 

It slowly dawned on Crowley, they’d have some time together. It wasn’t much, but he’d take a few hours over nothing at all. His insides warmed with this knowledge. Even if he felt a little woozy.   

“Can I get you anything?” Aziraphale wondered. “Water? Gatorade? More Ibuprofen, perhaps?”

“Gator-what?”

“Gatorade. It’s a sports drink. Helps rehydrate you.”

His brain was sort of understanding. But as he stared at Aziraphale, taking in the fluff of those blonde curls and his bright blue eyes that stared at him with such consideration, he felt himself momentarily forget what they were talking about.

Then he swallowed. The harsh dryness of his throat made him remember. 

“Oh. Right.”

Aziraphale folded his wiry glasses and set them on the arm of his chair. “You had a bit of it last night with some Ibuprofen. I put the rest of the bottle in the fridge though. If you’re hungover it will help.” 

“Hmm…yeah, thanks. That’d be great,” Crowley grunted. 

Aziraphale closed his book, nudged a white ball of fluff, who was likely Harry, from off his lap and strode towards the kitchen. The room itself was only separated from the bedroom slash living room by a high top counter. And pushed in at the counter were two cushioned bar stools. It seemed like the only place Aziraphale had to take his meals.  

Crowley had seen bits and pieces of Aziraphale’s flat from the photos he sent him, but now he could fit all those bits together to create a full picture of the place. Well as best as he could, shrouded in half darkness.

Aziraphale hadn’t been lying when he said it was a small studio apartment. But somehow, he’d made the most of the space with everything he owned. 

The full bed was centred in the long, narrow room with a nightstand on the left side. There was a lamp as well as half a dozen books occupying it. After glancing over his shoulder, Crowley took notice of a fancy headboard with silver scrolled shapes gilded along its edges.

Someone’s a little fussy, Crowley couldn’t help but think with a wry smile as he took in the small details of the decor.

To his right, was a tall chest of drawers and a wall of long windows covered by dark curtains. Below the windows was a fenced in pen with a hutch that ran almost the whole length of the space. There were objects he couldn’t quite make out atop the hutch, but from photos Aziraphale sent him, he guessed that was where he kept his many records and player. In the corner beside Harry’s area was a low television stand with a moderately sized tele on top. 

And in the small nook beyond the room where Aziraphale had been reading a moment ago, there was a pink and white floral armchair, the kind with frilly upholstery at the bottom, shoved into that very tiny space. A tall floor lamp rose up behind it. It was the kind of stained glass top you’d expect a grandparent to have in their home. There also appeared to be some kind standing shelves that were angled like tree branches in an alternating fashion, also full of books.   

Crowley knew Aziraphale liked to read, but he hadn’t realised just how much space he dedicated to this activity until now. Not that he was judging the man. The space that Crowley lacked for books, he made up for in plant real estate. It was interesting to see how Aziraphale lived. Somehow it was just as Crowley had pictured it and not, at the same time.      

“Here we are.”

Aziraphale appeared with a glass full of light blue liquid and a couple of ice cubes clinking around inside.

Crowley tentatively sipped the sweet drink before taking the rest of it in longer gulps. Aziraphale was right, this would help. He already felt refreshed. 

The other man sat on the bottom half of the bed, one leg bent, the other still dangling off the edge. Harry scurried up a set of foam steps pressed against the right side of the bed and settled on the mattress near him. His nose twitched in Crowley’s direction as though he were curious. In the end, Harry settled close to his owner, who began absentmindedly stroking the length of his back.

“So…” Crowley let the single word hang in midair for a few seconds before continuing. “Last night…how obnoxious was I?”

An amused noise escaped Aziraphale before he reassured, “You weren’t that bad.”

Somehow he doubted that, but Crowley wasn’t going to argue the point. If how he felt now was any indication, he drank more last night than he probably had since his last boyfriend, Sol, ended things with him. And that had been about a year ago. 

“I don’t normally…” he trailed off, gauging Aziraphale’s reaction. 

But if the man was judging him, it didn’t show in his face. He merely seemed interested in hearing what Crowley had to say next.

“I can’t really drink a lot of alcohol. Not often anyway.” Lifting a finger to his temple, he added, “Another trigger the good ole migraines.”

“Oh I’m so sorry.”

“No matter.” Crowley shook it off Aziraphale’s concern. “I have meds at the hotel. I’ll just pop something before I head out. Probably be right as rain.” 

He just hoped the icy blue Gatorade and Ibuprofen he apparently took last night would be enough to outlast any potential attack. He didn’t want to waste any more time with Aziraphale than he already had by managing one this morning.

“Still,” Aziraphale pressed, those bright blue eyes full of remorse, “I am sorry. If I hadn’t been so late to the pub, you might not have drank quite so much.”

Is that what had happened? Had Aziraphale shown up? Just later and without warning? Crowley must’ve been so thoroughly pissed by the time that all went down. It would explain how he ended up in Aziraphale’s flat at least.  

Even if it was some sort of honest mistake and Aziraphale had sought to rectify it. Crowley couldn’t allow this angel of a man who took him in when he was at his worst believe his inebriated state was his own fault. That simply wouldn’t do.

“Or…” Crowley drew out the word as a counter argument formulated in his fuzzy brain, “...or if you arrived on time, we could’ve had such fun together, that I might’ve drank the same amount, anyway.” Tilting his head, he affirmed calmly, “‘s not your fault, angel. I chose to drink as much as I did.”

“But–”

“No.” Crowley levelled with him. “I won’t have you blaming yourself. What’s done is done and it was done because of my own choices.”

Aziraphale bent his face forward, his focus now solely on Harry. He spoke while stroking the soft fur, “Even so, this likely wasn’t how you imagined last night going, was it?”

“Not exactly. But…” he paused, a rogue snort escaping his throat, “...I still ended up in your bed, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale let out a high pitched sound. His fist flew to his mouth, stifling a full laugh, and a syrupy warmth started to flow within Crowley’s belly whenever he caught a dusty rose colour, spreading across the other man’s cheeks.

He couldn’t help but smile while watching Aziraphale comport himself. His face soon appeared rather neutral once more and he carried on with petting Harry. 

In this silence, Crowley noticed a low clicking sound that seemed to emit from the rabbit, and upon asking Aziraphale, he learned that that was Harry showing his contentment from the attention.

They continued down that conversational rabbit hole for a moment, quite literally, as they discussed rabbits as pets and then Harry’s care and preferences specifically. Crowley even dared to reach out a hand towards him, and after a few curious sniffs paw shuffles, Harry allowed him to pet his neck for a turn.

He was never one who felt a burning desire to own a house pet before. But Harry was soft and sweet, very much like his owner. Therefore, it was easy for Crowley to make an exception to this notion. 

At this time, his curiosity and desire to know more about last night took over.  

“So last night we didn’t…I mean…these aren’t mine?” He plucked at the waistband of the dark grey sweats he wore. 

“No, they’re mine.”

The deep timbre of Aziraphale’s voice as it wrapped itself around the possessive pronoun sent a chill down Crowley’s spine and made his stomach ripple with want. It was a particular tone that he had only heard Aziraphale use in bed. And hearing it outside of bedroom activities, left Crowley struggling to breathe evenly.

Aziraphale’s eyes darted upward. He carried on, his voice now all concern and pitchiness, “Are they alright? I imagine you're swimming in them. Those were the smallest ones I own. We tried another pair but you couldn’t get the drawstring tight enough. They kept falling down to your ankles.”

Crowley blinked at him, his brain firing signals that didn’t quite connect to the appropriate endpoints. It was like dodgy drafting software with a haywire mouse that kept fucking up the design he saw in his mind but struggled to bring to life with every click and drag of his cursor.

How was it that Aziraphale could go from being a deity of seduction to the most innocent lamb in a span of sixty seconds? And the way he told Crowley his pants kept falling down, without an ounce of awareness for what those words actually meant, well, that had Crowley noticing a change of cadence inside his chest.

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

Fuck. He’d been caught staring. Was his mouth open? He felt like his mouth was just hanging fucking wide open as he continued staring.

“Oh uhm…oh yeah…yeah…mhm…yup.”

Tilting his head to one side, Aziraphale pressed, “Are you quite sure?”

“Uhu.” Crowley exhaled, cleared his throat, and then bobbed his head. “Yea…yeah….yeahhh…” 

For all that was fucking satanic in this world, did he just say ‘yeah’ in three separate languages within a single breath? It sure as satan sounded that way to his ears. 

“I’m just uhm…” There was another rumble in the back of his throat as he tried to sound normal. “Just trying…trying to piece together…last night, is all.”

“Would you like me to fill you in?” Aziraphale arched a brow, a little smirk tugging at his mouth as he angled his face in the opposite direction. 

He crossed his arms in front of him while sputtering, “Yeah, sure, yeah, that’d be-that’d be great.”  

Aziraphale carried on in his usual unaffected air, “Well if you’re worried that anything untoward happened between us, aside from you hopping in my shower and then attempting to take off all your clothes while they were sopping wet, you needn’t fret, my dear.”

“A-attempting?” Crowley practically choked on the word.

“Well you like your clothes rather…”

“Tight.” Crowley put in at the same time Aziraphale said, “...tailored.”

Crowley chuckled, “I’ve never seen a tailor.”

“I can recommend a good one here if you’re ever in need,” Aziraphale remarked.

Of course, Aziraphale had a tailor.

“Anyway, your clothes were wet. And you were drunk. And I imagine taking them off is rather hard even when you aren’t either of those things.”

Crowley couldn’t help but retort smugly, “You’ve taken them off plenty of times without any issue.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to choke on whatever he was about to say next. Though the corners of his mouth turned up a tick, and Crowley couldn’t help but flash a cheeky grin at noticing. 

“Well yes, but…last night was different.”

“Yeah, I was thoroughly pissed.” 

Crowley carefully placed his glass on the floor beside the bed. If this offended Aziraphale’s cleanliness standards, he didn’t remark on it. 

“Yes. And I wanted to make sure you were alright. So I helped you out of your clothes and into some of mine.” 

Crowley laid down until he was propped up on his left side, his head at the foot of the bed. He turned his face up and asked, “And then?”

Aziraphale swallowed hard now. In spite of the fact that Crowley’s head could easily fall into his lap, he kept his composure. 

“Then…I gave you something to eat and drink and you somehow stumbled into my bed.”

Crowley wondered, “What did we even talk about?”  

“Not much that made sense, I’m afraid.” After a pause, he added with a bit of a questioning air, “Something about whales having big brains?”

“Do they really ?”

“Well I didn’t exactly fact check you.”

Crowley hummed amusedly, “Is that all?”

“Mostly yes. You also tried very hard to pronounce bouillabaisse.” 

Crowley tilted his head back and laughed.

“It was rather amusing, I confess.”

Whenever his eye met Aziraphale’s again, Crowley caught the man practically beaming down at him. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale shocked him with his continued enthusiasm. “And I popped your clothes in the washer. In fact, I bet they are dry just now if you’d like to put them back on.”

He didn’t, really. Not whenever he felt so content in Aziraphale large, fluffy sweats. 

“Oh, no, no, don’t get up…you don’t…you don’t have to get up.” Crowley reached for his arm but instead, his hand landed atop Aziraphale’s thigh, grounding him before he could flitter off and do good somewhere else.

Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley’s hand, his breath hitching. Crowley wondered if he ought to roll back on the mattress and put space between them. But when he caught the look from the other man and saw his irising darkening with clear intent, he felt so many emotions catch up to him. 

Aziraphale found him at the pub, brought him safely back to his flat, fed him, dealt with what sounded like a horribly dramatic situation in the bathroom, clothed him, and, as if all of that wasn’t enough, he washed Crowley’s soiled clothes.

He felt so undeserving of this man’s infinite kindness. And the urge to repay him now, in the only way Crowley felt he could, in a way he knew Aziraphale would enjoy, well, that urge all but consumed him.

He spoke in a strained voice, “You know…you…you’re…so good , Aziraphale. So good.” Crowley squeezed his thigh as he spoke. 

Aziraphale breathed out slowly, his entire body shifting in response. “I-I-I don’t know about all that. I just…I wanted…to take care of you.”

Crowley slowly pulled himself up, his hand still firm on Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale shuddered a breath, insisting, “I-I-I did what any good host would do. For any guest.”

“But, there comes a time…” Crowley drawled in a husky voice, his hand coming up to draw Aziraphale’s face back. “There comes a time when any good host…deserves…” His thumb swept over the centre of Aziraphale’s mouth, “...a bit of relaxation.” 

“Crowley,” he rasped, his lips brushing over the pad of Crowley’s thumb. 

He removed his hand and leaned in to whisper directly into the other man’s ear, “Let me take care of you, angel.” 

A whimper escaped from the back of Aziraphale’s throat, and Crowley pressed his mouth against the slope of his neck in a slow kiss. His nose ran along its length while he murmured in between languid kisses, “You’ve done…so well…taking care of me. Let me do the same.”

Another shrill, squeaky sound came from Aziraphale and Crowley continued bespeckling his throat with soft kisses. Aziraphale’s hips angled forward, the other hand that had been petting Harry, now gripping Crowley’s shoulder.

Their eyes met for a split second before their lips did. And when Aziraphale’s mouth touched upon his own, he forgot about his aching head and the horrid taste of stale whiskey. The kiss was tender yet hungry all at once. 

Aziraphale’s hands came up to cup his face, and then his tongue slipped into Crowley’s waiting mouth, eliciting a low moan from him. He loved the silky feel of Aziraphale’s tongue and then the hard pressure of his lips sucking deeply on it.  

Crowley growled as Aziraphale sucked his tongue deeper into his mouth. His hands tightened over Aziraphale’s shoulders in an attempt to close the space between them. Their knees nearly touched whenever something rather furry and hard bounced off of Crowley’s legs and then scampered away, causing him to break away and gasp until he fell onto his back.

“Fucking! Judas!”

Aziraphale chortled, “It was only Harry.”

“Yeah,” Crowley exhaled, a ripple of amusement following. With one hand on his heart, the other on this stomach, he tried to settle his frazzled nerves. 

“I’ll put him in his pen. Just give me a moment.”

Crowley breathed out a ragged, “O-okay.” 

After the click of a metal gate shutting, Crowley felt the mattress shift a few times and then Aziraphale’s hands were on either side of him, his body hovering a few inches above. 

“Hello,” he whispered, that sweet twinkle of a smile reaching his eyes.

Staring up at the sexy sweet expression Aziraphale gave off with ease, made something break within Crowley’s chest. And whatever tension had been built between them vanished and in its place was the sharpest form of urgency. 

Without another word, Crowley gripped the collar of Aziraphale’s pyjama top and pulled him back down. Their lips crashed together as the weight of Aziraphale’s body covering Crowley’s brought him the most sublime comfort he could imagine. And from the way their legs slotted together and the fluid roll of their lips as they kissed and kissed and kissed as though they never would get the chance again, well it felt like the perfect thing to sketch. Crowley wished he could. Because he bet they looked beautiful like this.

What they were, felt beautiful, so how could they be anything but?

Aziraphale then allowed his mouth to descend along Crowley’s jaw, his hands shifting down to the waistband of his sweats. Crowley felt hot and heavy and hard and his hips jerked up, seeking to discover that Aziraphale’s arousal matched his own.

The other man moaned and then bit down on Crowley’s collarbone as their lower halves met. 

“Argh fuck,” Crowley growled. 

His hands cupping Aziraphale’s backside, pulling him down fast and hard so that they might slide together beneath their clothes.

Aziraphale moaned loudly, his lips pursed around Crowley’s left nipple. His hand fumbled and found the edge of Crowley’s sweats, hand freeing him and curling around Crowley’s pulsing length.

“Oh fuck that feels good,” Crowley groaned. 

His head lifted, mouth fusing to Aziraphale’s and prying his lips wider with his tongue. In between harsh kisses, he was reduced to a string of nonsensical sounds.

After several moments he caught sight of that heady glint of satisfaction within Aziraphale’s gaze from above as stroked him determinedly. 

Oh dear demonic work, he was going to come undone from just a few pulls on his cock. And no, that wouldn’t do. This was progressing all wrong. This wasn’t supposed to be about his pleasure. He’d taken enough of that from Aziraphale last night. Not in the same way, of course, but still, his comfort was ensured because of the man. Now it was Aziraphale’s turn.

“I can’t…no…you need…”

Aziraphale interrupted in his melodious, breathless voice, “What I need…is for you…”

“No…fucking…nope…”

Crowley decided he wouldn’t come undone like this. Not this time. No, Aziraphale deserved a gold medal of the highest order for his patience last night. And Crowley was going to be the master of ceremonies who recognized him for all his good work and dedication. 

So he batted Aziraphale's hand away and then wrapped one of his legs across the man's lower back. Using all the strength his inner thighs could muster, Crowley gained enough leverage to surge upward and flip Aziraphale over onto his back.

“Crowley…let me…” he whined, his hand straining between them to find his erection.

“Ah, ah, ah…” Crowley tutted, catching Aziraphale’s wrist and pinning it above him. “What did I say?” 

He pecked him on the cheek while his fingers traced a line from the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist down the underside of his arm, which he soon discovered made Aziraphale squirm and giggle.

“Oh. That’s new.”

Aziraphale brought his arm down protectively, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.

Crowley grinned down at him before drawing a lengthy kiss from his lips. As he peppered Aziraphale’s jawline, one hand snaked up between them, settling on the top button of his pyjama shirt. He pulled back to catch Aziraphale’s eye, an unspoken understanding passing between them as Crowley popped open the first button.

Aziraphale breathed in slowly and gave him a slight nod, his hands running along the back of Crowley’s shoulders.

With purposeful fingers, Crowley took his time in undoing each button, his words and lips punctuating each movement.   

“I said…it was time…for you… to relax.”

Aziraphale whimpered as Crowley’s mouth descended in a straight line from throat to sternum. And Crowley couldn’t believe this was the first time he was ever seeing Aziraphale like this.

The white, wiry hair of his chest tickled Crowley’s nose as he kissed along his chest. And the sweet smell of something citrusy yet floral captivated Crowley senses. More than that, Aziraphale was soft and warm and Crowley never wanted to let go. Though, that wasn’t the first time he thought that whenever they were intimate.    

But he wanted to see him. Really see him. So Crowley opened up his shirt and then sat back on his haunches, hands running over the broad expanse of Aziraphale’s stomach all the way back up to his chest. 

“Oh my god, Aziraphale. You’re so...lovely like this.” Crowley mumbled.

He caught a pinched expression that erupted over Aziraphale’s face before he leaned forward again, this time to let his tongue slide over one of his pink, puffy nipples. 

“Crowley…” he whined.

It was more than Crowley could ever hope for and he asked, “Again?”

Aziraphale stuttered, “Y-yes.”

He bent low again, his mouth covering the nipple before he sucked the hardening bud in between his lips.

“Ohh yess…”

Crowley paused to smile at that sound he pulled away from Aziraphale, who soon became aware of just how loud he was, and a sheepish grin tugged at his mouth.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” Crowley kissed the centre of his chest, en route to the other side of his body. “Don’t ever be sorry for that. Be as loud as you like.” His tongue flicked along the other nipple, inciting another gasp. "I like to hear what feels good for you."

Beneath him, Aziraphale shifted until they were rubbing against one another.

“Ohh…” Crowley groaned, sucking hard on the flesh around Aziraphale’s nipple.

“I need…”

Laving at the skin, Crowley then replied, “Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale lifted his hips again, hands fumbling with the back waist of his pyjama bottoms. “Take these off and touch me.”

Crowley didn’t need further prompting. Particularly when he felt how damp the silky front of the pyjama trousers were from all the excitement he stirred up in the other man thus far.

He dispensed with them in record time, just as Aziraphale reached overhead in the bedside table drawer for some lube. The knowledge that Aziraphale was readily prepared at home made Crowley feel hotter and heavier somehow. He was certain his neck and chest were flush, but he couldn't mind that now.

"Proper princess treatment coming right up," he teased as he squeezed out the lube and worked it along his fingers.

Crowley realigning their bodies so that he could kiss Aziraphale while touching him. Because that appeared to be something both of them thoroughly enjoyed.

In a gravelly voice Crowley informed him, “Now it’s your turn to sit back and relax and enjoy…”

“...the flight?” Aziraphale put in breathlessly.

“Nahh…that’s your specialty.” Crowley squeezed around the base of Aziraphale’s cock. As he stroked upward and then down, his mouth landed just in front of Aziraphale’s ear and he hissed, “I’m going to take you on a different sort of ride.”

“Ninety miles an hour?” Aziraphale chided, hands tightening around Crowley’s shoulders like they did the assist grips in the Bentley.

“Hold on tight.” Crowley taunted, increasing the pace of his hand.

With that, Aziraphale’s head fell back, his fingernails dug into Crowley’s skin while his hips canted upward in time with Crowley’s hand.

As Crowley watched Aziraphale take his pleasure for himself, his earlier assumptions had been correct, they were beautiful like this. And perhaps that was enough to make up for the trouble he put them through last night.

Chapter Text

A few tried and true positions and a brief kip later, Aziraphale carefully slipped out from underneath a sleeping Crowley’s arm. A brief glance back at his bedside clock, told him it was near seven, which meant Crowley would soon be on his way back to London. 

A certain heaviness suddenly weighed down in his chest. Which was strange, really, because if the last few hours were any indication, nothing had really changed with their arrangement. So why should he give into the weight of disappointment now?

They’d likely carry on texting without a break. He’d likely be in London again next month. Which meant they’d likely meet up and do this all over again. 

So, what exactly was there to feel disappointed about?

Perhaps the possibility that Crowley might meet someone else. And if last night was any indication, that could happen.

Perhaps even, Crowley wanted that to happen.

He said Eric meant nothing. He said that he was sad and the flirting didn’t mean anything. He said he didn’t normally do that sort of thing. And yet... 

You’re being silly, Aziraphale told himself. What does it matter if Crowley finds someone else when you’re not looking for a real relationship anyway? That isn't rather fair for you to feel any sort of way about it, now is it?  

Besides, now wasn’t the time to be worrying about hypothetical futures. Now was the time to get dressed and check that Crowley’s clothes were dry so that he might be on his way. 

They already wasted plenty of time during this trip indulging in certain feelings that only seemed to get in the way. There was hardly any point to worrying about things outside of his control. He knew once Crowley was gone, he’d regret worrying unnecessarily, instead of enjoying his company to the fullest.

In the semidarkness, Aziraphale found his pyjama bottoms and undershirt at the foot of the bed and quickly dressed before tiptoeing towards the closet positioned in the reading nook. With a tense expression, he opened the dryer door with a notable thunk. A hurried glance over his shoulder told him that Crowley’s heavily tattooed right arm was strewn over his face, his mouth slightly parted. After a moment, Aziraphale heard the little, raspy snores filling the tense quiet and couldn’t help but squeak amusedly.

The ease in which Crowley existed, how he unapologetically filled a space, Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire him for it. He continued admiring Crowley in his sleeping form as he carefully hung his clothes on the back of one of the chairs at the dining counter. 

There must have been a change in his circadian rhythm because a low rumbling disrupted the snores and Crowley stretched his limbs until his body was taut.

On the release of this stretch, he rolled over on his side to face Aziraphale, the bed coverings falling just above his waist.

His right arm stretched across the empty space of the bed and he pouted sleepily. “Come back to bed will you, angel?”

The question set off an electric spark within Aziraphale and his lips rolled inward. 

It was the most intimate request to date. Even on the one occasion when they had slept together at Crowley’s flat, they rolled to opposite sides of the bed whenever their needs were sated. 

Aziraphale had even tried to leave before Crowley was awake to avoid any additional exposure to intimacy. And if he hadn’t knocked off the plants and made a horrible mess of Crowley’s floor, he would have succeeded. But if he had left prematurely he would have never gotten Crowley’s number. And last night probably would have never happened.  

He could make the same argument for this request. That if he didn’t indulge in being wrapped up in Crowley it could be a missed opportunity that he’d come to regret. 

But Crowley would be leaving soon and perhaps it would be better to focus on something else that wouldn’t involve getting naked and tangled up once more. Especially since his heart was already tangled up in its own feelings this morning. Feelings he tried very hard to avoid for a multitude of reasons.   

Which is why Aziraphale jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen and suggested, “I was actually thinking…perhaps we ought to have breakfast?”  

A golden green eye blinked open more fully and Crowley slithered to an upright position. He murmured, “What’d you have in mind?”

“I have a few things that might constitute a mini fry up.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose before running a hand through his tousled hair. “Ehhh…the thought of eggs on a good day gives me pause. Not so sure having them now would do my stomach right.”

With an enticing lift of his brow, Aziraphale tried again, “Perhaps some toast then? And coffee?”

Crowley grunted something unintelligible and shifted on the bed until his elbows rested on his knees. Another eye rub later, he squinted up at Aziraphale and deduced, “But you don’t drink coffee.” 

“Well, no.” 

But you do. 

He almost said it, but stopped himself. Instead, Aziraphale claimed in a neutral fashion, “I like to be prepared for my potential guests. That’s what any good host does.”

“Right.” 

Crowley flung off the blankets, forcing Aziraphale to look away and shuffle into the kitchen. He didn’t need to be reminded of how tempting the lower half of Crowley’s body was.

He glanced up a few seconds later whenever Crowley was tightening the drawstring of Aziraphale’s sweats and he pointed towards the clothes draped over the chair. 

“Your clothes are all washed and dried now if you’d like to put them on.”

Crowley took a moment to examine them before tossing on his black cotton tee. 

“What, you didn’t press them?”

Aziraphale snickered as he plugged in the toaster. 

When he turned around again, he caught Crowley leaning sideways against the counter, his head cocked to the side with a gratified smirk gracing his thin lips.

“That’ll cost you extra,” Aziraphale retorted with a similar look. 

He must’ve felt empowered by this, for Crowley’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip and he asserted, “I can pay.”

Those eyes, Aziraphale thought, his stomach fluttering unexpectedly. Crowley’s eyes glinted deviously, their hypnotic swirl of colour threatening to pull him in and make him forget his own name. Again.

As Crowley drew nearer, the fluttering only intensified. Which prompted Aziraphale to determine what else was needed for their breakfast. A bag of bread was the closest thing to him and he scooped it up just as Crowley was close enough to reach out and touch him. 

Aziraphale shoved the bread at him and instructed, his voice crackling, “You can make the toast. I’ll start the kettle.” 

He heard Crowley chuckle darkly whenever Aziraphale turned to fill his electric kettle with water. “So bossy,” was the taunt that filled the air.

“If I recall,” Aziraphale’s tone was low and solemn, “you rather like that about me.”

He caught a laugh escaping Crowley while he dropped the bread into the toaster. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that formed just before he pulled two mugs out of a corner cupboard.

After Crowley returned from freshening up in the bathroom, Aziraphale set a plate full of toast between them. Their mugs were full of whatever they both liked best. Aziraphale couldn’t help but give Crowley a good ribbing for drinking out of his sunshine mug with its rainbow handle. But the man slurped his coffee with a pleased look on his face; perhaps he was secretly thrilled at having the chance to drink from said mug.

And then, quite possibly for the first time since meeting one another, they both ran out of things to talk about. 

Aziraphale grappled to find some neutral topic, but the harder he thought of something to say, the more blank his mind became. And then the worry bounced deep within him as the silence stretched onward between Crowley and him, save for the scraping of jam against hard bread and aggressive munching.  

“I erm…uh…” 

Crowley’s eyes fixed on him and Aziraphale flashed a quick, reassuring smile, then he shrugged and tried to mask this anxious outburst by clearing his throat and taking a slow sip of tea.

“This is good,” Crowley remarked. He held his toast up appraisingly before adding, “Really like the strawberry rhubarb jam you have here. Where’d you get it?”

“Gran made it.”

A bolt of curiosity danced across Crowley’s face and he probed, “You smuggled it in?”

Aziraphale huffed, “Well it’s not as though they don’t have rhubarb and strawberries here. Hardly counts as agricultural interference.”

“That’s nice though. Touch of home, yeah?”

This made his heart sink a jot. Aziraphale caught himself staring a bit too forlornly at the half emptied jar, his thoughts circling back to a time when he did call England home. It had been so long since he ever gave it any real thought. Just as it had been so long since he last experienced a bout of homesickness like he presently was. 

How strange, he thought for the second time that morning. 

“You ok, angel?”

Shaking himself out of his own mind, Aziraphale commented, “Yes, just…I just haven’t called it home in a while, is all. I mean yes, it is my homeland, but I…I don’t really live there now and it…well it feels strange to think of it like that. In some ways. I don't know. I don’t quite know how to explain it, really. It's like I don't have a proper home, really.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“It’s alright. I’m not. Not really.” Aziraphale insisted halfheartedly.

“You could…always…move back? Maybe?”

The tentative nature of Crowley’s tone twisted Aziraphale’s insides with an unexpected desire. The slight lift of his shoulder, the crooked curve of his lips, and that cagey glint in his eyes, were charming. He couldn’t deny that. But he had to squash that feeling and face facts. Facts that he quickly expressed to Crowley in that moment.  

“It would be difficult with my job. I’d lose all my seniority.”

Crowley grumbled, “Well that blows.”

“Yes. And I get to make my own schedule and have at least thirty days of vacation each year. Not to mention, I no longer have to be on reserve. That’s what we consider ‘on call,’ by the way. If I left New York, I’d lose all of that and go back to taking the flights no one wanted. Not only that but, my pension is…well there’d be a transfer tax. A hefty one since I’m not yet sixty-four.”

“Seems harsh.”

“From the industry’s perspective, I can understand it. It becomes something of a scheduling nightmare if someone transfers internationally. Everything shifts.”

Crowley moved in his seat, his face creasing in displeasure. “Yeah, but you shouldn’t be held responsible for that. Seems like that’s on them to figure it all out.”

“They do manage it. Quite efficiently. But I suppose they want to have some level of control. So these measures ensure that they do. It’s also to prevent certain employees from taking advantage of the system.”

“Someone always has to ruin it for the rest of us,” Crowley commented before taking a long swig from his mug. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder, “Would you ever leave London?”

“No,” Crowley asserted as he gulped his coffee down, “family's there.”  

Aziraphale nodded, another question springing to mind. “But you enjoy travelling?”

“I mean I suppose I would for pleasure, yeah. But I don’t wanna travel for work forever.”

Aziraphale could relate to that. While he travelled extensively for work, those trips weren’t always as enjoyable as when he took time off to really explore and enjoy the destination in question. But he always tried to find at least one thing remarkable on each of his journeys. Even if it was something as simple or inane as what was offered in terms of a continental breakfast. Those were the things that made the work bearable.

Intrigued by Crowley’s answer, he decided to ask, “If you could pick one place in the world you’d visit, where would it be?”

Crowley blew out another contemplative breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I dunno. I mean I never really got the travel bug. I didn’t grow up with much so…seeing the world wasn’t really a thing I ever thought possible, ya know?”

Shame immediately spread throughout Aziraphale. He often forgot just how much of a privilege it was to travel. An apology was already forming on his tongue whenever Crowley spoke again. 

“Wouldn’t mind seeing more of New York, I suppose.”

With the way Crowley beamed at him now, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a warm sense of pride overcome him.  

It was this remark that made Aziraphale dip his head and take a bite of toast. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of the time on the blue face of his watch. 

A frantic punch to his senses made him intone suddenly, “Crowley, it’s almost half seven.”

“Urghhhngk,” he groaned, hanging his head back dramatically. “Tell me your watch is wrong.”

“It’s not, I’m afraid.”

“Meehhhh…” Crowley made another drawn out, lamentable noise. His mouth turned down in an almost comical frown. 

Aziraphale mirrored his expression. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley’s face scrunched and he let out another groaning sound. “At the risk of sounding incredibly stupid and pathetic…” he paused, daring to aim one open eye in Aziraphale’s direction, “...do you know when you’ll be back in London?”

“I’ll find out next week.” Aziraphale assured warmly, “As soon as I find out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Only if you want to.” Crowley reached out to cover Aziraphale’s hand. “I mean…don’t feel like you have to. I only just thought…well…this has been nice and…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged, his hand slinking back onto his lap. “Anyway, I know you have your gran and you should obviously spend as much time with her as you like. But if there’s a small chance for…well I dunno. Coffee or like hotel breakfast or something…I wouldn’t say no to an hour or something.”

Aziraphale knew what he wished for and it seemed his wishes aligned with what Crowley was suggesting. So he angled his face towards Crowley and aimed to put him out of whatever misery he unnecessarily designed for himself.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d be delighted to meet up again.”

“Really?” Relief sounded through his voice for a split second before it edged into disbelief, “You aren’t just saying that to be nice?”

“I’m saying it because I mean it.”

Crowley bowed his head and snorted, “You know, I was worried when you told me about everything that happened last night. Was ‘fraid you’d be sick of me.”

His confession bore signs of a jocular air; something Aziraphale himself was rather familiar with. It was done with the intent of, if you made a joke about yourself first, someone else couldn’t weaponize those feelings against you. The notion that Crowley felt the need to do this with him, carved out an aching spot within Aziraphale’s chest.

“Why would I be?” His own astonishment made his voice sound pitchy.

“Well just…after last night…I’d understand if you were…miffed with me…I was a right terror from the sounds of it.”  

From the way Crowley kept his attention on his cup of coffee to how his voice stalled a handful of times, made Aziraphale want to assuage his embarrassment. 

Placing a hand on Crowley’s forearm, Aziraphale argued gently, “You were just deep in your cups, my dear.”

There was a forlorn quality in Crowley’s gaze whenever it found Aziraphale again. And he replied incredulously, “I don’t understand how you can be so nice about it.”

He squeezed Crowley’s arm before offering, “We all do things we regret from time to time. That doesn’t make us any less lovable.”

Crowley blurted out, “My last ex would disagree with you.”

Aziraphale bristled a bit at this. But he kept his hand in place, his tone resolute whenever he spoke again, “Perhaps that is why he is your ex.”  

“Yeah. Maybe.” His voice was barely above a whisper, the earlier self-deprecating humour gone now. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s gaze grow hazier with each passing moment they sat in silence, staring at one another.  

Suddenly Crowley cleared his throat, the faraway glint giving way to clarity whenever he spoke next, “I do want to thank you again for taking care of me last night. You didn’t have to and you did.”

“It was my pleasure. I suspect–” Aziraphale halted, but only for a brief moment because it was apparent that Crowley cared for him in some way, even if it hadn’t been explicitly stated. “Well I suspect, you’d do the same for me?”

“Definitely.”

It would have been so easy for Aziraphale to get lost in the certainty that radiated off of Crowley. Instead of allowing himself to however, he consulted his watch again and reaffirmed, “Well you ought to get going. I don’t want you to miss your flight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I suppose that would be bad for business.” Crowley’s head tilted from side to side as he slid off his stool. He downed the rest of his coffee and smacked his lips in an affected manner that made Aziraphale snort. 

He leaned one arm against the counter, tilting his face forward in a suave manner while donning his dark shades once more. “Well sweetie pea, your old man’s gotta go off and earn a living so you can keep living this lavish Manhattan lifestyle.” 

Aziraphale laughed at the sudden ridiculousness of his statement. Crowley appeared to have a penchant for emulating different personas at random. Perhaps it was done as a way to break through any awkward tension that might build? Or perhaps it was just another facet to his vibrant personality? Whatever his reasoning might be, it disarmed Aziraphale to the point where he didn’t have a chance to react to two hands clapping on his thighs and swirling his chair around until he was nose to nose with Crowley.

“Plant one on me, will you, sugar bee?”

“Oh dear god.” Aziraphale’s face wrinkled while he chucked. 

“Too much?”

Feeling the pressure on his thighs lighten up, Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hands and anchored them back down.

He heard a slight whimper escape from Crowley, which made his stomach twist and he lowered his voice when he spoke next. “You were doing rather well with the sweet talking up until then, you know?”

“I was?”

His eyebrows lifted and he mumbled, “Mhm.”

“Mmm.” 

Crowley bit on his lip to stop a crooked grin from forming. It was so exceptionally endearing Aziraphale could no longer hold back from gently taking Crowley’s face in between his hands. 

He murmured, “I believe there was mention of a kiss?”

It was all the affirmation Crowley needed to close the space between them. It was slow and soft. Almost like one of them had gained the ability to slow down time. And Aziraphale wouldn’t have complained if that was the case. But like all good things, they had to end. When Crowley pulled back and Aziraphale’s eyes slowly fluttered open and he noticed a triumphant grin peering back at him.

Seized by a sense of mischief, Aziraphale suddenly smacked Crowley on the behind and teased, “There. You got what you wanted. Now get going, mister.”

Crowley chortled, “Sucha tease.”

Aziraphale slid off his stool, prompting Crowley to take a few steps back. “If you like it, you ought to keep me around.”

“I’d be stupid not to,” Crowley quipped before turning in one fluid motion to head towards the door. 

So stunned by this, Aziraphale nearly forgot about the pants and trousers hanging on the back of Crowley’s chair. 

“Crowley!” He called out suddenly, prompting him to whirl around as he got halfway through the locks. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Aziraphale lifted up the clothes in question.

With a self-deprecating laugh, Crowley immediately dropped Aziraphale’s sweats and strode over to him without an ounce of self consciousness. 

As he slipped into his pants, Crowley snorted, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, really. Be running outta here naked next.”

Aziraphale chuckled, “Please don’t. The last thing I need are my neighbours thinking I have a naked man friend.”

“You mean you don’t already?” 

Wrinkling his brow, Aziraphale asked, “When would I find the time?”

“I think you’d make time if it’s something you wanted badly enough.” Crowley pointed out while zipping up his jeans.

“Well I don’t,” Aziraphale automatically replied.

Then he wish he hadn't. Because in the split second following his sharp response Crowley froze his hand still on his fly. The carefree slack of his jaw tightened an inch and his gaping mouth drew shut. He dipped his head a few times and then jerked his head towards the door. 

“Right. Ok then. Fully dressed. Guess that’s my cue.”

Aziraphale couldn't stand the tension that stretched between them. And he'd do anything to alleviate it. 

“Crowley I,” he began and then stopped whenever he was met with an unreadable expression. 

It was difficult to discern Crowley’s true feelings with his glasses in place. But Aziraphale didn’t wish for them to part badly.  

With a half hearted smile and his palms pressed together to stop himself from fidgeting, Aziraphale told him earnestly, “I truly do hope you have a safe flight, my dear.”

He was greeted with a lift on the left side of Crowley’s mouth, which eased his concerns. “Thanks, angel.” He twisted the knob and pulled open the door in a fluid motion. With a broad grin, he added, “Ciao for now.” 

Aziraphale eased the door shut behind him and then turned to lean against it once it was secured. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep for a very long time. Or at least until the time Crowley landed in London and he could talk with him again.

A rustling from Harry’s pen however, forced him into action. As Aziraphale unlatched the gate and scooped Harry up in his arms providing him a measure of small, unspoken comfort.

This arrangement was becoming stranger and stranger.

Perhaps strange wasn’t the appropriate word. Perhaps he should say things were growing increasingly unclear to him. That was more apt. 

But in forcing clarity, there was an associated risk. Especially now that Aziraphale had stated he didn’t want to make time for a relationship. And Crowley didn’t want to risk losing Aziraphale entirely.

Terrific sex or no terrific sex, Aziraphale had very quickly become Crowley’s friend. Perhaps even his best friend, if middle aged people still ranked friendships like school aged children. Crowley didn’t really know because he wasn’t generally the friend type. But he knew enough to know that Aziraphale had earned the title of friend for him. And on a couple of occasions: holy sex god. 

If Crowley mentioned he was having serious feelings now, things would change. They always did when one friend wanted to become lovers and the other was content with keeping the needle on the speedometer steady. Which is exactly what Crowley felt happening here. So, the sooner he let off on the gas and allowed things to coast, the better off they’d all be.

Crowley successfully made it through the checkpoint, hastily regathered his electronic devices and shoved them in his backpack. He picked up his purple suitcase and dragged it behind him, the rat-a-tat-tat growing increasingly quick as he strode towards his departure gate. 

Then a rhythmic buzz against the lower portion of his spine made Crowley aware that he wasn't alone. Shit, whatever this was, it must be important. Since he didn’t talk to many people it was rare for him to get so many successive texts. Or even a call. And he wasn’t on social media, so it couldn’t be notifications about someone boasting about how great their superficial life was. 

Pulling off to the side of the terminal, he rooted around in the bag until he found his phone. 

Mild disappointment cradled his heart for a split second once he realised the messages weren’t from Aziraphale. But then, a knife’s edge worth of panic sliced through him, forcing him to unlock his phone and unleash the string of messages he could only half preview on the home screen. 

Oh shit. Apparently he had sent some very drunken and questionable messages in his sibling group chat, which had Nina concerned for his safety. And apparently he drunkenly read through her messages and left little responses each time, sending her anxiety through the roof.

Ligur appeared to have been the calmer one, reporting back in the chat that he had received confirmation from Bee, who apparently had spoken to Crowley at some point in the evening, that he was with an “angel of the night.” 

Oh fuck he told them about Aziraphale.

Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just a complicated thing they’d force him to properly explain later.

Continuing to read through this chat it seemed that Bee had spoken to the angel in question on the phone, who seemed wholly reassuring and offered up his own address as a way to showcase that he was not in fact, a psycho serial killer, but someone who would keep Crowley safe. 

Apparently Crowley had read all of this at some point when he was soaking wet and wasted, but he had failed to really reply to Nina or Ligur this morning.

Which led to the current string of exclamatory remarks.     

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Crowley lifted his phone and snapped a selfie with a falsetto smile.

Once he was settled aboard the plane in his window seat, Crowley pulled out his phone to give Aziraphale some mild version of hell for not mentioning that there was a whole ass conversation with his boss and siblings that took place last night when a book thunked loudly on the seat beside him. 

He glanced up and saw Bee, hoisting their carry-on into the overhead compartment.

Crowley immediately screwed his face up into a cheery expression, but he didn’t get to utter a greeting because Bee observed in a clipped tone, “Good, you’re alive.”

They tossed the book at him, which he clumsily caught, and then plopped down in the seat beside him.

“Ehh yeah. Yeah I’m good.” He then asked, a bit uneasily, “How’re you?”

“Good,” was their answer while they clipped the seatbelt into place.

Their palms turned up and Crowley handed them back the book. He studied the title and the cover, which had two men in period clothing embracing.

“I like romance,” Bee snapped. They arched a brow and dared, “Got a problem with that?”

“No. Not a bit. No.”

“Didn’t think so.” 

They flipped through the first few pages of the novel and Crowley wondered if this was all the interaction they’d have. If so, it would make for an increasingly lengthy and awkward flight. Perhaps it would be best for him to clear the air.  

“Look, sorry if I was…uhm a bit…well last night I mean…I’m sorry.”

Bee appeared to be staring at the opening paragraphs before they asked rather boldly, “You get laid?”

“What?!”

Setting the book on their lap they leaned back in the seat and enunciated each word, “Did. You. Get laid?”

“I don’t think…I mean…I’m not…that’s…private information, don’t you think?”

“Not according to drunk you.”

Whipping out their phone, they scrolled through a few screens before showing Crowley their chat and allowing him to read his last message to Bee.

Assssme fi I got laid bc this angle is fiiiiinne.

“Oh fuck,” Crowley exhaled sharply. He sat back in his seat, his hands rubbing over his face. He groaned, “I’m sorry.” Glancing over at Bee he assured, “I normally don’t get shitfaced.”

They inclined their head and asked, “So no drinking problem?”

“No.”

“Good. I need you on your game, Crowley. If last night’s meeting with R.P. Tyler is any indication, we need to at least give off the illusion of virtuousness until the Boston deal is signed.”

“Right, yeah, I can do that.” 

He allowed Bee to dive back into their book while he recalled last night’s dinner. R.P. Tyler was a rather wealthy investor with several projects in the Boston area. He was also a bit of a religious nut. And didn’t take kindly to seeing an inclusive rainbow flag sticker on the front window of the restaurant they took him too.

While the man was at least polite in his discrimination and knew not to spew more of his narrowed beliefs while discussing business, Bee and Crowley made their excuses as to why they couldn’t join him for a post dinner cigar at a nearby club.

But beyond checking in to make sure Bee was alright. Crowley hadn’t asked them what they’d gotten up to. Judging by the pristine quality of the book, he had an idea.

“Get that last night?” He asked, tapping the front of the book.

“Yeah,” Bee offered. “Twenty-four hour bookstore two blocks from the restaurant.”

“Cool. What’s it called?” He’d make a mental note to ask Aziraphale about it later.

“First Line Books.”

“Interesting name choice.”

“Yeah,” Bee snorted before diverting their focus back to the story in their hands.

It seemed their conversation was over. Which was fine really, because Crowley could resume another one he’d been about to before Bee’s appearance.

He opened up his phone and began typing again.

Chapter Text

It’d been a tiring night for Aziraphale. A reality he supposed he was overdue for, considering how smoothly his schedule had run since he met Crowley. 

Not that the two things were related. No, they were wholly coincidental. But Aziraphale couldn’t help but note the correlation. Note it and then feel more at ease that not everything was better since meeting Crowley. 

Because if he admitted that Crowley brought along everything good, he’d undoubtedly allow his feelings to overcome his sensibilities. And he was already starting to feel far more attached to the man than he ought to at this stage.

He needed to be more sensible this time around. He wasn’t getting any younger. And if he desired a true and lasting partnership again, it ought to be built on something more than just a few good romps in the sheets.

Shouldn’t it?

Now was not the time to internally debate these things as it was something like ten in the morning and Harry was currently bounding around the flat like an unstoppable force while Crowley blew up his phone with updates regarding the Sunday roast he was preparing for his siblings. 

Now was the time to search for caffeine to remedy the fatigue that hung over him like the rain clouds that plagued LA yesterday and were responsible for his delayed return.

But as Aziraphale opened up his kitchen cabinet, he discovered he was fresh out of black tea. A tired sigh escaped him and he softly banged his forehead against the closed cabinet in defeat.

It seemed like it would be a tiring day as well. There was the instant coffee though, so perhaps he’d still manage to flood his bloodstream with some measure of caffeine, question of taste notwithstanding. 

A rhythmic vibration sounded against his countertop. Aziraphale slowly opened his eyes and saw a message from Crowley flash across the screen: Still wanna video chat? ‘M good til 4:30 just lemme kno    

Another sigh. Another head thud against the cabinets.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to chat with Crowley. He wanted to very much. Especially since they hadn’t said much in the last week with how busy the pair of them had been. But he wasn’t sure how good he would be at conversing now, considering his current state.

Still if there was anything Aziraphale hated to be, it was a disappointment. So he decided at that moment, he’d manage it as best he could.

Besides, it was already three in the afternoon in London, so that took some of the pressure off, knowing their time would be limited. The more he considered it, the more he decided he ought to take advantage of this opportunity. Because Crowley would be back at work tomorrow and his availability would be sparse once more. 

Aziraphale typed a quick response indicating he would need to attend to Harry’s food needs and then his own caffeine needs, but he would be most obliging for a short video chat afterward.

He was met with a: cant wait, angel 😁 that made his own lips twitch into a smile before he sprung into action.

Several minutes later, Aziraphale forced down a long sip of black coffee with five sugar cubes that hadn’t quite dissolved yet. Harry cuddled up beside him on the bed, absentmindedly munching on a large leaf of romaine. And somehow Aziraphale was balancing his phone against the plane of his thigh as he called Crowley. 

When the darkness of the screen broke away, Aziraphale took in Crowley’s stunning gaze that looked utterly enthused. His dark glasses were pushed up on the top of his head and Aziraphale felt a sudden yearning to touch the soft wisps of hair sticking out from behind his ears. 

Heaven help him, he really needed to calm down.

“Hey angel.” Crowley beamed, leaning both his elbows atop his kitchen counter. “Good to see you made it back.”

Aziraphale offered a tired grin while replying, “Yes, a few hours ago.”

Crowley shifted to lean on one elbow, chin prompted up against his palm. “Harry all good?”

“Yes. He’s having his romaine now.” Aziraphale affectionately stroked Harry’s ears. 

“Can I see the little bugger?”

After carefully setting his coffee mug down on his nightstand, Aziraphale adjusted the camera angle so Crowley could see Harry, now finished with one leaf of Romaine and silently begging for another. 

Aziraphale’s phone changed hands so he might reach for another piece he set on the end table for convenience before presenting it to his greedy, little pet.

“Aww look at him go,” Crowley crooned. 

“Yes, he knows I feel guilty when I’m gone for more than a day and takes full advantage in his pursuit of extra treats.”

“Well who can blame him?” Crowley bantered back with a wry smirk. “You’re so bloody…missable.”

Aziraphale laughed, “I’m not entirely sure missable is a word.”

“T’is. Look it up.”

The curve of Aziraphale’s mouth intensified. “I will once we get off here.”

“Good.”

There was a brief moment, where neither of them had anything remarkable to say. 

Thankfully, Crowley stood tall, revealing an explosion of florals and leafy greens printed over his black pullover.

It was equal parts casual and dressy. A combination that suited Crowley rather nicely. And Aziraphale told him just as much.

Crowley blushed under this compliment and chortled out a “thanks,” before picking up his phone and a wooden spoon.   

When Crowley’s focus moved off camera Aziraphale asked, “How is dinner looking?”

“Good! Good. Roast is in. Potatoes are just starting the boil. Just giving the peas and carrots a bit of a stir now.” He tapped the edge of his pot with the spoon before looking back at Aziraphale. “Think we’re pretty much set.”

“Will you do a pudding?”

“Ligur brings a mix,” Crowley explained. “Then he does them up so they’re nice and fresh. And so I don’t have to do it all.”

“I haven’t had a Sunday roast in ages .” Aziraphale sighed. 

“I can make it for you.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes shot up and his heart beat faster at Crowley’s suggestion.

He carried on as though Aziraphale hadn’t heard him. 

“Next you’re in. If you like.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale grappled internally with something to say. But the more he tried to reach for words, the further out of his awareness they seemed to become. “Oh well, I-I-I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” 

That much was true. He really wasn’t worth all that trouble.

Crowley opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Aziraphale hastily added a second argument, “That is quite a lot of food for just two people.”

“You like to eat.”

“Everyone likes to eat. But it’s too much, Crowley,” he insisted.

He saw the excited light in the other man’s eyes dim a bit. And Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he’d been too harsh with him. But if Crowley was disappointed, it didn’t sink in too deeply because he was already on the next topic. 

“Did you uh…get your schedule for the month?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale brightened at this. “Ye-ye-yesss…” He managed in the middle of a large and rather undignified yawn. 

“Were you gonna tell me if you got a line to London?”

The coyness evident in Crowley’s question forced Aziraphale to smirk. “Of course. I planned on doing so during this call. You’re just dreadfully impatient.”

He winked and Crowley let out an amused noise before moving from the kitchen to the living room. His eyes lowered whenever he offered a meek, “Sorry.”

“Oh, no need to apologise. Your interest is flattering.” 

He waited until Crowley settled on the black settee in his living room before relaying the details of his London trip.  

“I’ll arrive early in the morning on the 29th and then leave early afternoon on the 30th. It’s a Wednesday to Thursday arrangement, which I know isn’t ideal because you have work too but, if you wanted to meet up, I’m sure we could figure something out.”

“Yeah. Yeah we definitely could. You could come over in the evening. I could make us dinner.”

There he went with that idea again. 

“Oh I wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble just for me.”

“I don’t mind. I like cooking. If that wasn’t already evident.” He gestured behind him in a wide sweeping manner that made Aziraphale smile softly.

“We’ll see closer to the date.”

“We need to get you more enthusiastic about this visit!” Crowley rolled over onto his back.

“I am enthusiastic!” Aziraphale settled down on his side, his back now to Harry. “I’m just very jet lagged at the moment.”

Crowley’s mouth dipped down sympathetically. “Mmm sorry.”

“Haven’t a delay like this in a while.” Aziraphale admitted with a long exhalation.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s draining.” Crowley’s arm curled beneath his head, elbow jutting out at an odd angle. “But most of the people left you alone though? Since they were sleeping?” 

“You’re right,” Aziraphale agreed. “Though I couldn’t fall asleep during my break. Which was most inconvenient.”

“Sorry, angel.”

“Oh it’s alright.” With a snort, he added, “Just the more glamorous part of my job.”

“Well from what I recall, you look rather glamorous doing it.”

“Don’t tease.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, feeling his face grow warmer. 

“I don’t. I flirt. There is a difference.” 

Regaining control of himself, Aziraphale rolled his eyes, though his grin remained in place. He did know the difference. But he wasn’t so sure he should encourage those differences now.

“Should I stop?”

“I didn’t say that.” 

Aziraphale frowned as he shifted his position on the mattress again, feeling a lump wedge itself unpleasantly beneath his lower back. Glancing over, he discovered a book wrapped inside his bundled tartan blanket. Deciding he suddenly had need of the blanket, Aziraphale unfolded it while tossing the book towards the foot of the bed, all the while gripping his phone.

He draped the soft fabric over his shoulders and then nuzzled his cheek deeper into the pillow. It was then a contented expression washing over him as his gaze met Crowley’s intense one yet again.  

“Wot you doing, looking all cosy like that?”

There was a rather endearing break in Crowley’s voice and Aziraphale noted that golden light was back in his eyes, which only served to fill Aziraphale’s heart with a longing.

A longing to feel him beneath his blanket and in his arms, even if only to level out the desire that descended in his lower abdomen.

“Aziraphale?”

This call to the present forced Aziraphale to set aside his feelings and take in Crowley’s patient expression.

A knowing smile edged its way to Crowley’s mouth. “Wot you thinking about?”

“Nothing!” Though the warmth that came with thoughts of Crowley swiftly betrayed him and he found himself glancing off to one side, cheeks growing hot.

“You liar,” Crowley retorted. “You were thinking of something naughty, weren’t you?”

“What?! I was not!” Nervous laughter rang through his words.

“Hmm…I dunno bout you. After all, what’s happening underneath that blanket?”

Aziraphale immediately lifted his free hand out from underneath it and wiggled his fingers.

“Happy?” He chided before bursting into laughter.

“Alright, alright,” Crowley grumbled, his face settling into the most adorable sort of pout.

Curious by the unplanned destination their conversation landed at, Aziraphale asked, “Have you not been taking care of certain needs, my dear?”

His petulant look crumbled into that of a bashful grin. “I mean…I…yes, I do…on occasion.”

Aziraphale tilted his head to one side, silently probing for a deeper answer to his inquiry.

“I do! I mean…you don’t?”

“Of course I do,” he remarked. “It’s perfectly natural. You just seem rather fixated on it at present. So I thought maybe…it’d been a while?”

“I mean I don’t track it!” Crowley laughed. “Do you?”

“Not especially. Though…I don’t think I have done since…seeing you.”

He saw Crowley inhale slowly before allowing a somewhat choked sound to escape him. “Well, I expect you’ve been busy.”

“Yes.” 

And without you. The thought was an intrusive one. One Aziraphale silenced by intoning hoarsely, “But I’m not busy now.” 

Crowley’s jaw totally unhinged for several seconds before he managed to shut it with a “uhmmmmhhmm,” sound.

All they could do in the proceeding minutes was stare intently at one another, the only sounds were that of their shallow breathing occupying the airwaves.  

Then Crowley spoke first, “You know, I think I took care of myself two nights ago.”

“How?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Uhm…just…lube and touching myself.” He added with a slightly anxious laugh, “Rather boring, I’m afraid.”

The image of Crowley stroking his cock was the antithesis of boring as far as Aziraphale was concerned. How he longed to see such a thing now. He’d ask for such a thing if Crowley were in his bed. Because he liked watching Crowley. And he suspected Crowley enjoyed being watched.

Lacking the ability to bring such images to life with his hands, Aziraphale aimed to paint the picture in his mind instead. 

“ What did you think about?”

Another elongated “uhhmmmhmmm,” escaped Crowley’s lips. And he managed in a strained tone, “You. The last time we were together.”

Aziraphale fought to keep his eyes open and his breath steady. Already his stomach clenched with want and that familiar molten liquid sensation began bubbling in his lower abdomen.

Somehow he managed to ask, “What about me?”

“You…you really wanna know?”

“Yes. Tell me everything.” 

“Haaaa ok…uhm…I thought about how warm you were in my hand.”

Oh yes, that was good.

“How wet I made you.”

“Ohhh,” Aziraphale sighed. His legs squirmed a bit, hand descending to palm himself. 

“And I thought about how you were so good to me that night. How you took such good care of me and how I… needed to take care of you.”

“Yess,” another long breath escaped him. Aziraphale gripped himself over his cotton lounge pants as he said, “I do recall how desperate you were to be good.”

“Uhu,” was all Crowley could manage before his teeth sunk into his lower lip.

“Tell me more,” Aziraphale asserted.

“I also thought about how you took me so perfectly.”

Aziaphale fought the battle with keeping his eyes open there. He urged his body to remember how full Crowley made him feel. How he felt like he might burst as Crowley took him slowly, easing into the sensation with careful consideration until a ferocity that Aziraphale hadn’t known he could ever enjoy overtook him.  

“You were so sexy like that. So hard and hot. Spilling over my hand while I fucked you. Wanting mmmmit.”

A soft laugh took hold and Aziraphale’s gaze met Crowley’s long enough for him to tease, “Mit?”

“ It ,” Crowley snapped, his eyes darkening with desire. “Wanting it .”

Aziraphale whispered, “I did. Want it. All of it.”

“And you were so keen to meet me halfway with that perfectly round ass of yours.”

“Mhmm.” 

His head fell back as he moaned at the glorious memory Crowley was helping him relive. He couldn’t just get by rubbing himself above his clothes any longer. His hand dipped down into his joggers and he fisted himself as he imagined Crowley taking him from behind once more. He ached to feel something there once more. 

“God it felt so good to be in you.”

This admission had him stroking harder. “Yesss.”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Mhmm,” Aziraphale moaned.

“Can uhhh…can you show me?” 

Crowley was then rambling about how he knew sexting was kind of a trash thing for someone as classy as Aziraphale, who probably didn’t believe in engaging in such a thing. 

But Aziraphale was too busy casting the blanket aside and then shucking his pants down well below his arse to encourage this line of negative thought. He rolled onto his back and flipped the camera so that the lower half of his naked self and his rumpled bed coverings were all that Crowley could see. 

He heard a choked out, “Oh fuck yes. God…your cock is so…mmmfgh.”

Aziraphale let out another sound of amusement, “I think you created a new adjective.”

Crowley, too, found this mildly funny. 

“I just meant to say…you’re gorgeous like that. And you’re dripping…fuck I wish I could taste it.”

Aziraphale’s hips rose, cock thrusting up into the shallow channel of his hand. “So do I.”

“Next time…I’m going to suck you off.”

The ferocity in Crowley’s voice had Aziraphale groaning, “Oh…lord have mercy…”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? Me on my knees for you…mouth stretched all around your cock…”

Yes, yes, yes, he thought while his thumb smeared precum all around the head.

“...til you reach my throat.”

“Oh fuck. Crowley…I…” He paused to spit in his hand, needing more and not wanting to pause the proceedings to search for lube. 

“Would you like that?”

“Yess. Ever so much…” 

His hand went back to work again. The wet sounds added to the absolute obscenity of it all. And the fact that Aziraphale was presenting his hard cock to Crowley, showing him just what he needed and wanted from it, only added to the thrill of this.

“Want to taste you. Want you to finish down my throat.”

Aziraphale moaned loudly, “Fuck, Crowley. You’re…I’m going to..”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Imagine how good my mouth would feel around you.”

The sheer determination in Crowley’s tone was simply not enough, he needed to know beyond words what this was doing to Crowley. 

Flipping his camera back to his face, he caught sight of Crowley’s needy brow and gaping mouth. His chest appeared hollowed out from the ragged breathing and the motion of his arm from the corner of the frame left little to the imagination for what he was doing now. 

“Does this make you feel good?”

The speed of Crowley’s arm seemed to increase while he rasped, “Ohh sooo good, angel.”

“Be a dear and show me?”

There was some shuffling and rustling as Crowley set up his camera at the foot end of the settee, carefully balancing it on what Aziraphale assumed to be a small stack of pillows. 

And then, as the full picture came to life, Aziraphale moaned through biting his bottom lip. Crowley had abandoned all clothes on his lower half, his legs spread wider than what Aziraphale suspected was humanly possible. He had one foot on the floor, the other leg draped up over the back of the settee. In addition to his flushed length Aziraphale could also see the pink furled muscles of his hole on full display.

The things Aziraphale would do to him, if he were there. The possibilities were endless given the picture Crowley presented him with.  

“Oh how I wish you were here,” Aziraphale gushed.

“What’d you do if I was?” Crowley challenged, purposefully stroking himself with an exaggerated slowness.

Aziraphale’s hand pumped faster, his eyes narrowing as the pleasure built within him. He croaked out, “Kiss you. While I touch us. Together.”

“Fuck that’s hot.” The growl tore through Crowley’s whole being as his back arched. After a few more tugs, he asked, his tone pitching in a hopeful manner, “Are we laying down?

“If you like,” Aziraphale managed in a single breath.

Crowley pleaded, “Will you be on top?”

“Yes.”

“Ahh fuck.” Crowley cupped his balls at this, prompting Aziraphale to roll his lips inward. “Can I grab your arse while you do that?”

A strangled groan escaped him, “Please do.”

“Push you down? Closer to me?”

“Argnnngh…yesss.” 

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. The pressure in his belly was fit to burst, like the champagne corks often did on a plane with little provocation. And Crowley was certainly doing more than just pressing his thumbnail against the edge of a cork. 

“You’d be gorgeous like that. Your thighs…pinning me.”

Yes, it certainly seemed as though Crowley was intent on tearing out the cork nothing more than his teeth.

Aziraphale had to slow things down if he wanted to savour the sharp release that would follow with that sweet, euphoric flow alongside Crowley. He didn’t wish to finish too swiftly. 

So he asked, rhetorically, but also, curious for what the response might be. 

“You’d like that?”

“Fuck yes! Your thighs are….mfffgh.”

Aziraphale felt a rather smug smirk take hold of him. He noted in a gravelly manner, “I need to remember that.”

“Uhu. You do.” Crowley remarked through laboured breath, his hand pumping at an unforgivable pace. Small spurts of desire coursed over his hand and cock.

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut and his hand squeezed harder as he rasped, “Oh to feel you against me like that...” 

“I knowww,” Crowley moaned in response. “I need that, Aziraphale.”

“Mmm…me too.” 

It would be heaven, feeling the most sensitive parts of themselves brush over one another, thrusting into the tight channel of Aziraphale’s hand. Their wetness mingling together until they both found the height of their individual releases. The velvet heat of their skin sliding together to create more friction. Crowley’s lips brushing needily against his own, tongues taking risks. It was enough for Aziraphale to call for Crowley in that needy, heightened way.  

“Crowleyyy.”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Think about that. How good we’d feel together.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Take your pleasure, Aziraphale. Take it from me. It's all yours. All yours.”

Oh fuck. Those words ranked right up there along with the sweetheart Crowley seemed so fond of.

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. It had been so long since anyone called to him so possessively in a way that also made him feel needed and seen, not just wanted. He nearly forgot such a combination of feelings could coexist. And he needed Crowley to know it was reciprocated. At least in this very moment if nothing else.    

“Yes. Yes. Mine. Yes.”

“Good.”

“Mmm….I’m close…”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Finish for me. You’ve been so good. Show me how pretty you are when you finish for…”

But before Crowley could end his sentence, Aziraphale heard a distant pounding, followed up a sudden shriek of, “What the actual fuck?!” 

His eyes shot open there and he saw the wild sweep of limbs just before the world went topsy-turvy and there was a loud clatter.

Aziraphale released himself and sat up, concerned that all he saw now was granular blackness.  

Panic swept over his mounting desire and he called out, “Crowley? Are you alright? Crowley? What’s happened?” 

His heart only continued to race as the seconds ticked by without a response.

Chapter Text

It took Crowley several seconds to process what just happened. He’d be so close to finishing this gripping fantasy whenever a knock on the door brought reality crashing back down. And took him with it. Literally.

Here he lay, half naked on the cold floor, his phone face down just short of his moon shaped plant holder.   

“Everything alright in there, AJ?”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. 

It was Ligur. His siblings were here.  

Ambling up to a seated position, Crowley called out in a halfhearted tone, “Yeah…yeah! Yeah, everything’s fine just…gimme…a minute.” 

He reached for his boxers and slithered into them before wildly waving his dark denims until they were no longer crumpled in a heap on the floor.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was faint, but he could tell there was a frantic edge in between the silence. “What was that? Crowley? What’s happened?”

Now standing, Crowley hopped over towards his phone while he kicked each leg through his black jeans.

He picked it up and caught sight of Aziraphale’s look of concern. “Sorry angel. Fell off the settee. Family’s here.” 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah fine. Side from the fact, I have a rager.” And likely a bruised arse, he thought.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale intoned. Then after a few seconds of silence, a coquettish smile curved his lips, “I could send you something to help with that? For later?”

“Mmm…” he trailed off, eyes closed. 

He couldn’t very well be hard whenever he let his family in. And if he kept thinking about the possibility of receiving some visual aids to assist with this fantasy, he might never calm down. So he offered halfheartedly, “You don’t…don’t feel like you have to do that.”

“But I want to,” Aziraphale whined. The tone pierced Crowley’s gut with a neediness he couldn’t indulge just now. “You aren’t the only one with a rager, as you put it. And I was so close to finishing.”

Crowley hung his head and lamented, “Arghh…fuckk me.”

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Yeah! I’m fucking coming!” Crowley called back in response to the pounding at his door..

Ligur shouted back, “Language, AJ!”

“Sorry! Calm your tii-iinfoil!”

Aziraphale chuckled, “Tinfoil?! How American of you.”

Directing his attention back to the screen Crowley informed him in a hushed voice, “I couldn’t very well say tits, could I? Not with Ligur all neeergggkkk-ness about Pip hearing swears and shit.”

Aziraphale merely laughed, his pale eyes sparkling with amusement.

Crowely looked elsewhere otherwise they’d never get off the phone. And he simply explained, “Yeah don’t think I told you, but he’s on this whole don’t curse in front of the baby kick.”

“Crowley!” It was Nina now. “Would you mind opening up in…I dunno the next hour or something? We’re carrying a lot of shit here!”

“Nina! Language!” Ligur hissed. 

“Oh it’s not like she knows,” Lilith put in, her constant wryness attempting to soothe her fiance.

“They’re like little sponges, Lil. They pick up everything.” Ligur insisted.

“Anyway!” Nina broke up their banter, “We got a whole lotta stuff out here, so if you could hurry it up please that’d be great!”

Glancing to Aziraphale, Crowley started with an apologetic look, “I’m so sorry angel…I really gotta go. I…I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Oh it’s alright. I hope you have a marvellous time with your family.” 

“Thanks. Again I really am…”

Aziraphale huffed rather primly, “If you apologise one more time, I won’t be able to send you those pretty little pictures you so desire.”

That might be so, but it was still sort of rude to just abandon someone after getting them all worked up. At least, that’s what Crowley believed.

“Right ok, but I just…”

“It really is alright, Crowley. We’ll talk later. I’m sure of it.”

Upon hearing this, a grateful smile tugged at Crowley’s lips. The angel was being entirely sincere and not at all disappointed. 

He nodded. “Yeah, right, ok.”

Aziraphale tilted his head to one side and offered softly, “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Ciao, angel.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, Crowley ended the call and slid his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

Jumping at the next series of hard knocks, Crowley unlatched the door and brandished his largest grin. 

“Hi fam! Sorry bout the wait!” There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he attempted to be jovial. 

With a sweep of his arm, he gestured for them all to enter. Nina shoved in first, two brown bags filling her arms, pausing for a split second to give him a peck on the cheek. 

Then came Ligur with the baby carrier, full of an array of baby necessities but void of the actual baby and a backpack. He leaned in for Crowley to clap his shoulder. 

“Nina. Ligur. Good to see you.”

After his siblings entered, Crowley made sure to envelop Lilith, who held eighteen month old Pip in her arms, into a warm embrace. 

“Lil, you look lovely as always!”

Lilith always gave off a look that Crowley defined as “classical edge.” He supposed that’s what a black bob with an undercut did when combined with constantly wearing a leather jacket and an endless supply of dangerously high heels. That and the sharply cut cheek bones and plump lips she was blessed with, made her face a pleasant one to look at. As long as you were on her good side, that was.    

Crowley’s attention moved from his soon to be sister-in-law towards Pip with her big brown gaze full of quiet curiosity. 

He then cooed, “And Pip!” He noticed her purple headband with a cute flower decal that held back her short, dark curls. “Look at your new headband! Isn’t that pretty?!”

Pip immediately responded with a smile and began reaching for the side of Crowley’s face like she often did. 

He turned his face to blow a raspberry into her open palm and she whipped back around to hide her face in her mother’s neck.

Lilith’s pitchy laughter sounded as she told Pip, “Uncle Crowley is silly, isn’t he?”  

Crowley sniggered at this. Pip was quite possibly the most adorable baby he’d ever met. It hardly mattered that she was the only baby he’d ever met. 

“Don’t worry, I turned the potatoes down, Antony!” Nina called from the kitchen.

“Thanks!” He immediately sprung back towards the range. “How’s everything else looking?”

He grabbed a nearby fork and poked one of the carrots. Still hard.

“So uhm…who were you talking to that was more important than letting us in?” Nina probed, a sly grin forming on her face. 

With an anxious laugh, Crowley replied incredulously, “No one!”

“Didn’t sound like no one,” Ligur intoned from his other side as he dumped the contents of the pudding mix into a large bowl.

“Was it the angel?!” Lilith asked brightly.

Crowley groaned, “Arghngkk…Lil knows about all that?” He tossed an accusatory look in Ligur’s direction.

“Course she does,” his brother informed him. 

“We keep no secrets,” Lilith reminded him with a wink before she set Pip down on her unsteady yet eager feet. 

“Nggkkk…” Crowley grumbled. 

He mentally braced himself for the onslaught of questions his siblings would undoubtedly toss his way. It was typical anytime they caught a whiff of him having met someone. He supposed that’s what he got for being the oldest and keeping a lot of his personal life a mystery; not unlike a parent might separate such information from their own children. 

“Bet it was, angel,” Ligur pointed out. “That’s his stalling noise.”

“That is not…!”

“You’ll have to tell us all about him!” Lilith interrupted before chasing after a toddling Pip, who always seemed intrigued by the plants that were at her eye level.

“I don’t actually have to. Because there’s nothing to talk about, ok? We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, friends who fuck,” Nina put in plainly.

“Nina!” Crowley cried out at the same time Ligur said, “Language!” before jerking his head in the direction of the living room, where Lilith was teaching Pip how to gently touch Amy and Laurie’s pretty spotted leaves.

“Oh she’s not listening.” Nina flipped a hand. 

She was in the process of opening one of the bottles of wine whenever her face scrunched up and she wondered, “When did you get such a stick up your arse?!”

Lilith mumbled loud enough for them all to hear, “‘Bout nine months ago.”

Ligur spun around to face his fiance, sounding incredulous, “You’re supposed to be on my side here!”

Lilith sighed, “Darling, I am. She’s eighteen months old. She doesn’t understand what a swear is!”

“Sponges, Lil! Sponges!”

“Right, even if she does understand it, she’s either gonna learn it from us or at school. And I’d rather she learn it from us. That way she has proper context.”

“At eighteen months?” Nina taunted, which earned her an elbow in the side from Crowley.

He presented two wine glasses on his kitchen island and murmured to her, “Shut it. Not our battle to engage in.” 

“I don’t think she needs to know about…” Ligur halted here then glanced back at Nina pointedly, “...Uncle Crowley’s evening adventures though.”

Nina burst into laughter, “Uncle Crowley’s evening adventures! Sounds like a creepy children’s show from the nineties!”

“Oh fuck sake, why did I even invite you all over?!” Crowley chuckled darkly before swiping the nearest glass of wine and taking a long sip.

“Because you love us,” Nina chimed in with a smirk.

“And it’s been a minute,” Lilith added from a stooped position as she helped Pip out of her shoes. “We were beginning to take it personally!”

Crowley stuck his tongue out and made a rather childish sound in response to Lilith’s taunt.

“Lil, the doctor said she shouldn’t walk about barefoot,” Ligur reminded her. 

“She’s got socks on,” Lilith assured, her voice growing more pitchy. “And I’ll make sure she’s not on her toes.”

“But she only walks on her toes! And if you keep letting her do it she could end up developing all the wrong muscles!”

“Ligur James.” Her tone became hard as she middle named him. 

Nina turned to face Crowley, both of them exchanging private, grimacing looks and taking thoughtful sips of wine to silence any bemused sounds that might accidentally escape.

“I know what I’m doing,” Lil insisted plainly. “I’m a good mother.” 

“I wasn’t saying you aren’t, love! It’s just the doctor said…”

“To be concerned if it’s still happening by age two!”

“She’s nearer to two than one though!”

“Hey uhm!” Crowley cried out, lifting up the half empty bottle of red he and Nina had been indulging in. With a tight grin, he glanced between Ligur and Lilith and asked hopefully, “Anyone else want some wine?! Nina and I might kill this ourselves if we aren’t careful!”

“No thanks,” Ligur remarked sullenly.

“Love some!” Lilith exclaimed. “Thank you, Crowley!”  

The hardness in her face disappeared, but there was a falsetto in her voice that still made Crowley feel a bit uneasy. She rose from her place on the floor to meet him and Nina on the opposite side of the island, reaching for the freshly poured glass.

They clinked glasses while Crowley noticed Ligur opening cupboards, the pudding mixture abandoned.

Setting his own glass down, he opened up a lower cabinet, pulling out the deep well tin and offering it to his brother.

“Alright mate?”

“Fine,” he bristled.

“Doesn’t seem like…”

“Just drop it, kay?” He began stirring the pudding mixture like it was a strenuous workout.

Crowley lifted his hands up in surrender. “Just…trying to help.” 

His eyes wandered to the living room, noticing that Lil and Nina were now minding Pip before he busied himself with checking on the roast. 

As he opened the oven, the piney scent of rosemary mingled with fresh thyme and the smell of cooking beef hit him. Crowley suddenly felt just how hungry he was. He’d not have much to eat today in preparation for this meal. Carefully stabbing the meat with his thermometer, he waited for the reading before telling Ligur, “Roast’ll be done in about five and then we can get the pudding going.”

Ligur grunted his agreement.

“Smells heavenly, Crowley!” Lilith moaned her praises as the aroma filled the flat.

He gave her a smile and a thumbs up. When he turned back to face the range, he caught Ligur’s annoyed expression.

“Come on, mate.” Crowley clapped a supportive hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just set all that aside? Have a drink.” 

“I’m driving,” Ligur grumbled.

“Yeah in like three hours!” Crowley taunted, trying to break through the stoney wall Ligur had built.

“I can’t.”

“Alright. Ok. But…just…try to loosen up a bit, mmkay? You and Lil are both doing a good job with Pip.”

“Ha, yeah. Try telling Lil that. She thinks everything I try to teach Pip is wrong. Or that I’m too hard on her.”

“Yeah well...maybe you’re a little uptight about small things.”

Ligur dropped the wooden spoon and huffed, “So everyone’s just going to take her side. And I’ll just be the crazy one.”

Crowley furrowed his brow and insisted, “You’re not crazy, Lig. No one’s saying that.” 

“Did you hear how she shut me down just now?” He bemoaned, jerking his thumb behind them. “I had a concern and she just brushed it off. As though it was nothing.”

“Yeah. I did. But I also heard you being a bit of a dick to her too.”

He scoffed and resumed mixing the pudding.

“You are. I’m your older brother. It is my solemn duty to tell you when you’re being a bellend for no reason.”

Ligur set the spoon down again and sighed. After a moment he turned to Crowley, his voice lowering, “I just want to keep her safe. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

The concern was evident in his tone and how his brow pinched with a fresh wrinkle of anxiety. 

Crowley wasn’t a therapist nor did he have children of his own. The closest he had ever gotten to having kids of his own was guardianship of Ligur and Nina when he was twenty-three and they were teenagers. What a wild time that’d been.

But in spite of his lack of professional experience on the matter, he wondered if Ligur was thinking back to their own childhood now, just as he was. 

Their Dad died when Ligur was eleven and it had been an angry and reckless time for his brother. Particularly whenever their Mum took to drinking, and then years later, using harder drugs, to cope with the loss. 

Crowley’d been there, of course. Just finishing his first year of his architectural program, he took a temporary leave of absence and then moved back home to help his Mum look after Ligur and Nina. 

But as Ligur very angrily and very often reminded him, Crowley wasn’t their Dad. He never would be. No matter how much he tried to fill that void, it would always exist. Even with Crowley’s presence in their home.  

It wasn’t until Crowley broke down crying in front of him, saying that he was just doing the best he could do and all he wanted was for them all to be safe, when something in Ligur settled down. The shouting lessened, but the anger remained. And as their Mum soon spiralled down a dark and twisty path none of them could follow, fear entered the picture for them.

Fear of what sort of mood Mum would be in after a few too many. Fear of what chaos she might bring home as a way to numb the pain. 

Crowley tried his best to shield his siblings from it all. But he knew they saw things at far too young an age that they’d likely be unable to forget. Things got really bleak whenever Nigel entered the picture. 

It was about four years after Dad was killed. Ligur was nearly sixteen. Nina was fourteen and starting to look more like a woman than a girl. And Nigel’s gaze wandered too lengthily on her whenever she walked by. When Crowley tried to talk to his Mum about it, she told Nigel that it was him who was having impure thoughts about his half-sister and well, that was the end of Crowley living with them all. 

He just turned twenty-three when all the accusations started flying and Nigel all but tossed him out by the collar of his ratty leather jacket. Six months later, Mum would pass away with a needle in her arm and Nigel would end up in prison and out of their lives for good. 

So Crowley suspected that Ligur’s urge to protect little Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, this obsessive need to do everything by the book, stemmed from the unpredictability of their lives early on. He knew, because he lived through a somewhat similar experience once before.  

Which is why now, he tried his best to lend a supporting ear to Ligur. Which is why he wanted to try and understand what was happening between Ligur and Lilith so that the rift between them might be mended.

“Yeah, I know, mate,” he offered sympathetically. “Lil probably knows that too.”

“Doubt it.”

“She can’t understand what we went through, that's for sure. But Pip’s already better off than we were. She’s going to be ok.”

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know you’re both doing a fine job.”

“Dad did a fine job. Didn’t stop him getting murdered, did it?”

Crowley exhaled at this. Even all these years later, it still hurt to hear what had happened to their Dad. Because he didn't deserve it. Not that anyone deserved to be murdered just because they looked a certain way. But especially not their Dad. 

Their Dad, who adopted Crowley before Ligur or Lilith were even born because he believed Crowley was his son too, shared blood or not. Their Dad, who worked two jobs he hated so Mum could finish nursing school and pursue her dreams. Their Dad, who somehow managed to show up for everything for each of his kids, even when he worked a mad amount of hours. Their Dad, who made the best Sunday Roast in the world that they’d forget about whatever troubles at school they had going on, even if just for an afternoon. Their Dad, who was murdered on a cold winter day because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, buying a pack of gum.

Their Dad deserved better and they all knew it. And him being gone for twenty-plus years would never change the way Crowley felt about it all.   

“Thing is, AJ,” Ligur put in to disrupt Crowley’s thoughts, “things haven’t changed all that much in the world. Not as much as you’d like to think. I still get looks if I do or don’t look a certain way. Or if I’m in a certain area some people feel I shouldn’t be. Or if I touch Lil a certain way. And I think about Pip. And the looks people might give her. I mean, people don’t run their mouths as much now but still…I’m a Black man. Same as Dad was. Maybe I’m just luckier.”

“If I could round all those fuckwits up and…”

“But you can’t.”

After a pause Crowley said, “Look, I know I can’t properly understand how you feel, so I won’t try to tell you how you ought to. All I’ll tell you is that I’m here for you. For you and Lil. And Pip. And Nina. Always. And I’ll do all that I can to ensure we’re all alright.”

“You can’t do it all, AJ. I know you like to think you can save us all from the rest of the world, but you can’t.”

“Not save you, no. That’s not what I meant. But I can support you all in ways you need.  When you need it. If. You need it. And I can love you all. Enjoy time with you all. Those are the things I can do. The little that I can control in all this chaos. And, thing is Lig…you’re not always gonna get it right when it comes to Pip. And she’s gonna call you out on shit as she continues to grow into her own person. Member you did that with me all the time?”

“Ach fuck, I know. I know.” He hung his head at this. “I just don’t want the world to chew her up and spit her out.”

“Nahhh, it won’t. She’s got the lot of us supporting her and loving her. In the grander scheme of it all…she’ll be alright. Even when the world is cruel or fucks with her, she’ll know she has us. And she’ll know where to go to set things right. But…Lil is right about one thing. You gotta chill about the small stuff. Kay? Otherwise you’ll push her away. Push ‘em both away, I reckon.”

“God, I’m already fucking her up aren’t I?” Ligur groaned, digging his fingers into his temples. 

“Hardly!” Crowley patted his shoulder bracingly. “Besides, you can keep having those little fuck up moments for about five more years before she really remembers anything. And then…then I think you actually have those little ‘I’m sorry’ talks when you fuck up.”

“Yeah I remember your little ‘I’m sorry I fucked up’ talks.”

Crowley sniggered, “Yeah, I’m sure there were a lot of ‘em.”

“Nina and I are happy enough though. Thanks to you.”

“Nahh…I just kept you both alive. You both made your own choices that led to your own happiness.” After a pause, he jerked his head back to the living room and instructed, “And if you want to keep some of that happiness, you really ought to go tell your fiance you’re sorry for being a dick. And ask if she needs more wine. Tell her you love her...do whatever it is you do to make things better.”

“Can’t do that til later.”

Mischief gleamed through Ligur’s dark brown eyes and Crowley grimaced at this implication before making an excuse about checking the roast and turning away.

He replaced the roasting pan with the pudding mix tin while the musical sound of Pip’s toys along with her high pitched giggles filled the air. Whenever he turned around again, Crowley saw Lilith seated on the settee with a full glass of wine. Ligur’s hand massaging her shoulder while she leaned into his side. Nina was on the floor with Pip, both of them playing with a toy with moveable shapes and pop up animals that imitated their sounds.

It was then he felt a sudden wave of emotions.

He was right. They were a family. They were strong. They also loved one another and supported one another and should enjoy these moments for as long as possible. For nothing was guaranteed beyond the present. 

Crowley was glad to see things were good again with Ligur and Lilith. Just as he was glad that Ligur had Pip to relive the more innocent parts of life that had been stripped away from him when he lost their parents. Even Nina, who was vehemently against having children of her own, kept indulging Pip by resetting the toy with a comical enthusiasm that made the little girl happily squeal.

It was almost a perfect picture. But there was the quiet realisation that he was forgetting something, or rather someone. A quiet notion that prompted him to reach into his back pocket and check his messages. 

His heart lifted whenever he read Aziraphale’s last message to him: Turns out you were right. Missable is, in fact, a word.

He laughed out loud at this, accidentally catching Nina’s eye and then bringing a hand to stroke his chin and wipe the stupid grin off his face. 

Nina cocked her head to one side, but Crowley refocused responding to Aziraphale. 

He was delighted whenever Aziraphale’s response came through almost immediately.

His thumbs were poised to offer a cheeky response whenever Nina cried out in a frantic tone.

“Anthony! The potatoes!”

He glanced up to see her pointing and whenever he whirled around once more, he saw the water streaming over the top of the pot, hissing as it came into contact with the heat pad on the stove. 

“Shit!” He rushed over while pocketing his phone.

He cranked off the heat and felt his mobile buzzing against his arsecheek. 

His chest tightened at the possibility of what Aziraphale’s next message might contain, but he already had Ligur by his side, offering assistance with meal preparations. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale would have to wait.

Somewhere in between laying the table and sitting down to take his first bite, Crowley read Aziraphale’s last message, which merely stated that he would share additional details regarding how he handled himself once Crowley’s sibling departed as he did not wish to take away from their time together.

Crowley found that both irritating as well as wholly respectable. And for the second time that evening, a stupid grin splayed across his face, and Nina shot him another questioning look.

Dinner was largely successful. The food was tasty. Conversations flowed easily from the adult topics at hand. Work for all. Nina’s recent breakup with Lindsey. Lig and Lil’s wedding preparations. Crowley’s “angel.” Then back to Pip who was happily showing off her own knowledge of random words and sounds.

Sometime near nine Ligur and Lil left with an already sleeping Pip while Nina offered to help Crowley with the dishes. As always, she washed, not trusting Crowley’s abilities, allowing him to dry and put everything away.

“Excellent din, AJ,” she complimented.

“Thanks.”

“And thanks for talking Lig off the ledge. That was a bit awkward.”

“Yeah. But even golden couples see rain sometimes. Doesn’t  mean they can’t weather it.”

Nina paused scrubbing the roasting pan to shoot him an incredulous look. “When did you become so bloody optimistic? You’ve never had a relationship last beyond a year!”

“Sol was around for two, thank you very much!” He huffed, thinking back to his most recent boyfriend.

“Alright a year and a half,” Nina conceded. “Don’t forget that retreat he took to Bali for six months.”

“Ok, the fact that you remember that and we’re having this conversation just shows you need a love life of your own to focus on. Or another hobby. How’s the coffee shop dream coming?”

She sighed, “Impossibly slow. Had to pull out some of my savings since Lindsey left me high and dry with the rent on that luxury flat she had to have.”

“Why don’t you just pull out of it?” Crowley suggested.

“Can’t without penalty for another six months.”

“Do you need…”

“I’m managing it, thanks. Got a few bartending gigs lined up in the meantime.”

“Well you know if after that time, you’d like to move in…”

“No offence, but…I’d like to figure this out myself.”

“Right, yeah, of course. Just wanted you to know you have options if you need ‘em.”

“Thanks.”

Once they finished the larger pots and pans and moved onto the dishware, Nina asked him, “D’you know Lil and Lig are doing couples therapy?”

“What?” He blurted out in surprise, “You can do that before marriage?”

“Apparently. I like Lil, I do. But sometimes I think…she is a bit…intense.”

Crowley snorted in the midst of rotating a plate around his towel. “And our brother isn’t?!”

“Yeah but his intensity is different from hers. His comes from a place of trauma. Whereas I don’t think Lil understands hardship.”

Setting down the plate atop the stack on the counter he quipped, “Well in fairness to her, most people don’t understand what it’s like to have a Dad who's murdered and a Mum spiral out of control to the point where she ends her own life prematurely.”

“I hate when you’re glib about it.”

He winced, instantly regretting it. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “trauma response.”

After a moment, she offered reassuringly, “I know. I’ve got one too.”

“You ok though?”

“I just…sometimes when we’re all together like tonight…when I play with Pip…I keep thinking…Dad and Mum would’ve loved doing that. I don’t have many good memories of them like that. But I remember Dad always cooking and Mum getting down on the floor and playing with Lig and I. Before Nige Fuckface came about.” 

He snorted at the rather appropriate nickname given to the arse that ruined their lives. But then he told her in a softer tone, “I’m glad you remember that. I know you didn’t believe me when I said it at the time.”

“I was pissed at her. And the world for taking Dad and giving us Fuckface as a replacement.”

Crowley replied glumly, “Yeah, we all were. In our own ways.”

“And I was pissed at you too,” Nina asserted. “Because as illogical as it was, you had all that time with her and I got what…fourteen years…and most of it was too drunk or too strung out to even care for herself, let alone me.”

With a downcast expression, he lamented, “If I could change it so you had more time with her…”

“You wouldn’t change it though, AJ.” She interrupted swiftly. “I know because if I was in your position, I wouldn’t want to change how it all played out either.”

She was probably right about that. Besides, they all had moved beyond these deep and almost suffocating feelings. Thanks to therapy, both the family and individual kind. 

And he knew by now that Nina wasn’t bringing these things up to hurt him. It was just her way of getting out the pain this loss brought when it sporadically flared up. 

He was happy to be a conduit for these emotions, knowing he could easily channel them back at her, if needed.  

“Well, I’m glad Pip brings those memories out for you.” He then admitted, “For so long I didn’t think I could talk about Mum and Dad to you. Afraid you’d hate me.”

“I did. For a time. But. I just needed someone to blame. And you were a convenient target. I like that we can talk about them now. I think it’s important to.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. 

After drying off a wine glass, a thought struck him and he smiled as he said, “You know, she looks like Mum when she smiles. Well she looks like Ligur, really, but the parts of him that are Mum, is what I see when she smiles.”

“I thought that too!” Nina exclaimed, a bit of laughter escaping her. “She does that same thing with her nose! Even now!”

“Yeah, you’re right!” Crowley chuckled softly. 

“I think that’s why he’s so uptight about everything to do with Pip. Like the swearing thing?”

“Ach I knowww….” Crowley tossed his head back, groaning, “...that’s gonna be painful to censor ourselves.”

Nina chuckled in response to his dramatic reply. “We’ll teach her the intricacies of all the good swears.”

“Of course we will! That’s part of our job. Just like she’s supposed to want to run away from home to us when Ligur and Lil become supremely uncool or embarrassing.” He winked at her and she grinned. 

“Yeah. Wino Auntie and Uncle.”

“Responsible winos though.” Crowley lifted a finger at her.

“Of course, Dad. ”

Crowley rolled his eyes and knocked his hip into hers before hanging his drying towel on the oven door. 

She could never call him that with any amount of seriousness. Neither of them could. And Crowley never really wanted them to. As if doing so might somehow replace the memories they had of their Dad. Crowley took the lighthearted pseudonym in stride, knowing it was just something they said, all the while knowing what they really meant was “big brother.”  

“Come on,” Crowley intoned solemnly, “I’ll drive you home.”

“Nah, I’ll just take the bus.” She quickly dried off her hands.

Crowley cocked his head to one side. “Sure?”

“Yeah.” Nina nodded, moving to gather up her stuff by the door. 

He followed her there, offering once more to take her home. But she declined, taunting as she slipped into her brown, ankle boots, “Besides, you’re probably dying to chat up your angel. Since we clearly interrupted something earlier.”

“Oh stop! There’s nothing there!”

“Mhm…that why you looked at your phone and grinned like an idiot several times throughout the night?”

 “I did not!” Though he felt his ears starting to burn from the truth of her statement.

Nina stomped her second foot deeper into her boot and gave him another one of those pestering looks. “AJ?” 

“What?” He folded his arms over his chest.

“You are many things, but a good liar is not one of them.”

He knew it well. He always wore his heart on his sleeve, regardless if his feelings or thoughts were good or bad. He never was good at pandering or telling people exactly what they wanted to hear. Or what he didn’t want them to hear. 

Because what everyone in his family wanted to hear was that he had taken up this angel of a man and they were now a proper couple. But Aziraphale had made it plain that he wasn’t interested in anything proper. So what everyone else seemed to want, would never be. 

Reluctantly, Crowley informed her with a tired sigh, “Alright well, if there’s one thing you must know and feel compelled to pass on to Ligur and Lilith it’s that this thing with the angel and I, it’s nothing serious.”

“Might be more enjoyable that way.” Nina remarked with a wry smirk.

“I…am not…discussing this further with any of you so…take that bit of info and do what you want with it.” He waved his hands with a flick of his wrist as if he might shoo this conversation away.

“Whatever you say,” Nina hummed amusedly. “Anyway, I’m off!”

She reached for his shoulders, drawing him in for a tight squeeze and a peck on both cheeks.

“Alright love, take care now.”

In the middle of it, Nina told him, “Let’s do this again sooner than last time, yeah?”

“Fair point. I’ll be sure to tell the new boss to chill with all the travel.” He quipped with a smart twist to his lips. 

As Nina exited the flat, she twirled around on the landing and retorted cheerily, “Who knows…maybe your angel will join us one time?”

“Alright, alright, piss off now, will ye?” He slowly shut the door, not before he saw Nina waggle her fingers in a final farewell.

Crowley leaned against the doorframe momentarily, absorbing all the remarks made about Aziraphale. 

It was ridiculous really, they barely knew Aziraphale, outside of a single, drunken escapade. And even then, they only knew what Bee relayed to them. And clearly Bee made some type of comment about him getting laid, because everyone seemed to be running with the idea like it was the latest family joke. 

He’d take care to shield Aziraphale from them next time he was in town. Not that his siblings would outwardly remark on anything inappropriate to a stranger. But even snickers behind his back would not be acceptable. Aziraphale deserved more than to be the butt of a joke, even if the intended target was Crowley. 

He supposed they gave him such a hard time about it all because he was largely a mystery to everyone when it came to private matters such as this. 

At first it was because he was the legal guardian of two teeangers and the nineties were not particularly kind to folks like him. Not to mention, the threat of AIDS was real and terrifying.

It had been easier for Crowley to focus all of his energy on Ligur and Nina, forgoing any possible relationships until after they had finished secondary school.

Even then, no one really stuck. The closest he thought he’d come was Sol. But after a six month stint in Bali, it was apparent Sol felt differently. 

Crowley wasn’t sure why he seemed to attract people with attachment issues or who were just passing by for a momentary fling. It was as though he had a great, big flashing sign overhead that said Temporary Lover Wanted. He wondered if the sign would ever burn out. He hoped it might. And soon. He was getting rather tired of fleeting attachments he poured all of his energy and emotions into.

Even though Aziraphale wasn't interested in something serious, it felt different with him. To be understood so completely by another person. Well, that never came so easily before. He never wanted to talk to anyone so much before as he did Aziraphale. Nor did he ever want to finish what they started earlier as much as he did now. 

Fishing out his phone from his back pocket, Crowley strolled back through his flat and opened their conversation yet again. 

His thumbs punched out an update before he plopped down on the settee in his living space.

Crowley’s heart hammered hard against his ribs. Anticipation filled his lower abdomen with that familiar molten heat he never tired of feeling. He undid the front of his dark jeans, touching himself over the soft fabric of his boxer shorts.

The fact that Aziraphale wanted to do this with him was utterly thrilling. Aziraphale, who used proper punctuation through text and felt casual attire still consisted of a button down shirt and bowtie, was eagerly sexting him. And all he had to do was ask.

And boy, oh boy, did Crowley ever receive. As he took in the thumbnail image of Aziraphale’s flushed cock, mercilessly gripped by the hand that bore his signet ring, Crowley felt his own rising to the occasion.

C: fuuuuckkk…a video, angel?       

Az: I thought that might be more exciting.

Crowley clicked on the image and pressed play, his other hand slipping beneath his boxers.

Aziraphale stroked himself swiftly, his thumb circling his sensitive slit and smearing precum around the head. He’d also taken the time to grab some lube because not only was his cock that needy shade of red, but it was also glistening. 

And the sounds. Nothing could’ve prepared Crowley for the wet slide of Aziraphale working himself to completion paired with the grunts and gasps of desperation that he emitted. 

Then there was the litany of “Oh Crowley…oh see what you make me do…Crowley…oh yes…I’m going to finish for you…Crowley, Crowley, Crowley…” that made him throb beneath the motion of his own hand.

He was about to work on a text to Aziraphale when another video came through. 

Clicking on it, he noticed Aziraphale’s legs spread wider, and he was now fucking up through the tight channel of his hand.

“Fucking hell,” Crowley rasped, the pace of his own hand increasing.

The sight of Aziraphale’s leg muscles tensing and relaxing, that grand arse of his bouncing up and down on the mattress. Hell hounds help him, he was going to come undone. And he wanted this to be known.

Once he pulled up the video to record, thoughts of fucking Aziraphale’s thighs permeated his brain. The image seared behind his eyelids like the flash of the whitest hottest stars lighting up the night sky. He didn’t care if they blinded him, he never wanted to look away. It would feel so good to come together like that. And he murmured everything he saw while showing Aziraphale just how good he made him  feel.  

“God I miss you…wish I could feel you…I want you so bad…please Aziraphale…please…yes…yes…I’m coming…oh Aziraphale I’m…”

He cried out his end in a garble of syllables and vowels while capturing the spurts of white that rained down his navel.

“Fuck angel.” Was the last thing he rasped before ending the recording and hitting send. 

It took him a few moments to regain control of his breath. For the room to stop slanting to one side and his head to stop swimming with immense desire. 

He reached for the tissue box on the nearby coffee table and cleaned himself up just as another message came through. 

Crowley snorted at this, feeling his face flush hot at this cheeky reminder. He typed back swiftly, a satisfied smirk twitching his lips. 

It wasn’t until after Crowley prepared for bed and his cheeks started to hurt that he realised he’d been grinning like an idiot this whole yet again. Rolling over in bed, his arms wrapped around a pillow and he buried his face there. It was going to be a long two weeks until these fantasies turned into reality. 

Chapter Text

As he’d done for the last several weeks, Crowley rolled over in bed and grabbed his phone. He saw Aziraphale had woken up again in the middle of the night to make himself a cup of cocoa and open up a new book. This time it was Agatha Christie who was keeping him company. 

He’d written beneath the photo: Tell me you’re a flight attendant without telling me you are a flight attendant. I hope you are sleeping better than I am.  

The timestamp of Aziraphale’s last message was 7:15, a mere fifteen minutes ago.

He punched out sure you could easily get a line there too but then forced himself to backtrack. 

Crowley asking him about his trips from New York to London was very different from him implying he’d like Aziraphale to consider taking another route just to see him. He couldn’t possibly be that important to Aziraphale. He was just lucky that Aziraphale’s Gran lived in London, which gave them a reason to meet up. 

And it was likely the only reason Aziraphale kept on reliably seeing him anyway. He needed to remember that and act accordingly.

A message from Aziraphale then lit up his screen. 

I’m so pleased to hear your project is expanding!

Crowley couldn't help but grin at this. The part of him that warmed beneath this praise wished to snuggle back beneath the covers and yearn for Aziraphale’s presence. But he knew that sort of thing would only make him feel worse. Because once he felt that momentary release, there wouldn't be a space to plot his feelings onto.

Not that Aziraphale was the most reliable space to plot on, but he'd been hoping with this next trip, maybe, perhaps if they had a nice enough time, maybe Aziraphale would stay. Maybe they could finally talk about how things seemed to be growing more intimate. Because how almost couply could you get than being walked in on by your relatives?

Still, if he wanked off now, thoughts drifting off to what was and what might be between them, he'd be left with a hollow sort of feeling since they were still two weeks away from their next scheduled meetup. It’d be better to save those yearnings for when they were actually in one another’s presence. 

So Crowley replied with a quick: thanks, angel , and went about preparing for his day.   

They hadn’t talked about the sexting. Which Aziraphale was grateful for. Sexting required placing an exceptional amount of trust in the person on the receiving end. And he handed all the trust he had over to Crowley without so much as a second thought. In the heat of the moment, it was necessary to achieve his desired end. In the aftermath, he started to fret.

He’d given so much of himself away so fast. In doing so, he gave Crowley the power to hurt him, if he chose to do so. And that was rather terrifying. So he was glad they didn’t have to discuss it. He was glad they could carry on talking about their Worldle scores, their daily meals, their work, and inane facts about the places Aziraphale briefly visited. Oh and, the occasional photo featuring Crowley's humorously disapproving looks when black spots or yellowing leaves appeared on one of his plant children. He truly believed they were going through some type of teenage rebellion stage by not doing their best to grow under his watchful care.

All of this was well and good. All of these things put time and distance between the last sexcapde and how it made him feel. But then the matter of the twenty-ninth arose. And Aziraphale started fretting once more. He fretted about whether or not he ought to bring an overnight bag to Crowley's. About whether or not he ought to suggest they go out for dinner instead of meeting at Crowley’s flat; a proposition the man had made no less than four times in the last week.

It wasn’t that he regretted the sex. He’d agreed wholeheartedly to it each time. And each time it was nothing short of incredible. It was just that in the aftermath, he had begun to feel things beyond the physical release. Things he told himself he’d never feel again after Gabriel.

And with Gabriel, he hadn’t vocalised his preferences. With Gabriel he gave him the ability to make choices for the both of them without considering what it was he truly wanted. He couldn’t do that to himself again.

So he tried, very politely, to vocalise what he wanted, hoping it would not spoil things with Crowley; as he knew from the various texts he received that the man was so very looking forward to spending the night with him. 

Aziraphale’s stomach clenched at this. Insinuation was never more than a few choice words away with Crowley. He never minded it before. And he didn’t particularly mind it now. Except for the fact that now it implied a deeper intimacy he wasn't quite prepared for.

He tried to find the words to gently decline this proposition. Or to evade commitment. Because Aziraphale really did care about sparing his feelings. 

Crowley deserved better than what he could give him. He was sure of that. So he typed back: I suppose we’ll just have to see where the evening takes us, won’t we? 

Once he hit send he could breathe easier. That is, until he saw Crowley’s response.

Aziraphale smiled as Crowley’s reassurances brightened his screen. He tapped back without hesitating.

It’s more than ok, my dear.

He'd be lying if he said that there wasn’t a slice of disappointment cutting through him at the realisation that Aziraphale wasn’t spending the night now. But he told himself from the beginning that he would always respect Aziraphale's choices. Sex had clearly complicated whatever this was for the both of them. And Crowley chastised himself for ever allowing things to get to this point.

Because beyond the sex, what he had found, was an unlikely friendship. And he didn't make those easily. So perhaps for the sake of that facet of their relationship, it was best for them to maintain some physical distance. Perhaps it was best they met in neutral locations where temptation wasn't ripe for the picking. Because Crowley now felt a bit sick from feelings he never counted on appearing in this arrangement.

As a way to cope with this, he did his best to keep the tone of their correspondence witty and intriguing. He deleted the suggestive quips that would cause Aziraphale to place even more space and time between them. It pained him to do so. He'd grown to enjoy stirring reactions from Aziraphale. But he knew omitting them was the right thing. Because it was what Aziraphale wanted. And Crowley wanted to give him what he desired. Even if it didn't align with his own.

So Crowley continued on his latest venture. Which was to try and trick Aziraphale into telling him what the Wordle answer of the day was.

In the end the word was uvula. And Aziraphale told him that he believed that he could do better than a fifty day streak.

On the twenty-third of September, Aziraphale received good news from Crowley whenever he landed in Denver.  

A smile flickered across Aziraphale’s mouth as he dragged his luggage down the jetway. While his thumb scrolled deeper into the conversation, he saw a photo of what he presumed to be Crowley’s dinner.

Aziraphale saw a still of Rose and Blanche dressed up like nuns in the kitchen. It appeared Blanche was holding a pair of nylons in her hand, though for what, he couldn’t be sure. Aziraphale had seen the show before and knew the general premise and characters, he wasn’t quite as much of a fanboy as Crowley was. 

He glanced up as he made his way towards ground transportation, trying to come up with something witty. By the time he made it to his shuttle stop, he decided to pose a question. 

What remained unspoken in the moment was a rather intrusive thought.

And think of you each time I use it.

It was good he was in constant motion, so there was little time to indulge in these thoughts. As he rode the shuttle to his hotel room for the night, Aziraphale caught sight of The Rockies in the distance and decided it might be a photo worthy opportunity. He raised his camera, careful to not include the glare from the window, and zoomed in so that Crowley might see both the dusty and snow capped ridges behind the city skyline.

Aziraphale didn’t quite know how to respond to this. He didn’t know much about Crowley’s family history, but from what Crowley hinted to him, he’d practically raised his two siblings from the time he was twenty-three. They never talked about his parents, and because of his silence on the matter, Aziraphale didn’t wish to pry further. It didn’t feel like it was his place to do so.

Even so, he tried his best to come up with something clever and comforting without sounding patronising.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to reflexively respond with: you make me want to be that way.

Instead he pointed out Crowley’s most consistent grammatical error, which earned him several hours of teasing about being raised by a schoolteacher.

He didn’t mind in the slightest. And he didn’t bother pointing out it was music, his Gran taught, not grammar. It was far more fun to have something innocent to be teased over.

Two days later, Aziraphale was in Paris. And while Crowley had seen the Eiffel Tower glittering at night before, he’d never seen it with the vague outline of Aziraphale’s body reflected back through the window of his hotel room.

What a lovely view, he texted.

Then his heart rose and he did that horrid thing where he overanalyzed Aziraphale’s ghostly figure. He was dressed in those silken, plaid pyjamas, and either his eyes were tricking him or he was hopeful that his shirt lay open to reveal his ribbed vest beneath the layer of tartan. His hair was tamed into lovely ringlets, and Crowley wondered if he was past due for a haircut or if he simply was that skilled with his fingers. 

I know I am spoiled, was Aziraphale’s reply.

Fuck. Those words along with the thought of Aziraphale’s thick fingers that stroked and scissored him weeks prior, made that bubble in Crowley’s chest burst. 

He punched out the words: 

Ignoring any responses that came through on his phone, Crowley swiped a bottle of lube from his bedside table and kicked off his sweats to the foot of his bed. He was helpless beneath the current of feelings that carried his hand and his fingers towards his desired destination. And he closed his eyes, thinking of a single bed in Paris with the most spectacular view, and fingers that surely moved better than his own. 

It was pitch black by the time Aziraphale returned from Paris, even though it was only six forty-five in the evening. This time of year always threw Harry off his sleep schedule and Aziraphale could tell from the shrill whimpers and the stomping of his feet that he had interrupted him during a particularly deep moment of sleep.

“Oh my dear boy,” he cooed.

Stooping outside the pen, Aziraphale unlatched it and waited patiently with a blue cornflower balanced between his fingers.

“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” he offered in a low, soothing tone. “And for leaving you. Again.”

Aziraphale’s lip rolled inward. When Gabriel and him first got Harry, he worried his desire for him outweighed the level of proper care and attention he could bring him. The rescue was even reluctant to give Harry to them whenever they learned what Aziraphale did for a living. But Gabriel had been a good sport and assured them that he’d “pick up the slack” whenever Aziraphale wasn’t there.

With his firm assurances and warm smile, Gabriel could win anyone over. And win over the rescue agent’s trust he had. Of course his promises were short lived once reality settled in, which prompted Aziraphale to enlist Jeremy, the boy across the hall, to “pick up the slack.”

The arrangement worked out well too because Jeremy had been pestering his parents for ages about a pet of his own. And convinced that the novelty of such a grave responsibility would not hold an eleven year old's interest, his parents readily agreed to allow him to be a part-time caregiver to Harry. Aziraphale paid him for the work, of course. And Jeremy confided in him that he’d been squirreling away the funds to convince his parents that he needed a rabbit of his own. 

When that day came, Aziraphale would likely feel less guilty for leaving Harry for stretches of time. Because then he'd have a playmate. But there was a trepidation when he thought of that day too. Because what if Harry liked it better with the Wendlesydales than with him?

This thought soon dashed into nothingness as Harry bounded towards him, snatching the blue cornflower and nibbling it like it was the last thing on Earth left for him. Aziraphale settled into a comfortable seated position, reaching a knuckle out to brush the spot between his ears he enjoyed so much. 

There was a noisy vibration on the floorboard beside him, causing Harry to flinch. Though, he'd grown used to the sound and no longer darted away like he did whenever he first got him.

Checking his screen, Aziraphale saw it was Crowley asking how Harry was.

Picking it the phone to reply, Aziraphale aimed the camera at Harry, still nibbling at the flower stalk and snapped a quick picture. 

He really should discourage Crowley’s use of that pet name. But if he was being honest with himself, he rather enjoyed being special in some way to the man. A way he was quietly hoping veered more towards a normal friendship than anything else.

So he steered the conversation towards something that would occur in a normal friendship.

After a few minutes of frantic scrolling for nightlife options that didn’t require alcohol, terribly loud music or bad lighting that might give Crowley a migraine flare, Aziraphale sent a link along with a suggestion.

A low purring sound made him look up at Harry who was attempting to climb into his lap. 

Aziraphale pocketed his phone then and scooped the bunny into his arms. “Yes, alright, we’ll have some cosy time now.”

The Boston RESO Project  was due to be more challenging, or "creatively rewarding" as Bee chose to annoyingly put it, because of the nature of Boston’s subway systems. None of them operated fully underground, and R.P. (it would be less annoying if he didn’t insist on the punctuation with his chosen name), wanted them to design something that would showcase this.

When his phone pinged, Crowley realised he had been designing the same bodega for the last hour and a half. And he was instantly glad to see a chipper message from Aziraphale that would allow him to fixate on something else. 

He tried to ignore the uptick in his heartbeat, but it was nearly impossible whenever he could sense Aziraphale’s endearing joy radiating through the device.

Crowley didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. Which is very likely why he responded in the way he did.

Aziraphale’s attempts to reassure Crowley only seemed to increase his nerves. So Aziraphale had told Maggie about him. After he made it perfectly clear he didn’t want this to be a serious thing. After pushing his suggestion of dinner at Crowley’s flat away. After saying he didn’t mind that Crowley’s family knew about him. And now this Newt fellow knew about him. But in what way? 

Crowley wasn’t upset that Aziraphale had spoken about him to his dearest friends (in fact he was fairly certain he told Aziraphale to tell Maggie he said hello whenever they were on layover together once before), but he was a bit perplexed by it. Because it seemed Aziraphale was bent on saying one thing and acting in a wholly contradictory manner.

Unless of course he just told them all that they were friends and nothing about the sex? Yes, that seemed more like something Aziraphale would do, given how buttoned up he wanted to be around other people. He seemed to only come undone and let down the side when it was the two of them. Even then there was still a guardedness to him that Crowley had been unable to break through.

He was being a total dimwit overthinking Aziraphale’s last message. Why would Aziraphale tell them that the pair of them had been anything more than friends? There was no real reason for him to do so. Just because Crowley had started hoping for a different outcome as a result of this trip, didn’t mean it would come.

He needed to hang up all notions of hope and just get on with his life. Perhaps he’d find another Eric, a London based Eric, whose face he could replace in his near nightly fantasies. Yes, that would probably do the trick and keep his heart afloat as he continued to watch Aziraphale live his best life from afar. 

Fuck, he’d forgotten to respond. 

He recognised that bouncy and excited was rather redundant. But he couldn’t say what he truly felt without giving more of his heart away. Which was that anyone who made Aziraphale that bouncy and adorable , they had to be extraordinary. 

Crowley couldn’t help but grin like an idiot that at least he had some alone time with Aziraphale.  

Crowley clicked his phone until the screen went dark and then booted up the monitor in front of him again. He tried not to think about the kind words Aziraphale used to describe him and how good it had felt coming from him. 

Instead, he focused on being ruthless in finishing the design of this underground bodega. Because at the moment, that was the sort of person he could accept himself being.

Chapter Text

The long-awaited September 29th trip to London was here at last. And the journey had been a smooth undertaking. Aziraphale had worked as Purser, Maggie as the Lead Attendant, and Newt was several hours closer to earning his Captain’s wings.

The flight was less than half full and the passengers seemed to be more respectful than demanding.

Aziraphale was certain his reports would reflect how efficient and positive the experience had been for all onboard. The higher up’s would surely be pleased. Or, they’d just do as they’d generally done and tick it off under the column of all metrics achieved . In this industry, no news was good news. And Aziraphale was fairly confident that he’d hear nothing about how this trip could be improved.  

This notion, along with traveling with two of his closest friends, put an extra bounce in his step as he departed the hotel for Nightingale Place. 

He procured the yellow tulips for Gran, taking care to tip the florist (the man did after all, know his order by heart now). He chatted with Deidre at the front desk and learned that Adam’s class was going to take a trip to the New England area, which allowed him to offer up some advice on places they might be able to dine at on a school trip budget. And as he passed by the activities room, he caught the eye of his grandmother’s dear friend, Pat, through the interior window and they waved politely in passing.

Absolutely nothing could ground his buoyant mood it seemed. Not only would he get to see Crowley that evening, but Maggie and Newt as well. To have all of his friends in the same time zone all at once, well it was really just the cherry on the cake of everything he was set to experience. And Aziraphale loved to indulge when the opportunity allowed for it.

He paused at the door to his grandmother’s room, fist poised to knock, when suddenly, it swung open and Aziraphale felt like he’d been blown off course.

For it wasn’t Gran who was staring back at him, but a similarly flummoxed Stan.    

“Oh.” 

A quiet thrum of surprise coursed through Aziraphale’s body, paralysing him to the point where he just stood there, gawping. 

Stan closed his rounded mouth and managed a bright smile. “Good morning, Aziraphale!”

Try as he might, Aziraphale could not seem to muster the same enthusiasm. His lips twitched and he greeted as pleasantly as his surprise might allow him to. “Morning, Stan.”

“Valerie!’ He called behind his shoulder, his tone lilting like the opening line in a song. “Your grandson is here!”

From the depths of her bedroom, he heard her exclaim, “Oh! Azi! I’ll be out in a moment!”

Stan turned back round to face Aziraphale, his bright smile fading to a more tense one. “She’ll be out–”

“I heard,” Aziraphale interrupted, tension curving his mouth. “Thank you.”

“I was just dropping off some fruit.” Stan offered with a sheepish expression. 

He gestured back to the counter space where a small vase with pineapples shaped like daisies with grapes for centres and strawberries forming crude hearts rested. 

The man explained, “My granddaughter bought me one of those arrangement thingies for my birthday. Far too much for me to eat on my own.”

“Oh yes, those can be very elaborate.” 

After a beat, Aziraphale realised that perhaps he was being a bit rude, only offering curt replies to what Stan had to say to him. Fortunately this small piece of information allowed him to seem more affable than he felt at present. 

“Happy Birthday, by the way. Had I known, I might have brought you something as well!” He let out a high pitched laugh, cringing at its unexpected presence.      

“Oh!” Stan wheezed with amusement, “That’s so kind but…unnecessary…but thank you for the well wishes!” 

Aziraphale merely nodded, smiling broadly through the embarrassment that wafted off him. 

Could this interaction get any stranger? And how could he tactfully end it? His mind whirred like the engine of a plane, trying to gain enough speed to propel this conversation forward, leaving this awkwardness behind. Unfortunately inclement conditions prevented this, terror taking over his brain that he would continue to look foolish. 

But Stan must have sensed the awkward tension for he offered, “Well I should leave you to your visit. Good seeing you, Aziraphale.”

He stepped out of the room and they passed one another like planes set to their own precise coordinates. 

“You as well, Stan.” Aziraphale offered with a wave before closing the door behind himself.

He was left in the quiet sitting room, the door to his grandmother’s bedroom suddenly swinging open and shut behind her as she entered. 

“Hello Gran,” he greeted with arms wide open.

She accepted the embrace all the while preening, “Azi! You’re here early!”

“Yes. I thought I mentioned it was an early flight?”

“You did.” She squeezed his arm and then took the flowers from him. “I just can’t believe it’s already nine!”

While she filled up a vase, he delicately probed, “Up with the sun, were you?”

“Something like that,” she trilled over the rush of the water coming from the sink.

He could not help but note her upbeat mood. Just as he could not somehow help tie it to Stan’s presence this morning. But if he did not find a way to gently pursue this line of discussion, she might either clam up altogether or overshare a set of details Aziraphale could have gone his whole life long not knowing. 

Whenever the water stopped running, he heard himself commenting lightly, “Saw Stan on my way in.”

Aziraphale noted the briefest of pauses in his grandmother’s motions at this. But her hands resumed their usual flower fluffing and she returned in her chipper air, “Yes! He was bringing some fruit. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. I had some breakfast on the plane.”

“Well it’s there if you change your mind.” She then glanced over her shoulder at him, “Think I’ll have an egg salad sandwich myself?”

“I thought you were meant to be watching your cholesterol?”

“Just a little indulgence.” She winked.

Aziraphale tried not to internally fret about this statement. It seemed every time he arrived, she was indulging. But he knew better than to treat her like a child. From experience, he knew it would only end in argument. 

Suppressing the urge to remark on her food of choice, he was about to ask her what she wanted to do this morning whenever a glint of gold sitting on the kitchen table caught his eye.

Upon closer inspection, he discovered his Grandad’s pocket watch, cufflinks, wedding band, and cuff bracelet with a ruby set inside it situated at the centre of her autumnal placemats.  

“Gran? Might I ask what these are doing here?” He pointed to the items in question.

She glanced up from assembling her sandwich and replied, “Oh, yes. I wanted to talk to you about that! So I was polishing up some of your Grandad's old things. I wondered if you might want any of them?”

Aziraphale peered down at the items, his fingers tracing over the monogrammed cover of his grandfather’s pocket watch. He picked it up, opened the front of it and noticed that it wasn’t running. 

He wondered, “When’s the last time you had this serviced?”

“I don’t believe I ever have!” She marvelled as though this was a new idea altogether. “Your Grandad always took care of that.”

Aziraphale exclaimed, “You mean this hasn’t been looked at in thirteen years?! Gran, it’s meant to be serviced at least every five! Three if you want it to remain in tiptop condition!”

“Well I’m sorry I didn’t know that Azi. And it’s not as though anyone’s been using it.” She gave him a sidelong sheepish look before asking, “Do you think you might be able to fix it though?”

“Yes, or I’ll find someone who can.” 

“I knew you’d know what to do with it!”

Aziraphale closed the watch and set it back on the table. He knew he would take it, even if it weren’t mendable. There were memories associated with it. Memories that extended beyond the time his life ticked alongside Grandad’s. 

Like when he was very small and afraid of thunderstorms. Grandad used it to time the quiet between each sharp flash of lightning and raucous clap of thunder. Something about sitting near his Grandad and learning the science behind these phenomena allowed Aziraphale to feel less afraid of them. 

It became a thing between them that carried on, even into Aziraphale’s adulthood. Though, by then, he wasn’t so much afraid of thunderstorms as he was trying to outsmart his Grandad by shouting out the time in between lightning and thunder before the phenomenon could beat him to it.

Then there were Grandad’s cufflinks. Monogrammed with the letters CAF, they clearly weren’t personalized to him. But they reminded him of the few occasions where Grandad and Gran would dress up and go out together and have the time of their lives. He supposed he could find an occasion to wear them for purely sentimental meaning. He was a Fell too, after all. 

Then there was the wedding band. And the cuff bracelet. And now that he looked closer, a handful of tie clips. 

There were some of those he would never consider. Like the silver scorpion or the dice. But the plain silver and gold ones would likely do. And they’d fall in Divinity’s dress code guidelines, so he could even wear them for work. 

As far as the wedding ring and bracelet went…Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what he might do with those. But he simply couldn’t let them go.

“I suppose I’ll take the lot.” He informed Gran when she reappeared with her plate of sandwiches. 

“Oh, that’ll be lovely! Take some of these things off my hands!” She exclaimed and then considered, “Tea, dear?”

“I’ll manage it.” Aziraphale assured, gesturing for her to take a seat at the table.

While he waited for the kettle to boil water, his eyes fell on the fruit bouquet once more. He couldn’t help but wonder the reason behind his Gran getting rid of these things now. They’d been in her possession for over a decade. He hoped the decision was her idea alone and not someone else’s. The thought that it might not be by her choice, prompted him to speak up.

“Can I ask you something, Gran?”

“Always, my dear boy.”

“Why part with these things now? After all this time you’ve had them and let them sit.”

Her open expression closed a bit at this. The lightness in her blue eyes grew cloudier as she looked down at her plate of food. 

With a lift to her shoulders she answered, “Well they don’t put a time limit on these things you know? I got rid of what I couldn’t bring here when the time came to leave home and it’s been comforting to have pieces of him with me since then. But now…well I don’t have much use for these things now.”

She glanced up at him, her brow straining in a way that made her look wistful.

“I just…I hope it’s your decision to get rid of these things.”

She frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

He began tentatively, “Maybe Stan–”

“He’s a good man, Aziraphale,” she interjected plainly.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t.” He smiled, though her defensiveness made it difficult for his voice not to rise similarly. “I just don’t know him very well and I want to make sure…”

“I might not be able to do stairs like I used to, but I can still stand up for myself.”

“I wasn’t saying you couldn’t, dear. I just…” he paused here, watching her gaze off into the distance as she ate her sandwich, “...I wanted to be sure.” 

Gran set down her sandwich and nodded. When she spoke again, she sounded tired, “You know, it’s been thirteen years without your grandfather.”

He said quietly, “I know.”

“And I never thought I’d have that much time without him,” she confessed.

“I’m sorry,” was all Aziraphale could think to say in response to this.

“I know you mean well,” she told him gently. “But you don’t understand what it’s like when all the people you grew up with start dying. All the people who knew you when you were somebody.”

“Oh Gran, you still are somebody!”

“I know, but it’s different now.”

Aziraphale frowned and added, “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t,” she assured with a kind smile. “It’s just…Stan is one of the few people I know from the good old days. I can talk to him about your Grandad and he can talk to me about his wife. And for a moment…when we take those trips down memory lane…I forget that I’m an old woman. I forget that there are more years behind me than ahead of me.”

Shaking her head she carried on, “No one could ever replace your grandfather. And that’s not what this is.”

“Even if it was, Gran…you don’t need my blessing. I just…I want to make sure this decision …” he waved a hand at the items again, “...is yours.” 

“It is.” Her smile deepened before picking up her sandwich.

The kettle started to whistle and when Aziraphale sat down to enjoy some early morning tea with her, they spent the better part of an hour reminiscing about Christopher Alexander Fell’s possessions that would leave for America tomorrow.

Mid-morning was spent in the day room, a puzzle featuring an autumnal scene in a park slowly coming together on the table space between Aziraphale, Gran, and Pat. 

Pat asked about Aziraphale’s life in New York, though there wasn’t much to tell since he rarely went beyond The Dizzy Duck as far as entertainment went. The conversation turned to Central Park in the fall and Aziraphale realized the last time he’d done anything of significance there had been with Maggie. 

This steered the conversation toward his plans later in the day, which had Gran asking after both Maggie and Newt. 

“Maggie seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“That’s the way to do it,” Pat intoned approvingly as she fit two pieces together. “Less headache that way.”

“And Newt and Anathema are still going strong?”

“As far as I know.”

“Any plans for family expansion?” 

Aziraphale raised a brow and told her. “You know that is rather a rude thing to ask these days?”

“Ahh well…not like I was asking them directly? Just wondering if they mentioned anything to you.” 

She waved her hand over a group of puzzle pieces, searching for a dark colored one that might be part of a park bench.

Aziraphale supplied his grandmother with a piece that was in front of him before answering, “No. There’s been no mention of it.”

After several moments of intense concentration as they silently worked together on bringing the image together, Pat glanced up over the rim of her cat eyed glasses and asked Aziraphale, “How’s Harry?”

“Oh he’s well, I expect.” He pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and explained, “I do have a video from Jeremy this morning if you’d like to see?”

“Always!” Pat and Gran chimed in from their side of the table.

Aziraphale brought it up, pressed play before handing them both the device. They let out sounds of admiration as Harry gave blissed out expressions to Enya’s “Echoes in Rain” that played in the background. His boy really did enjoy a variety of music. Their admiration soon turned into soft laughter as he bounced out of the frame.

Gran squinted here and then after a moment peered up at Aziraphale and probed, “Whose Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s pleased grin washed away, his heart beat picking up its tempo. His voice cracked, “I’m sorry?”

“You just got three messages pop up from someone named Crowley.”

“Oh! Let me see?” Aziraphale reached across the table for his phone.

“If it’s spam I can just block it Muriel showed me how…”

“Oh yeah,” Pat put in, moving in to help, “if you just swipe down here…”

“No, no, no!” Aziraphale leapt out of his seat and lunged over the table to seize hold of his phone again. 

Both women just stared back at him with various perplexed looks.

Aziraphale tried to keep calm. “You don’t need to do that. Crowley is a friend, I just, uhm…I wasn’t expecting to hear from him just yet.”

With an air of skepticism, Pat said, “Think he was just firming up the time of your date.”

“You read…ahh…”

“Well it popped right up on the bloody screen,” Gran insisted plainly. 

“Hard not to miss,” Pat agreed with a nod.

Gran leaned forward and whispered with loud curiosity, “Is it serious, darling?”

“No!” His cheeks grew hot at the horror of having to now explain this to his grandmother and her friend. “It’s not. It’s. It’s. It’s not anything like that! Crowley is…just a…friend.” 

“A friend you go on dates with?” Pat teased.

“It’s only dinner,” Aziraphale insisted.

He turned his attention back to the puzzle, but he soon noticed that Pat and Gran were having a silent conversation all their own.

“What?” He asked them, awaiting whatever silent judgment had passed between them. 

Gran cleared her throat and suggested lightly, “You might want to respond to him soon if you have plans tonight.” 

Pat nodded in agreement before remarking, “It would be the polite thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

It would. But he knew they would watch him as he went through the texts and responded to them. Because clearly, this was now an interesting development in their rather predictable day.

Lifting the phone up to cover his face, Aziraphale saw to this conversation. 

Before Aziraphale could get into any other details, he heard a cheerful greeting from the end of the table. 

“Azi!”

Looking up, Aziraphale saw Muriel, dressed in lovely burnt orange scrubs that complimented her dark curly hair. 

“Muriel!”

He rose and they embraced momentarily as it had been quite a few months since they last saw one another. 

“Good to see you!” 

“You as well. Did you get the coffee I brought for you last time?”

Her charcoal lined eyes lit up at the mention of his latest little gift for her. “Yes! Oh it’s been lovely, thank you for that!” She then lowered her voice to the point where he had to angle his face downward, “You know you don’t have to get me things for just doing my job.”

He patted her on the shoulder. “Well you do more than your job requires when it comes to Gran.”

“I appreciate it all the same though.” She beamed at him before turning her smiling face toward Pat and Gran.

“I was just dropping by to see if you two were going to do the chair yoga class I have going on this afternoon.”

“Ohh, thanks for the reminder!” Pat exclaimed.

Gran remarked with a chortle, “I’d nearly forgotten about that!” 

“It’s at two in the exercise room,” Muriel informed them. “Will you be here, Azi?”

“Oh no, I think I’ll need a bit of a lie down this afternoon.”

“Azi has a date tonight, Muriel,” Pat shared with a smug expression.

“Date?!” Muriel perked up curiously. “You have a date! With someone here?”

Aziraphale sighed, “It’s not a date. Just dinner. With a friend .” 

He shot a pointed look at Pat and Gran who were attempting to stifle their amusement. Honestly, they could be as bad as a pair of gossiping hens.

“Oh uhm…well ok.” Murial smiled before offering with a lighthearted shrug, “Well maybe next time then?”

Once Muriel left to remind others of her afternoon yoga class, Gran asked him, “So how much longer do you have until you need to freshen up before your friendly dinner? ”

Ignoring the inflection in her tone, Aziraphale stated plainly, “I’ll head out after lunch. Now, can you hand me that sky piece by your left elbow, Pat?”

Once everyone’s focus shifted back to the puzzle, Aziraphale picked up his phone and messaged Crowley again.

Aziraphale snorted, regretting he ever pointed out they were born in different decades.

When Aziraphale looked up from his device, he caught his grandmother’s lingering gaze. 

He quipped, “Have something to say, do you?”

She shook her head, her focus moving to snap two pieces of the puzzle together. Her lips twisted a bit whenever she mentioned lightly, “It’s just good to see that smile back.”

“It never went anywhere,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Really?” She trilled, piecing the remainder of the bench together. Once she finished, she glanced up at him, tilting her head to one side, “I don’t recall it so much when Gabriel was around.”

She was already working on another part of the puzzle whenever Aziraphale brought a hand up to his face to touch the broad smile that unbeknownst to him, was still there. He massaged his jaw, attempting to erase it.

Chapter Text

Crowley was more nervous than he anticipated as he strolled down the corridor to Aziraphale’s hotel room. Even though they never met at this particular hotel, he couldn’t help but think back to their first night together and how it had unravelled in parallel, roles slightly reversed. 

At the possibility of being invited into Aziraphale’s room, his chest tightened and there was a fluttering deep within his middle. He was rubbish at self-control when it came to the things he wanted most. Though he never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Aziraphale, so he supposed this is why everything felt so much for him.

Not only that, but there was a design flaw in what they meant to one another. Because each time Crowley thought he got a hold on what this layout looked like for him, Aziraphale kept editing it all, without asking for his input. 

And because Crowley was afraid that if he pushed too hard for things to bend at a certain angle they might break, he was trying very hard to be fine with Aziraphale’s constant changes. Trying and, as it seemed from his reaction to their outing for this evening, and failing. 

Because each time the design changed, Crowley felt like a small piece of him was overwritten, lost in what Aziraphale wanted never to be considered again. And if Aziraphale continued to work on this design of what they were to one another himself, Crowley wasn’t sure if anything of himself would be left.   

So in the here and now, he forced himself to breathe, which was a bit stupid really, because his body would just keep doing that automatically. But he felt the need to force air in and out of his lungs because the memories that were forming and the emotions attached to them made the task feel impossible.

The worst thing that could happen was showing up outside of Aziraphale’s hotel room, so lightheaded that he passed out.

Whenever Crowley arrived at the door, he heard a long, loud giggle erupt from the other side and Aziraphale’s wheezing, jovial voice soon followed.

“Oh stop Maggie, no, no, no you didn’t?! Surely you didn’t!”

Oh great, Crowley thought sullenly. He was about to make a perfect imbecile of himself not only in front of Aziraphale, but in front of Maggie as well. Taking another restorative breath, he rapped his knuckles loudly against the door.

“Oh shhh…shhh…shhh that’ll be him!”

Oh fuck, why did it feel like he was about to walk through hellfire and be judged for eternity? He really should’ve worn his glasses. 

He debated on whether or not he ought to take them out of the brown crossbody bag that slung over his shoulder. But before he could undo the flap, the door opened and Aziraphale stood there with a roguish grin.

“Crowley…” 

His name was breathless on the angel’s lips. And hearing this was nearly enough for him to forget that there were ever any flaws within their relationship’s design. The lower, “hi,” that followed this greeting, snapped Crowley out of whatever hypnotic trance Aziraphale nearly put him in just by saying his name.

“Hi.” Crowley sounded as though he’d eaten a spoonful of gravel before arriving. 

Aziraphale briefly took in his appearance before commenting, “You look very nice.”

“Thanks.” 

He chose a ribbed polo top (wine red, of course) with gold chains peaking through the neckline. Hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his dark leather pants, Crowley took a moment of his own to take in Aziraphale’s outfit. 

The other man wore a blue and white striped collared shirt with a yellow ascot tucked inside. And of course, khaki’s that accentuated those thighs that were often the focal point of Crowley’s wet dreams. 

Trying not to fixate on this last detail, he met Aziraphale’s eyes and cleared his throat. “So do you.”

“Really?” Aziraphale beamed, his fingers twisting nervously. His foot swiveled until his toe pressed into the ground, ankle swaying as though he were about to twirl in front of Crowley. “You think it's alright?”

Crowley was powerless to stop the smile that spread across his lips. “Yeah. More than alright.”

“Want to come in?” Aziraphale offered enthusiastically. “Maggie’s here. She’s stolen a half decent Chianti from the bartender downstairs.” He practically giggled over the last sentence.

From the depths of the room, Crowley could hear a singsong, “Not stolen! Gifted!”

Aziraphale chuckled and shrugged, lifting a brow in silent question.

“Oh. Uhm. Ok. I can say hi, I suppose.”

When Aziraphale leaned in and took his hand, Crowley’s stomach turned to liquid gold.

He murmured reassuringly, “I promise you she’s an angel.”

Crowley nodded dumbfoundedly, unable to think of little else beyond Aziraphale’s hand holding his now. For a split second, he wondered if they would remain like this in Maggie’s presence. 

He didn’t have long to wonder though because it seemed the moment they got a comfortable distance inside, Aziraphale stepped away from him and a very tall blonde jumped up to embrace him.  

Crowley wasn’t accustomed to being hugged so tightly and he wondered if a rib had become dislodged in the process. He certainly felt like his earlier breathing exercises were failing him. Fortunately it was quick.

Once she pulled away from him, Maggie squealed, “I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Really?” Crowley squeaked, trying to recover from the unexpected hug. He turned to Aziraphale, arching a questioning brow of his own.

Aziraphale smirked playfully. “She exaggerates.”

“Or are you just downplaying how much you talk about me?” Crowley nudged him with an elbow. 

Aziraphale flipped a dismissive hand and chortled, “No.”

This stung. Aziraphale didn’t likely mean for it to, what with the lighthearted delivery and that playful glimmer in his pale, blue eyes. But once again, he was changing the design of what Crowley believed they already established. It was hard not to feel a bit put out. 

Still, they didn’t have much time together. So he did his best to set these feelings aside. Though in doing so, they presented themselves in a rather glib intonation.       

“Right. Well Maggie, Aziraphale talks about how grand you are all the time. So I suppose we know who's more important to him, don’t we?”

He watched her warm expression falter a tick. And from his peripheral, he heard an anxious peal of laughter come from Aziraphale.

He didn’t mean to be an arse. Truly, he didn’t. So he let out a woody chuckle as if this might indicate to everyone in the room that he was merely joking.  

Maggie gushed, “Oh I doubt it!”

Crowley upturned his hands, shoulders lifting in a way that tried to express he was wholly unaffected either way. But he couldn’t look at Aziraphale, for fear of seeing what his expression might hold. 

Maggie then gestured to the nearby television table. “Do you want some wine before you go?”

This proved to be the necessary escape route that Crowley hadn’t worked into this conversation's design. 

“Ahh no…I’m not really a fan of red. But thanks all the same.” 

And then, because his stomach was now clenching painfully at the thought that he wasn’t worth mentioning much, he asked, “Do you have dinner plans, Maggie?”

“Newt and I are going to a sushi bar.” 

Her response was so sharply effervescent that it made him wonder if he imagined the assholish undertones to his remarks. 

He then probed teasingly, “Ahh…sushi. Jealous, Aziraphale?”

Another chorus of laughter rang out as he assured, “Oh, I get sushi enough. I’m ready if you are, dear?” He lifted a hand toward the door, suggesting he would follow Crowley out. 

“Sure, sure. See you later, Mags?” He offered a casual wave before turning to leave.

She wiggled her fingers at him and chimed back, “Looking forward to it!”

They didn’t say much beyond the usual “how was work?” small talk on their way to the Bentley. Aziraphale momentarily wondered if Crowley was busy over analyzing the conversation with Maggie. 

But he moved too swiftly for a proper conversation to unfold. So Aziraphale just scurried along behind Crowley, waiting until they were both strapped in his car before gently probing.

“See? That wasn’t so bad?”

Twisting the key in the ignition, Crowley remarked neutrally over the roar and purr of the engine. “No, you were right. She seems sweet.”

There was a momentary lag in their conversation as Crowley intently manoeuvred his car into the hectic flow of traffic and Aziraphale grew accustomed to his drag race inspired driving style. 

But then Crowley was enquiring, “How’s Gran?”

“Lovely,” he responded. And then, he felt compelled to offer a recent development. “She knows about you now.”

“Really?” There was that punch gut sound of amusement. Aziraphale’s eyes darted over to see a noticeable curve to Crowley’s lips whenever he asked, “What’d you say?”

“Oh nothing really. Just that you were a…friend…I was getting dinner with.” 

The gear shift jolted unexpectedly, which made the car drift for a few seconds. Aziraphale gasped and his hand flew out to grip the thing nearest to him. Which happened to be Crowley’s hand. On the gear shift.

A duet of “sorry’s” rang out in the car.

Aziraphale’s hand darted away, and clenched into a fist before it landed flat on his own thigh.

“Don’t be.” Crowley quipped, “After all, you’ve done more than hold my hand.”

Aziraphale let out a short lived laugh. Then he clarified, “Yes, well. She was watching a video of Harry whenever you messaged about dinner.”

“What?”

“My Gran. That’s how she found out about you.” 

“Ahh. I see.”

“She also said–” Aziraphale chuckled nervously, “–that I had a strange look on my face when you were messaging me.”

With a thoughtful look about him, Crowley responded, “Can’t think I said anything stranger than usual today.”

“She was probably just being silly,” he assured. 

Because really, he couldn’t look all that different from when Crowley was messaging him than say, Maggie, now could he? 

Emboldened by this notion, Aziraphale remarked plainly, “I think whatever it is that’s happening with her and Stan…well she probably sees love everywhere now.” 

It wasn’t until he heard a grunt of acknowledgement from Crowley that something similar rippled through Aziraphale. His heart rate increased, face flushing at how the words sounded now that they escaped him.

“Not that I…or that we…it’s just…I think she thinks…well…there’s something more going on. Between us. Which there isn’t, of course, so...”

What a horrific jumble of consonants and syllables, he thought helplessly. Suddenly he wished the car crashed that way they’d have a larger crisis to deal with. Somehow that larger crisis would feel far more manageable compared to what was happening now inside of him.

But where Aziraphale was a bumbling mess, Crowley was surprisingly calm when he spoke again. “Hmmm…isn’t there? I mean…do you… sleep with all your friends?” 

In spite of the lackadaisical approach, Aziraphale couldn’t help but note a slight accusatory edge within Crowley’s response. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Aziraphale managed to keep his tone steady as he said, “No. No. None of them actually. I just…I didn’t want you to think that I…well that I meant that I….loved you or something.”

Crowley snorted dryly, “Right. Yeah. Yeah that would be weird so…yeah, thanks for clarifying that and all. Yeah. Good. Uhm…so…so there’s…something really going on between your Gran and Stan then?”

The question seemed to steer them right out of the pocket of turbulent air they suddenly got caught up in. 

Allowing Aziraphale to comment, “Well she still insists there isn’t. But he brought her a fruit bouquet this morning.”

“Awwe. That’s sweet.” 

Crowley nearly sounded as though he meant it, which prompted Aziraphale to slowly turn and shoot him a curious look. 

“I never took you for a romantic.”

“I’m not,” he snapped back. Then he cleared his throat, and with it, the brittleness of his tone disappeared. “Not really. It’s just. I imagine those places might make one feel a bit lonely. So them finding one another again. After years of not seeing one another. Well. It’s sweet.”

“Yes, well, she insists that is not what is happening.” Aziraphale huffed with an air of bemused skepticism. “You know she’s giving away my Grandad’s jewellery? To me of course, but still. The timing of it does seem curious.”

“Well of course she would insist nothing’s going on in front of you.” Crowley informed him plainly.

Aziraphale merely frowned at this. He waited for Crowley’s focus to momentarily split from the road toward him and then back again.

“You’re her grandson. She’s not going to just outright say, Stan spent the night and rocked my world. Or we sucked face last night like two teenagers at a car park. ”

Aziraphale might have laughed at the shrill tone Crowley adopted to mimic what he likely thought Gran sounded like, if it were not for the actual words being spoken. 

“Sucked face? Really Crowley?” Though there was a slight laugh tickling the back of his throat.

“Just trying to be funny, angel. Lighten the mood and all.”

He had partially succeeded. But there were also images cropping up in Aziraphale’s mind’s eye that he would rather never see. 

Shifting in his seat, Aziraphale then asked, “Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“Okayyy. What you wanna talk about?”

The question was too broad for him to adequately answer at the moment. So he whined, “I don’t know.” 

“How about…ducks?”

“Ducks?” This suggested topic did make Aziraphale half laugh.

“I dunno!” Crowley grumbled, his shoulders lifting to his ears while one hand remained on the edge of the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. “Thought of the least sexy topic there was. And ducks appeared.”

With a bit of a smile, Aziraphale asked, “Are you fond of ducks?”

“I don’t dislike them.” He admitted. And just when it felt like they might not have more to say regarding the matter of ducks, Crowley offered, “Actually…I used to go to St James’ with my Mum and feed them.”

The mention of Crowley’s Mum caught Aziraphale so off guard he couldn’t help but remark, “You never said anything about your mother before.”

Crowley grimaced. “Yeah well it’s not really a happy story.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” 

Crowley shifted in his seat. His arm now casually slung over the top of the steering wheel as he leaned off to one side. He seemed wholly focused on the road, which led Aziraphale to believe that this was likely all he had left to say regarding his mother. 

But this mention that his mother hadn’t met a happy end, had Aziraphale thinking of his own. He couldn’t help but reach for that connection that now tied them to one another. 

“I didn’t know my mother.”

“No?” 

Slowly shaking his head, Aziraphale stated, “She died shortly after giving birth to me. She was in some weird religious cult. Hence my name. And this ring, she left me.”

He lifted his right hand, wiggling his pinkie finger where his gold, signet ring always sat.  

After a time, Crowley offered, “I never realised your name had religious meaning. I just thought maybe your lot were a bunch of Classics nuts or something.”

Aziraphale snorted at this, which in turn, made Crowley smile. 

“She might have been. The thing is, I don’t know. Gran just told me that she ran away when she was sixteen and never came back.” 

He stared out the window, watching the shops and people roll by them as the sunlight slowly faded away into night. 

There was a sadness that accompanied him now. Though anytime he talked about his mother, Aziraphale found he was more sad for his grandparents than he was for himself. Which in turn, made him feel guilty. Because how could he not feel an appropriate amount of grief for the mother who bore him and then left him unexpectedly? That was what left him with a heaviness in his chest. 

“But they found you?” Crowley probed lightly. “Your grandparents?”

The lighthearted curiosity of Crowley’s tone filled the hole Aziraphale felt in his chest just now. 

“Oh yes,” he explained, “someone from the group tracked them down.” Lips twisting into a wry expression he quipped, “I suppose they didn’t want to deal with a baby.”

There was a heavy silence that filled the car for several moments. And then Crowley croaked, “Must’ve been hard.”

Aziraphale glanced over at him, noticing the lump he was attempting to swallow in his throat. Gracious, he had turned this evening into something utterly morose.

Wanting to provide Crowley with a measure of comfort, Aziraphale admitted. 

“If it was difficult for them, I don’t really recall. I suppose they were able to work through the height of their grief when I was too young to remember much about it. There were moments to be sure where they couldn’t hide it all from me…but I…I don’t know…I have mostly happy memories of my childhood. In spite of all that.”

Crowley added in agreement, “Sometimes we make our own family.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder, “Is that what you did?”

His eyes tentatively slipped over to gauge Crowley’s reaction. He thought perhaps having shared something so personal with him, Crowley might feel compelled to reciprocate.

But instead, all he got was another throat clearing sound followed by a firm tone, “It’s what happened. But I don’t like to talk about that. Let’s…let’s talk about something else.”

He tried not to sit in the pool of disappointment and vulnerability that washed through him. Instead Aziraphale intensely studied the dash of the Bentley and reached for the radio dial.

“How about some music then?”

When he clicked the dial on, the lamenting outro of Find me, somebody to love… filled the quiet in the car. Aziraphale’s hand then searched for the tuner dial, seeking to change it to something less heartfelt whenever Crowley announced, “I like this song.” 

Abandoning his search to change the music, Aziraphale then spotted a small compartment above the stereo system, one he hadn’t seen since he was a young lad. It was a small, silver like dish with a knob that when he pulled on it, it swiveled out to reveal nothing.   

Crowley asked bemusedly, “What you doin?”

Aziraphale pushed it back in and satback, mild disappointment overcoming him whenever he mentioned, “You don’t have any sweets in there.”

“Should I?” Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale let out a soft laugh of his own. He was being silly. But Crowley seemed to appreciate it, so what was sharing one more anecdote about himself going to do anyway?

“We used to have a car with that sort of compartment. Gran used to keep sweets in there. I’d sneak in on Sunday’s before church and steal one.” He practically giggled at this admission. He wasn’t entirely sure his Gran ever knew. He was never caught. That he was aware of, at least. 

Crowley snorted, “Was that the height of your rebellious activity?”

“Oh no,” he replied solemnly. 

“Really?”

As if daring him to prove such a thing, Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he attempted to come up with supporting evidence. Though the most shocking thing he could think of was, “I once wore a bowtie to school for a whole week.”

A raucous laugh burst out of Crowley at this statement, causing Aziraphale’s cheeks to grow warm. 

He was taking the meaning of the word silly to new heights it would seem.

“Seriously?” Crowley cackled, “That’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?!”

Feeling the need to defend himself, Aziraphale squealed, “I received detention for breach of uniform!”

“Ooh ho, ho, ho! Detention. Very naughty of you, angel.”

Aziraphale tried very hard to frown, but his lips kept trying to escape into a broad smile almost like they were just as amused by this as Crowley was. 

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

“No. No. No. It’s just…if you think breach of uniform is bad…I don’t even wanna tell you what my school career was like.”

“Well you must have done well. You’re an architect, after all.”

Crowley tilted his head to one side and shrugged, almost like he was trying to squirm away from the compliment bestowed upon him. 

Aziraphale leaned closer and muttered, “An international one, at that.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “Yeahhhhh I did….alright. Probably could’ve done better if I wasn’t too busy trying to impress everyone with my blatant disregard for the rules.” He proffered a cheeky grin before fixing his attention back on the road. “And I never went to church.”

“Well it was only on High Holy days,” Aziraphale insisted. “I think for my grandparents…it was more about the community aspect of it more than anything else.”

“Yeahh…I’ve heard that. I don’t quite get it, but I’ve heard it’s a thing.”

“But surely…growing up with siblings…that must’ve been interesting ?” 

Since they didn’t have that in common, Aziraphale felt he could at least be curious about it. And perhaps invite Crowley to share this part of his history as well. 

But all he had to say was, “It was a wild ride.”

Aziraphale probed gently, “But…you all…get along? At least…it seems that way?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah well…I practically raised them, you know?”

He whispered, “Oh yes. I remember you saying so.”

Caught off guard by something, Crowley let out a terse breath. “I mean. They were teenagers when it all happened. So…but…fuck that was hard. I’d be good never having to go through all that again.”

“So…no more children for you then?”

“I don’t think so.”

Aziraphale took this in. He had never considered children a part of his future either. At least, not his own. Harry was enough responsibility for him. And given his career, unless he landed someone with a desire to stay at home or work a steady schedule and do the majority of the home labour…well…children likely weren’t part of the plans for him.  

“What bout you?” Crowley asked, curiosity lighting up his voice.

“I…my lifestyle really isn’t good for a pet…so…impossible for a child of my own, I’d think. But I think they are charming. Other people’s children, that is.”

“Yeah. I like having Pip round. Can always give her back when she becomes too much,” he quipped, inciting an amused sound from Aziraphale.  “But still get all the fun bits, you know?”

Aziraphale glanced over and saw the warmth in Crowley’s eyes from talking about his niece. And he couldn’t help but murmur, “I bet she adores you.”

“Well…when you’re eighteen months old it’d be concerning if you were already showing signs of hating someone.”

He lightly smacked Crowley’s arm with the back of his hand and persisted, “I mean it!”

“I know,” he answered in a low voice that Aziraphale had begun to associate with sincerity.

A thick silence filled the car as they continued driving.

Then Crowley cleared it by stating, “But like you said…I turned out alright. We all got along. So I must have a decent moral code of my own to get there, hmmm?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Aziraphale agreed. Then, he felt compelled for some strange reason to ask, “What do you live by, Crowley? The Golden Rule?”

He tilted his head and replied, “That, and pretty much leave everybody alone.”

“You don’t leave me alone though,” Aziraphale observed quietly.

There was a pause followed by a hesitant question. “Do you…want me to?”

Aziraphale smiled over at him and mumbled softly, “No. Please don’t.”

Reassurance blossomed across Crowley’s face, growing until it touched his lips and then his voice whenever he teased with a newfound confidence, “Well then angel…looks like you’re the exception to my rule.”

Looking ahead once more, Aziraphale rolled his bottom lip inward to stop his smile from growing. He’d never been deemed exceptional before, and even though he knew he should feel a thrill at hearing it come from Crowley, he just couldn’t help but. 

Because surely, friends could call one another exceptional, couldn’t they? 

Chapter Text

A calmness settled over Crowley while Aziraphale and he enjoyed their dinner.

Their conversation unfolded endlessly, similar to the infinity lines Crowley drafted in CAD as a temporary guide to properly align parts of a building. The only difference being, he hoped these conversational lines would feature into whatever final design Aziraphale was considering when it came to the two of them. 

Not that Crowley was asking. Or thinking about asking. Because he didn’t have to. He already had the answer to that particular question. Sort of. 

But he swore, sometimes, when Aziraphale gazed at him, there was a soft quality in his eyes that couldn’t just be reserved for someone you were having a casual fling with. And other times, like when they arrived at the restaurant, Aziraphale extended his arm and insisted that Crowley enter first, all the while pressing his other hand against the centre of Crowley’s back far more encouragingly than a friend might do.

Crowley couldn’t help but notice the shiver that chased down his spine beneath Aziraphale’s guiding touch. They were lucky the maître d’ found them, prompting Aziraphale’s hand to fall away, otherwise Crowley might have been tempted to lean into his palm. 

Which. Wasn’t a normal thing one wished to do with a friend. 

You do a lot of things that you wouldn’t normally do with a friend, Crowley reminded himself. Then a bit of sadness seeped into the emotional cortex of his brain. Because they likely weren’t going to do those particular things this trip. Aziraphale had made it so that those things were not possible. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked as he was settling up the bill. 

“Oh yeah, sure, fine. Just…” he paused here, bracing himself a bit for the impact of Aziraphale’s next words, “...what do your friends know about us?”

Aziraphale’s pen froze mid flourish before he set it down. His eyes didn’t fully lift up from behind his tiny spectacles and his mouth was slightly agape. He blinked a few times, lips rolling inward thoughtfully. 

“Well uhm…Newt just thinks you’re a friend I met on a trip. And Maggie…well…she knows a bit more.” 

Aziraphale dared to glance up at him now, and damn he looked good with that expectant sort of look that seemed to silently question if his answer was sufficient enough. 

Crowley inclined his head and had to look away else he might forget what Aziraphale said. 

The answer wasn’t surprising. Nor was it bothersome. Because even if Maggie knew sordid details at least she’d been decent enough to keep them to herself and treat him like he hadn’t been casually shagging one of her best friends.

Besides, he reminded himself, his siblings knew about Aziraphale. Though that was more accidental than deliberate. Which left Crowley wondering, had Aziraphale told Maggie in a similarly drunken stupor? Or was that conversation entirely deliberate?

Aziraphale folded his spectacles while stammering an explanation before Crowley could ask these questions.

“I uhm…didn’t give her many details mind you but…she was the friend I texted the night we met.” Worry then shot through his voice as he put in swiftly, “I hope you don’t mind!”

His concern was touching. Cocking his head to one side, Crowley considered what was left in his mango aperol spritz. “Nahh angel,” he carried on nonchalantly, “was just curious about like…how the rest of the night ought to go?”

His eyes flicked up in time to see Aziraphale’s brow furrow. 

“What do you mean?”

Looking down at his glass again, Crowley did his best to elaborate. “Well…like…at the piano bar. Should we…sit side by side? Or across?”

“Oh, I’ve no preference.” Aziraphale told him breezily.

Crowley nodded, another likely scenario coming to mind. “And like…if there’s dancing?”

“You dance?” Aziraphale echoed in surprise.

“No,” he scoffed. But then his tone softened a bit when he probed, “But…do you?”

Rolling back his shoulders, Aziraphale retorted haughtily, “Well, these hips certainly lie when it comes to carrying any sort of rhythm.”

Crowley’s lips split into a devious expression. Then he ground out, a bit mockingly, “Oh I beg to differ.”

Aziraphale half laughed, half scoffed at this, pointer finger lifting. “And that’s another thing. No comments like that, please.”

His brow raised and lips pursed together in a prim bud, a sure tell that he meant it, but that he also found Crowley amusing. 

Upon recognising this, Crowley’s grin deepened. He was rather enjoying the banter they had going on now, and being slightly wound up from the comment about Aziraphale’s hips, well, he wasn’t about to stop until they were in Newt and Maggie’s presence. 

“Why? Do my words make you blush?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, trying so very hard to remain poised, though the faint twitching at the corners of his mouth certainly gave away the fact that he was not altogether displeased by Crowley’s teasing. 

He replied in a halting manner, “They are…not appropriate…not among friends.”

“Alright,” Crowley sighed. He brought his glass up to his lips and got in one last retort before polishing off the rest of his spritz, “No hippy dancing or naughty jokes. Got it.”

Once he was finished, he caught Aziraphale staring at him expectantly. He dipped his chin downward and inquired, “Any other concerns?”

The look was so darling, it made Crowley want to reach across the table and draw him nearer by that ridiculously printed ascot. He refrained from doing so, but the thought rose up the back of his throat anyway. 

What if I want to kiss you goodnight? 

The question was on the tip of his tongue. And had his tongue been split on the end, the words likely would have fallen through the empty space and into the air between them. 

But instead Crowley casually rose from his seat and told him, “No, think I’m good.”

Perhaps if he kept saying it out loud, he’d start to believe it.

The piano bar bore a resemblance to one of those fashionable speakeasy style places they had in New York. Aziraphale had gone a few times to one when he’d been with Gabriel or when Maggie was in town. 

The walls of this place were half covered with gold and brown art deco wallpaper; the bottom half was made of a rich mahogany that immediately ensconced the place in a cosy atmosphere. 

Along the perimeter of the low ceilinged room were curved booths whose cushions were a print of floral greens, pinks, and browns. Which Aziraphale found to be a nice departure from the plush, red velvet ones generally seen in these sorts of places. Most of these comfortable accommodations were already accounted for or had tented signs on the tables, noting a reservation. Which Aziraphale had forgotten to place as his nerves and excitement surrounding this trip took over. 

Still, in the centre of the room there were quite a few empty round tables with wooden chairs situated around them. Most of them were on the right side of the stage area, but they would do. They were here more so to listen to the music while enjoying one another’s company, so if the pianist largely had their back towards them, it likely wouldn’t matter.  

Aziraphale pointed this out to Crowley, who merely nodded and followed along. In his quick scan of the room, he had not seen Newt or Maggie, but figured they would likely be easily spotted since the space was decently lit and not all that large.

This observation had Aziraphale checking the light fixtures for bare bulbs. But they were covered with green glass panels.

Aziraphale half turned to face Crowley and asked, “Is this lighting alright, my dear?” 

“Should be.” He glanced up with a squint before observing, “Think they might even dim them because there appears to be stage lighting.” He then shimmied past a table, momentarily invading Aziraphale’s personal space to add loudly, “Brought my glasses just in case though.”

With the room half full, there was a low roar that accompanied the many conversations taking place at various volumes. Crowley seemed to note this as well, for when they sat at the table, he dragged his chair closer to Aziraphale and practically shouted directly in his ear again.

“Look at the far wall, angel!” 

Aziraphale followed his gaze to see that cut into the wooden part of the wall were shelves of books. He hadn’t seen this from the pictures online and a part of him couldn’t help but revel in the notion that perhaps this place functioned as a sort of reading room during the day.

His excitement overtook him as he said, “Oh, remind me to ask our waiter! I’d love to come again during the day! Maybe this is a sort of old-fashioned Reading Room!”

He knew he was grinning like an unstoppable idiot just now, but he didn’t care. The thought was utterly charming, he couldn’t help but be taken with it. 

“You don’t just think they’re fake?” Crowley wondered skeptically. 

Aziraphale scoffed, “Who would have that many books for show?”

With a bemused expression, Crowley countered lightly, “Have you seen your flat?”

“That’s different. My books are real. And I’m sure these are as well.” 

He wasn’t entirely sure, but sometimes Aziraphale was very good at pretending. It seemed though, Crowley saw through this facade of manufactured certainty, and he leaned in closer on his elbow.

“Bet you your first drink?” He challenged with that mischievous glint in his eyes that made them seem entirely gold and not golden-green. 

Aziraphale flashed a quick smile, trying to dispel the fluttering inside his lower abdomen as he stared back at Crowley. He cleared his throat, aiming for a haughty air, “Be prepared to purchase me a gin and tonic then.”

Crowley’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile growing. “With your holy trinity fruits?”

“Yes, please.” 

Aziraphale straightened up in his seat, placing his folded hands on the table, edging out Crowley’s arm and forcing him to lean on his opposite elbow. He then noticed a tiny candle lamp on their table with a fringe shade, unable to stop himself from flicking the fringe. 

He heard a snicker from his right and he saw Crowley watching him with an amused look about him.

“What?” Aziraphale wondered.

Crowley merely shook his head, his smile lingering. But he sat up from his casual position, which was just as well, because their waiter arrived. 

“Just the two of you?” She asked while littering their table with four paper drink napkins.  

Aziraphale piped up, “Two more will be joining us.”

She nodded, set down at least four more napkins in front of the other two seats. And then she rifled around in a black, beaded apron pocket for a handful of gold coins. 

As she snapped several onto the hard surface of the table, she explained briefly, “When the rest of your party arrives, I’ll take these with your drink orders. Two drink minimum per person.”

She looked up at both of them and then asked, “Would you like a menu or are you familiar with the digital process?” She tapped her long, acrylic nail at the laminated QR code stuck on the table.

“I think…” Aziraphale looked to Crowley, jerking his head toward the waiter’s long, pink and purple styled nails, “...we can manage digitally?” 

Crowley shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Quick question though,” Crowley put in with a polite lift of his finger, “those books over there? Are they real or fake?”

She made a show of turning to where he was pointing and back again before asserting, “Real.”

Aziraphale cackled, “Haha! I knew it!” 

“Nggkkkk…” Crowley shifted in his chair, head bowed in defeat. 

“Anything else?” She asked, clearly unamused by their reactions to her response.

“We ought to be just fine, my dear,” he beamed up at the young woman.

Once she left, Aziraphale couldn’t help but gloat, “I think I’ll take two gin and tonics. Since you’re treating.”

Crowley grumbled something unintelligibly, but Aziraphale could see the slight curve at the corners of his mouth.

He understood that look himself. Because in spite of what he said about them, sometimes Aziraphale found it rather difficult for him to hide his own amusement around Crowley as well.

By the time Maggie and Newt arrived, Aziraphale and Crowley had polished off their first drink and were starting on their second. Well, Crowley was just starting out. Aziraphale was about halfway done after what seemed like mere minutes of them making this transition. 

Which was interesting. Because as far as Crowley knew, Aziraphale didn’t have a previous record of speed drinking. Or even drinking very much. It always seemed like whenever they met up, he always wanted to hold onto some semblance of control. And drink slinging didn’t tend to allow for one to remain in control. 

Not that Crowley was judging him. It was just difficult not to notice the effects that Bombay Sapphire had on Aziraphale. 

His cheeks were painted high with color. His voice grew louder and was laced with more giggles as time wore on. But the same could be said for most of the patrons around them. 

Except for Maggie, who seemed steadily enthusiastic about everything with her two ginger beers. And even though Newt was working his way through two Irish Reds, he seemed to be more contemplative than anything else at the moment. 

And Crowley was, well, trying to keep up with both the flow of conversation at their table, which mainly just included Maggie and Aziraphale shouting shared memories associated with each of these songs to one another. 

Then there were the college crew (or so Crowley surmised from the copious amounts of emptied glassware at their table) who kept sing-shouting every song, behind them. And the matter of trying to enjoy the music itself, while attempting to not stare too long at the floodlights on the stage, which might act as the catalyst to igniting a migraine.

It was quite a lot all at once. 

Which is why when the music turned away from the most emphatic version of “Livin’ On A Prayer,” to a mellower rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl,” Crowley felt the tension inside of him release a fraction. Especially since no one at their table seemed to have any strong memory associations with this song and they could just sit back and enjoy it.  

And Crowley was enjoying it, that is, until his foot accidentally kicked into something rather hard beneath the table. Curious by what this might be, he nudged his toe at the object again, trying to push back in his seat and see what it was he was up against. 

He leaned back, angling his head dramatically and then he recognized that the table cloth was long and it shielded whatever it was from view. And then he felt something nudge him right back. 

He looked up suddenly, catching Aziraphale staring back at him with a small smile. It was then that he realised he was touching the other man’s foot. 

“Shit, sorry,” he breathed out. An embarrassed heat started up the back of his neck and he rubbed it, hard, with his hand before leaning his elbow on the opposite side of the table.

“No harm done,” Aziraphle mumbled. 

His expression appeared soft. And Crowley nearly muttered another expletive because it was that singular look that began to fill all the empty space within him. A space he hadn’t realised even existed inside his chest. 

Crowley kept staring back at him, holding his breath until that familiar ache came. His head started to spin and he had to force himself to look anywhere but at Aziraphale’s face. 

Because the ache within him made him so aware of how much space existed between them. And how he desperately wanted to close that space in order to alleviate the sensation. 

He cast a glance across the table to Maggie and Newt, but both of them had their backs to the situation as they faced the piano players on the stage.  

“Thiss iss rather enjoyable,” Aziraphale commented, leaning in closer but also nodding in the direction of the pianos.

Crowley noticed that this second glass of gin made Aziraphale elongate his ‘s’ sounds. Which was something he shouldn’t find adorable. But fuck if he didn’t.

“Yeah, s’not bad,” Crowley agreed. 

He bit his bottom lip to stifle his amusement at this particular drunken tell Aziraphale possessed. Not wanting to encourage any sort of closeness however, Crowley positioned his feet beneath his chair and sat up straighter. He didn’t want to be caught in the vulnerable position here. He’d done that one too many times already with Aziraphale. 

Space was good. Space was safe. Space didn’t stir up feelings in either one of them that might viscerally erupt if they brought their feelings too close to one another. 

Though it seemed there was something else Aziraphale wished to say to him. For he began to lean into Crowley’s personal orbit once more.

Fortunately Maggie whipped around the blonde curls that were piled high on her head and suggested, “Azi! We should request a song!” 

“Oh. Well…perhapss…ssomething jazzyyyy…”

Oh shit, he did it to his “y’s” as well. And his eyes did that unfocused fluttering thing that was reminiscent of when he was immensely enjoying something. In bed. With Crowley.

“Nggkkk.”

The sound escaped Crowley as a montage of intrusive thoughts played inside his mind. Instantly, three sets of questioning eyes fell on him. He gulped and then flashed a brief smile. He was about to try to offer up an explanation to the noise that just escaped him when Aziraphale pouted. 

“But Crowleyyy…you like jazz. Or sso you ssaay.”

“I-I-I do like jazz. I just think…for this venue we need something a bit more…”

Aziraphale gasped, clapping his hands together. “Or! Or! Orrrr…I know!” He then unclenched his grip and stretched out his arms in a sort of theatrical manner as he unveiled his answer in stage whisper, “Moonlight. Sssonada.”

And apparently his “t’s” turned into “d’s” every now and again. Christ on a cracker. 

Crowley needed a drink stronger than the tonic water he lifted just then. Or he needed to get laid. With someone not a part of this crew.

His eyes scanned the crowd for their waiter, with little success before Newt’s rather practical remark brought his focus back to the table. 

“Yeahh I don’t think this is that kind of bar,” Newt remarked gently. “What about Werewolves of London?”

“Yesss!” Crowley chimed in, raising his pinkie from his glass. Once he set his drink down, he joined in, “Now that’s a song for piano, there!” 

“Isn’t that melody essentially Sweet Home Alabama ?” Maggie questioned skeptically.

“Or!” Aziraphale put in rather gleefully, “Orrrr…issS weet Home Alabama the melody of Werewolfssof London !”

Maggie chuckled a bit apprehensively, “Yes, darling. That’s what I said.”

Aziraphale frowned here. “No, no, you’re ssaying Werewolvessof London came out before Ssweed Home Alabama. But that’s jusst not true!”

Maggie retorted in playful opposition, “Oh you are so wrong!”

“Am nod! Look idup!”

Crowley was grateful to spy their waiter from one table over. He politely lifted a hand, trying to grin apologetically at her. He saw the strain of annoyance tightening across her expression. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

“Could I perhaps get a glass of Pinot, please? And a bottle of water for the table?”

“A bottle of Pinot!” Aziraphale put in cheerily from his other side.

When Crowley shot him an opposing look, he insisted, “On me!” 

Crowley then added in an aside to their waiter, “Better make that two bottles of water then if Mrs Bennett over here is partaking in the wine.”

She marked it all down and nodded before swiftly departing for the bar.

Crowley glanced back to see Maggie was on her phone, likely looking up the quandary Aziraphale and here were facing.

Newt had a fiver in his hand and was ready to hop up and request something before someone else might get the chance to. “So…are we requesting the song or…?”

Aziraphale interrupted with a loud decisiveness, “We are NOT requesting a sssong that sstole a melodyy from another! No, we’ll requesst the original!” He then took a long drag from his glass, the ice clinking until it reached his face.

Crowley then watched as he leaned forward towards Maggie before meeting Newt’s look of mild concern. 

Their waiter appeared, her efficiency was noted, and Crowley wasted no time in pouring himself a large glass of wine. 

Newt glanced over Maggie’s shoulder before tentatively asking once more, “So… what am I requesting Maggie?”

“No fucking way!” She gasped and looked up at Aziraphale in surprise. “Sweet Home Alabama is the original!”

“Arghhh…” Crowley grumbled while he sipped the wine. Though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Except perhaps to have some moment of solidarity with Newt. He smacked his lips and then told the other man in a disheartened tone, “Was really hoping for Werewolves, mate.”

“They’re basically the same song!” Maggie chuckled. 

“They are not!” Crowley argued, a trill of laughter in the back of his throat that this was the thing everyone was getting heated over.

“Next time, Crowley! Newt time!” Newt winked before sliding back in his chair with five pounds.

He lifted his glass in another gesture of solidarity before looking to Aziraphale, who had been suspiciously quiet for someone who just procured another victory.

And his silence was likely due to the fact that he was helping himself to some of the newly purchased wine. 

“Do you think they’ll play it for just five quid?” Maggie wondered, turning to watch Newt make the exchange with the pianist.

“Suppose we’re about to find out,” Crowley remarked as he too, followed her gaze.

They had learned from watching others earlier in the evening that requests were based on the amount of tips the players received. Which, seemed capitalistic, but Crowley supposed the proceeds went to the pianists and they likely needed the funds as supplemental income.   

It appeared that a fiver was enough for them to get started, and well, no one else in the bar had any objections because Sweet Home Alabama was playing in full swing and the majority of folks were singing along with abandon. 

Meanwhile Aziraphale sulked loudly, “I wannded Moonlight Ssonada.”

“Another time,” Crowley assured him, patting him on the back.

While everyone seemed to be enjoying the song, Crowley took it upon himself to pour them all a glass of water. 

He slid Aziraphale’s glass closer to his elbow and offered, “Have some water, angel. You’re looking a bit flushed.”

“I’m fiiine.” Aziraphale chortled before bringing his wine glass up to his lips again. 

Crowley looked across the table for a bit of help. Maggie had her back turned to focus on the song. But Newt’s brown eyes were watching them from behind his square glasses.

“Yeah, you know what, Az,” he put in helpfully, “we should all probably take some water. Don’t wanna be hungover for tomorrow’s flight, do we?”

Accepting this logic once Newt took a drink of water himself, Aziraphale took the briefest of sips.

Once “Sweet Home Alabama,” concluded, someone requested “Under Pressure,” which the table was shockingly divided regarding Bowie. Though Crowley was pleased to have Maggie on his side for that particular tune. 

The wine had loosened him up considerably, even emboldening him to reach for her hand across the table and belt the chorus as though this was their one true connection. 

Aziraphale continued to drink more wine than water, even with Newt and Maggie’s intermittent encouragement to do the opposite. It seemed he wouldn’t listen to Crowley, but fortunately the three of them were on the same wavelength when it came to slowing Aziraphale down from drunken destruction.

After the Bowie request there was Taylor Swift (“I Knew You Were Trouble”), which was especially well received by the college crew behind them. And from his sidelong glance, Crowley could see even Aziraphale was bobbing his head in time to the melody, eyes various degrees of shut the entire time. 

He bit his lip and turned away before he could notice he saw. Crowley made a mental note to tease Aziraphale for this later. Not that he was anti-Swiftie. In fact, he rather did enjoy a good bit of her songs. But to see Aziraphale so moved by something so “beboppy,” when he was adamant it was “soooo not his thing,” was amusing.

Then came “I’m Still Standing,” by Elton John, which had Crowley shift his shoulders in time with the melody as the sounds washed over him. He hadn’t expected to get so into piano night, but truthfully, this was a nice time. 

He glanced over and saw Aziraphale matching his movements while lip syncing along. Crowley grinned and went along with it. 

That is, until Aziraphale leaned in swiftly. His breath was hot, his words urgent as they tumbled into Crowley’s ear.      

“Crowleyy…you have a record player.”

Crowley turned his face towards the other man and said. “Yeah, I do.”

“Canwe…canwe…go back and lissten to Moonlight Ssonada?” 

His eyes did that fluttery thing as the suggestion tripped over his tongue. And when Aziraphale’s gaze settled on Crowley once more, it was clear his mind was set on the furthest thing from actually listening to Moonlight Sonata. 

Which made Crowley’s heart trip up inside his chest, rather like the jumpy bass of this song. His mouth hung open and he urged his mind to come up with a way to gently turn down Aziraphale’s request. Even if everything inside of him was vibrating with excitement upon hearing it. He knew it wasn’t right. Not like this.

All he could manage was a weak, “I uhm…we should probably just stay here? Right?”

“I don’t wand to.” Aziraphale whined. 

Fuck no, Crowley thought, not the pinched brow look. He could hardly resist that look. Especially now that Aziraphale had slung an arm on the back of his chair and was staring longingly at his lips. 

Clearing his throat and sitting back a fraction, Crowley asked, “Why not? Coming here was your idea.”

“I knoww,” he sighed. His eyes did not move as he spoke, “But it was a stupidd one. A veryy. Veryy. Ssstupidd one. One I am regrettinggg.”

Shit. He hadn’t expected this. Not at all. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he hoped perhaps this could happen. He had desires, after all. And he found Aziraphale exceptionally desirable. No matter how much he kept trying to tamper it all down for the sake of them remaining friends.

The wine made him feel warm enough and the earlier whiskey bold enough to at least hesitate. To at least allow his gaze to travel down Aziraphale’s face and see those thin lips that he knew fit so perfectly against his own. 

Aziraphale’s thumb brushed over his shoulder blade, sending a delicious shiver down his spine. Making his breath come out in a shuddering manner. He didn’t lean in, but he didn’t exactly tell Aziraphale to stop leaning in either. 

What did happen when their lips found one another was surprisingly soft and tender. Crowley groaned as he pressed his mouth more firmly against Aziraphale’s; his hand now cupped the nape of his neck.

They kept going. Twice. Thrice. And then on the fourth kiss, Aziraphale let out a quiet belch that brought Crowley’s awareness back to reality. 

Aziraphale was drunk. And if this was ever going to happen again. It shouldn’t be like this.

Crowley purposefully angled his face downward and exhaled. “We can’t, Aziraphale. Not now.”

He released his hold on the other man and sat back in his chair. Nodding back to the stage, he asserted, “Let’s just enjoy the show, yeah?”

“Crowleyyy?” He choked out. “Wha-what just happened?”

The warble in the angel’s voice made him swallow hard. He gestured toward the water glass and said plainly, “Drink some more water, angel. You’ll need it.”

“I-I-I don’t understandd.”

Crowley closed his eyes and took in a steadying breath. He couldn’t stand the way Aziraphale sounded just now. The worry in his tone made Crowley want to be sick. 

When he steadied himself, he cast a serious look at Aziraphale and pressed on, “We can’t do this. Not now.”

“Whyyy not?” He set a hand on Crowley’s arm, trying to draw him nearer. “What’s changedd?”

“Look, you’ve had a bit to drink. I’m not judging but…”

Aziraphale’s let go of Crowley as though he burned him. His eyes were pooling with sadness now. A sadness that Crowley put there. His insides twisted at this realisation. 

Through a teary eyed frown, Aziraphale exclaimed hotly, “P-p-people who sayy that ar-ar-are often judging!”

“Well I’m not.” Crowley assured him. He covered Aziraphale’s hand with his. “I promise you, Aziraphale. I’m not judging you. I just don’t want this to be a drunken thing.”

Aziraphale blinked and lifted the hand away to brush at the corner of his eyes. Crowley heard a few hard sniffs before there was an emotionless, “I see.”

“Besides you were right earlier,” Crowley assured quietly. “We’re friends. We shouldn’t blur that line and try to make this something more.”

Aziraphale had turned his face in the opposite direction, but Crowley could see the gravity of his words finally sinking in from the way he kept furiously blinking back tears. And then in the way he kept sniffling and insisted upon nodding stiffly in agreement. 

“Right,” he blubbered, “of-of courssse you are right.”

He wiped again at his face and Crowley had to look away. Even though he was using Aziraphale’s own words against him, he couldn’t help but feel guilty.

Then Maggie was asking, her voice full of concern, “Azi? Is everything alright?”

“Fine. S’fine. Excuse me. A moment.”

He heard the chair screech in protest, but he didn’t look up to see Aziraphale leave. He couldn’t risk him seeing just how affected he was by this whole thing. So he winced until he was certain his own tears weren’t noticeable, vaguely hearing Newt mutter something about checking on Aziraphale as well.  

He could feel Maggie’s gaze burning through him. He brought up his hands and rubbed at his face then reached for his bag, where his glasses were. 

“I ought to go,” he informed her.

She asked urgently, “What happened?”

Crowley debated for a second what he ought to say. Instead, he settled on the facts, “He kissed me. I shouldn’t have let it happen. He’s had too much to drink. And…I told him we shouldn’t…that we’re friends and…”

He flicked his dark shades into place, not wanting to have to fully face anyone for the rest of the night. 

“He likes you.”

Crowley laughed, his tone a bit derisive, “He has a funny way of communicating that.”

“He just doesn’t know how ,” Maggie argued lightly. “His ex…treated him like shit. He accepted it. For a long while. I dunno. I suspect that does things to a person.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed thickly, glancing toward the exit, “yeah, I can tell.”

“Casual’s really not his thing anyway,” Maggie went on. “He’s usually very committed. Loyal. Even to his own detriment at times.”

This prompted something in Crowley to snap, “Well, he’s made it fairly clear to me that he’s not interested in anything serious. At least not with me.”

“I really do think he likes you though, Crowley.”

“Truthfully Maggie, hearing that from someone else…means nothing to me. It means nothing if it doesn’t come from him.”  

He cleared his throat again and cast her a quick glance, long enough to see that she didn’t hate him, but rather, she likely pitied him. 

And he couldn’t take it any longer. So he decided, “Anyway, I should be off. Work in the morning. But uh…nice meeting you. Tell him I said goodnight, yeah?”

Her lips curved into a sad smile. “Of course. Night, Crowley. I hope to see you again!”

“Yeah,” he grumbled as he stood, “I doubt it.”

As Crowley strode out of the piano bar, the lump in his throat only continued to grow. Because against all expectations, he really had had a lovely evening, up until the kiss that should have never been.

And he wasn’t so sure when he’d have anything quite like this night again. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale roused with a slow start. Rolling over the bed, he searched for something familiar, only to discover his brain felt like it was doing aerial loop de loops.

After catching a glimpse of the red, illuminated clock on his bedside table, relief flooded through him. It was only 9:30. Check out was at 11:00. He’d probably miss breakfast unless he got a wag on. But the thought of anything beyond plain toast did not sound appealing to him at all. 

He shut his eyes, hoping it might quell the swooping sensation within his head. 

Nope. Horrible idea.

He focused on the clock and then, on his own breathing. 

He supposed he deserved to feel like sick on the inside of a waste bin. He knew mixing gin and wine together was a huge risk. A risk that had emboldened him to do the stupidest thing he could have done by kissing Crowley. 

Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes as though that might banish the memory of the kiss that had started out so right, yet somehow ended so wrong. But alas, his brain was playing it out in hot flashes of white, only inciting desires from the depths of his stomach. Desires he had done his best to shove down, but so obviously had failed.

He couldn’t have that. No. Not after he’d been perfectly clear that they weren’t in love, no matter what snide remarks Gran made when she caught them texting. Nor could they be anything more than friends. 

No, he wasn’t ready. It was far too soon for anything serious. Wasn't it? 

It was a boundary he aimed to maintain time and time again, and last night both Crowley and he had momentarily crossed. Again. And in doing so, Aziraphale had been forced into the corner of a public loo, sobbing like some angst ridden teenager.

Newt had been such a dear to come in and attempt to console him and then suggest they all just call it an evening whenever Aziraphale couldn’t give him a straight answer as to what had happened. 

He really ought to check that he still had a friend there. For Aziraphale wasn’t certain who that display of deep emotions affected more gravely, Newt or himself. 

Blindly grappling for his phone on the nightstand, he squinted against the brightness of the screen. His stomach dropped a bit at the realization that Crowley hadn’t messaged him throughout the night. 

He didn’t quite know what he expected, but checking his phone for messages from Crowley each morning had become such a usual occurrence that the absence of any messages left him with an emptiness he wanted to crawl into and never return from. 

Perhaps he ought to double check the chat to make sure he hadn’t missed something. But first, he’d message Newt and Maggie, thanking them for taking care of him last night. They were angels for seeing him back here safely. Somehow facing them felt easier than facing whatever awaited him in the chat with Crowley. 

Once that message was sent, his finger hovered over the next chat where his response glared back at him. 

Aziraphale knew he was only feeding into his anxieties by not facing what they fully said to one another last night once they both left the piano bar. 

Better to do it swiftly then, he told himself. And it was nearly as bad as he feared. 

Once he was finished, Aziraphale’s face twisted in a grimace. God lord, he wasn’t an angel, but an arse. Of the highest order that arsedom could award. He’d been so preoccupied with his own feelings, so concerned about being hurt himself, and yet, he’d gone and inflicted the sort of pain he hoped to avoid onto Crowley.

His heart ached and the bridge of his nose felt heavy. It seemed that even in his quest to find something casual, something that might be easy and painless, he found something utterly complicated. 

Perhaps the complications arose from his own doing. But he couldn’t see a way out of this tangled web of feelings, actions, and thoughts. Not on his own at least.

Maybe it was time to give Tracy a call again. Maybe he wasn’t so healed from everything that happened with Gabriel as he liked to believe. 

The prospect of having to open old wounds and rehash all of his feelings felt daunting. But as was evident from last night, what he was attempting on his own clearly wasn’t working. He needed to stop trying to convince himself that he was fine. That things with Crowley were fine. Because try as they might, they weren’t fine. 

Yet by some divine intervention, after everything Aziraphale had put Crowley through, the man didn’t hate him. Yet.

There was a small bit of comfort in that notion. Which made up for the discomfort Aziraphale felt at having to face him once more. 

He checked the time stamp from his last message. They stopped communicating shortly before midnight. And after some mental gymnastics, he deduced that today was Thursday. Crowley was likely at work.

Still, it had been his suggestion to meet up. So perhaps he had a free morning or his work hours were more flexible. Whatever the reasoning, he wanted to discuss last night with Aziraphale, and as much as he didn’t want to, Aziraphale knew the future of whatever this was, depended on them talking.

He sucked in some air and then began to type.  

There weren’t any other words that came back in response to his apology, which did nothing to ease the sickening feeling in Aziraphale’s stomach. But it was an unpleasantness he had inflicted on himself. He would have to bear it. The only thing left undetermined was for how long.

He likes you. 

Crowley snorted each time the words invaded his mind. 

They came to him incessantly and so did this reaction. 

It was like that night when Aziraphale came back to his flat and the needle on the Sam Cooke vinyl got stuck when they bumped into the wall closest to the record player. Their kisses had dissolved into momentary laughter until Crowley shut the whole thing off before dragging Aziraphale to bed.

Only this time, the sound wasn’t accompanied by the same exuberant laughter. This time, he couldn’t shut it off. This time, his brain clung to those words. With hope. Quite possibly desperation. And then, with irritation. 

How had he let this happen? What a right idiot he was for pursuing Aziraphale and for continuing along with this entire thing, long after he knew Aziraphale’s position on the matter. He’d been such a fool to believe that anything real could develop from a one night stand. 

He supposed it was because he’d been looking to a higher being for a sign that perhaps this time things would be different. Because this hadn’t been your average meet cute. No, this one had been so improbable that Crowley had convinced himself that something was meant to happen from it.     

Perhaps that was why he was forcing them to carry on like this. Or perhaps you like him too, but you won’t fully admit it? 

The mocking words were his own this time. And he gripped the steering wheel of his Bentley tighter and grumbled through clenched teeth, “Shutttttittt.”

Don’t tell me it’s not worth trying forrrr…

“Oh waaat the fuckkkk…” Crowley smacked his dash, trying to get the radio to skip to another station from sheer malice alone. 

He had to shift gears, however, preventing him from being a reasonable human being and changing the station like a reasonable human being might. So Bryan Adams carried on rasping like the insufferable lovesick dick that he was. 

You can't tell me it's not worth dying forrr…

You know it's true… 

The minute he found himself in the right gear with plenty of distance between himself and everyone else around him, he hit the power knob with a loose slap. 

He didn’t need any additional assistance getting sappy right before he was about to have the most important conversation of the day, or maybe even, the week. His mind and his heart were doing a fairly good job tag teaming that with his memories alone.

So good in fact, that he drove right past The Premier and had to make an illegal u-turn in the British Airways Fleet hanger. Thankfully the gate agent took an interest in his car and was willing to overlook this particular civilian oversight. But he wasn’t so thankful as this little detour nearly set him back beyond the hour limit he promised Aziraphale.

While he knew he was within his rights to allow the other man some extra time to anxiously sweat at potentially being stood up, he also knew how efficient Aziraphale was whenever he was in “work mode.” So there wasn’t necessarily a guarantee he would wait around if Crowley was exceptionally late. Plus, he did have a work meeting after lunch that he told Bee he’d lead. And boy did his work team need led if they had any hope of successfully completing both projects and on time.

Luckily, the stars all aligned, albeit blindly, since the sun was actually shining this morning. When Crowley rolled up to the drop off lane of the hotel, he spotted the empty shuttle bus the crew used.

Good. He hadn’t missed them. He put the car in park but kept it running. Then he got out of the vehicle before he actually knew why he was getting out of the vehicle. But he didn’t have much time to contemplate it because the glass doors slid open and a trio of grey and pale blue suits strode outside.

Newt’s attire differed considerably from Maggie and Aziraphale, what with his dark blue hat, gold shoulder stripes and white button down. Maggie wore a grey dress, dark yet functional heels, and had a blue tartan scarf tied stylishly in a knot off to one side. She swept all of her blonde curls up into a slick French twist. 

She spotted him first and Crowley’s arm dinged painfully against the roof of the Bentley. It was an attempt to make it look like he’d been casually waiting and not upright like there was a rod stuck up his arse.

Her face broke out into a cheery smile and she waved. He flashed a brief smile and tried not to look whenever Aziraphale turned round in that powder blue waistcoat and ridiculous bowtie.

He didn’t want to see if what stared back at him was worse than the tears he last saw. Instead, he fixed his attention to Maggie’s encouraging face as he strode over to them.

Gesturing back at the Bentley, he offered, “Could probably fit you all in, if you want a lift?”

“That’s very kind of you.” Maggie beamed back at him. 

Newt stepped forward on Maggie’s other side, his head jerking toward the shuttle van. “But we like to use the employer given perks.”

A ripple of amusement sounded throughout the group.

Crowley nodded at both of them. “Understandable.” 

“Well…good seeing you, Crowley.” Maggie wiggled her fingers in parting, picked up her pulley suitcase, and moved toward the vehicle. 

Newt stepped forward to shake Crowley’s hand in farewell. 

And Crowley heard himself offering the same words he often spoke to Aziraphale while he lifted his hand overhead. “Safe travels!” 

When it was only Aziraphale and him, Crowley glanced over to see the man’s hand gripping the handle of his luggage. He also noticed how impeccably polished his black shoes were. And an insane thought gripped him. 

Didn’t black and grey clash? How did Aziraphale cope with seeing that day in and day out? 

“Good morning.”

Aziraphale’s polite greeting brought him back to reality. Though he couldn’t look above the height of this man’s luggage. 

“I’ll uh, pop the boot for you.” Crowley spoke before turning to do just that.

He watched Aziraphale put his things inside and then shut it when the man started off toward the passenger side door. He moved back in to drive and they were off in uncomfortable silence. 

Crowley considered remarking on the observance he made regarding Aziraphale’s uniform, but Aziraphale spoke first.

“Where are we headed?”

Crowley cleared his throat, “There’s a little cafe near the airport. Figured you might like a tea or something?”

He’d need a coffee if he drank as much as Aziraphale had the previous night. And likely some medication and maybe a half or whole day off work as well. Which is why he tried not to overindulge in that department any longer. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale intoned, “I think I might like something with espresso.”

Crowley couldn’t help but taunt, “Look at you, expanding your morning beverage horizons.”

But apparently he taunted just a notch too hard because Aziraphale sounded a bit weary, “Just need a bit of perking up.”

“Welllll…” he drew out the word, aiming to sound a tad more considerate, “...I know just the thing that’ll do it for you.”

“Not shots of espresso mind you,” Aziraphale clarified, “I need it cut with milk and sugar.”

The return of his fussiness had Crowley smirking a bit. There was an ease that settled in his chest, momentarily convincing him that everything between them would be ok if he could order the perfect thing that might make Aziraphale feel good again. 

It was ridiculous, of course. Why was he trying to get back into the man’s good graces? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? 

So he aimed for nonchalance when he spoke again, “Alright, I hear you, angel.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Crowley still had not forgiven his radio for the Bryan Adams betrayal and he didn’t want to risk adding anything to this situation that might cause a sudden shift in mood or add any unwanted tension. 

Even the cafe was fairly spartan with its cooler of soft drinks and a rather basic espresso bar and sad handful of pastries in a glass case off to the side. There were hard plastic tables and equally uncomfortable looking chairs, which was likely designed so people didn’t linger any longer than they needed to.

Crowley suggested a salted caramel mocha for Aziraphale and three shots of espresso in a cup for himself. He would have gone for six, but his heart was already hammering mercilessly inside his chest and he didn’t want to risk neither heart attack nor migraine. 

The drinks were presented to them in white ceramic mugs. Though Aziraphale’s drink did sport a spurt of squirty cream and caramel drizzle on top. 

Crowley heard him hum his approval as he sipped the warm beverage and he couldn’t help but be taken in a bit by these sounds. And then, by the way Aziraphale breathed in slowly, his eyelids fluttering shut as he savoured the experience. 

Once he set the cup back down again, he dabbed at his upper lip with the paper napkin before looking at Crowley from across the table. He regarded the man with the same intensity with which he enjoyed the beverage, his tone earnest when he spoke next. 

“Crowley, this is scrumptious. Thank you for the recommendation.”

The ease in which Aziraphale expressed his gratitude had Crowley sucking in a breath and then peering down in his mug. 

“Sure. Anytime.” He managed through tightly pursed lips. 

He shouldn’t enjoy the praise as much as he did. He’d gone into this expecting a fight. Not expecting to feel things. Crowley folded his arms together on the table and bit the inside of his cheek, telling himself, It’s just a fucking cup of coffee. Don’t be an idiot about this.   

He was glad he kept his glasses on. He didn’t fancy every thought and emotion being written plainly across his face just now. He’d done that far too much already.

His fingers dug painfully into his forearms, centering himself as he waited for what Aziraphale would say next. Because as far as he was concerned, it was Aziraphale who ought to do most of the talking. They’d get further along that way.

There was a polite clearing of a throat, followed by the sharp screech of a chair sliding against the floor. 

“So…I-I owe you an apology. Last night…I shouldn’t have…kissed you.”

Crowley winced at this. So he regretted it. He wasn’t surprised by this, but hearing it didn’t make it hurt any less. 

The words felt thick on his tongue as he spoke, “S’alright, angel. Things happen. I mean…at least you didn’t try to take a shower with your clothes on in my flat?” He let out a shrill sound at the end of this before snorting, “Or kiss someone else.”

“I don’t believe you did that last bit either.” Aziraphale then assured evenly, “But it would’ve been within your right to do so, if you wanted to.” 

Crowley heard him take in another lengthy breath before stating contritely, “Last night I did not have a right to kiss you.”

“Yeah, no, especially after you made it fairly clear that…we were…just to be…friends.” 

Why was it so bloody difficult to say the word anymore when he thought of Aziraphale?

“Sort of makes it harder to remain as such, you know?”

Why was his voice warbling like there was something lodged down his throat? He could not, under any circumstances, cry right now. He just couldn’t.

Aziraphale lamented, “I know. I know and it wasn’t fair for me to say the things I did or act in a way that contradicted that. I know it wasn’t.”

God lords and ladies above.  

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut at the remorse that dripped from Aziraphale now. He knew his brow was fuzing together in an obvious way. Glasses or no glasses, he couldn’t school the exposed parts of his face to not feel what he was feeling.  

He swallowed hard and then asked, his voice tripping up a bit, “Then why did you?”

“I…I don’t know,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Really?” Crowley’s voice broke then because he could no longer contain his heartache and disbelief. His face shot up and he echoed, “You don’t know?”

“I…don’t.”

The pause between the two words was enough for Crowley to barge right in with his own thoughts and feelings. 

“You can’t even blame it on the alcohol?”

Aziraphale winced a bit, attempting to keep his voice steady, “I’m sure that played a part, but I don’t think that was the whole reason.”

“Ok so you admit that there was a reason,” Crowley pointed out swiftly. Leaning forward on the table, he urged, “Why can’t you tell me what that reason was?”

Aziraphale’s eyes shifted from left to right, refusing to meet Crowley’s. His mouth opened and closed in a helpless manner until he stammered, “Because I-I-I don’t…kn-know.”  

“Don’t you trust me? After everything we’ve–can’t you just–trust me?”

He sounded wounded and he hated it.

Evidently so did Aziraphale because his gaze snapped up and he exclaimed in a hushed tone, “Of course I do!”

“Then why can’t you tell me?” His voice strained beneath the weight of his emotions. “We’ve shared more than…friendship.” His face twitched as the word awkwardly wrapped around his tongue. 

Aziraphale’s lips rolled inward, his eyes closing in shame.

Crowley rasped, “Surely you feel that too.” 

He hated how desperate he sounded. Hated how the pressure behind his eyes kept building. How Aziraphale started to blur around the edges as Crowley tried to get a real answer from him.  

Fuck, he was going to cry. In the middle of this stupid cafe. Where the barista was likely leaning in and watching them with all the interest of someone watching a daytime soap.  

“Why can’t you just be honest with me?!” Crowley entreated.

“Because I’m scared!” Aziraphale shrieked back. 

Before he looked away, Crowley saw the tears gathering in his eyes. After a sharp moment of unblinking focus, Aziraphale swallowed and bent his head. His lower lip trembled and Crowley could now see that he, too, was struggling to keep his emotions in check. 

“I’m scared, alright.” Aziraphale sniffed as he explained, shakily picking up his napkin. “I always have been when it comes to this. If I don’t go for someone because I’m too afraid, I go for the wrong someone.”

Crowley took in Aziraphale’s words, watched him try to regain control of his breathing and then he scoffed in disbelief. “You think you’re the only one who's scared? You really think that?” 

Shit, his own lip was practically blubbering now. He needed to get a grip because there were things that needed to be said. Things Aziraphale needed to hear. And if he never said them now, he likely never would. 

His eyes burned as he went on thickly, “Aziraphale, everyday I’m sitting around trying not to lose it every five seconds because I’m wondering if you wanna use me to get off or-or-or just be…friends! You think I’m fine with how fast it all changes just to suit you and your needs? Without considering my own?”

The aftermath of his words jarred them both once they hung in the air between them. He saw momentary shock flashed across Aziraphale’s face, but once it wore off there was that cloudy resignation that filled him once more. And he blinked furiously to try to make it disappear. 

Crowley never thought he would give up on this situation because of just how miraculous it all seemed. Of how right things felt. But just because something felt right, didn’t necessarily mean it was good. And maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale wasn’t all good, like he’d allowed himself to believe.  

Aziraphale fixed his attention back to Crowley and quite frankly, he couldn’t stand the pitying look that took up on Aziraphale’s face when he said, “Oh Crowley, I didn’t mean to make you feel…that wasn’t never…I didn’t realise you felt…”

“It’s fine,” he interjected. 

“It’s not.” Aziraphale implored. “I’m so, so sorry I made you feel that way. Crowley, I never meant to…”

Suddenly he reached forward, his fingers nearly brushing Crowley’s tensed forearm. But Crowley slunk back in his seat, unable to allow himself to be comforted by this man. 

His hand came up and he wiped at his eyes from beneath his glasses before harshly scrubbing the lower half of his face. His jaw had become so tight, and he really couldn’t afford a headache on top of everything else. 

“S’fine,” he ground out again, suddenly searching for the same spot on the wall Aziraphale found so interesting mere minutes ago. 

It wasn’t really, but he didn’t really wish to dive deep on that topic. Not if they were going to walk away from this with something intact. 

“It’s not,” Aziraphale whispered. “It really isn’t…and I-I-I’m not here to make excuses for myself or my behavior. But I want you to understand something. If you’ll just allow me to explain.”

Crowley bobbed his head and sniffed again.

“When I met you,” his voice was a bit tremulous now, “I was hurting. I’d just gotten out of a horrible relationship. One that made me feel so small in the end. And I think, I thought…if I found someone who just wanted something casual…it would hurt less when they left. Or when they hurt me it-it-it wouldn’t matter as much. Turns out you don’t want to leave. At least, it seems like you don’t. And it seems I’ve hurt you more than you’ve hurt me. And in doing so, I’ve hurt myself.” 

He paused and took in another unsteady breath before slowly releasing it. “Again, I’m not trying to make excuses for myself, I just–I want you to know how I feel. I feel I owe you that much.”

Crowley could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Was Aziraphale admitting that his own actions had also made him suffer? He’d been so adamant that this wasn’t anything serious up until this point. And suddenly, everything had changed for him? 

Crowley had to be hallucinating, because this certainly didn’t add up in his mind. Which led him to croak, “I-I-I mean…how can I possibly mean anything to you, Aziraphale?”

When he looked at him again, he saw that pinched brow and those silent tears pooling once more. With a tilt of his head Aziraphale admitted softly, “Oh Crowley, you mean so much to me.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Crowley countered, “But it’s not enough, is it? It’s still not enough for you to…want anything real with me…is it?”

Aziraphale pressed, “This has been real for me.”

“Has it?” Crowley wondered skeptically.

Aziraphale nodded and then spoke, “I think that’s why I’ve pushed you away. Before you, I-I hadn’t even been alone for a full week. And then…there you were….” Aziraphale trailed off with a helpless little sigh, “...so…charming and kind and…you made me forget to be sad. You made me feel good. You made me feel…appreciated. And wanted.” 

Crowley bowed his head at this. Somehow it was everything he had hoped to hear from Aziraphale, yet it felt like too much at the same time. 

“You made me feel like I was important. No one’s ever made me feel so much before. Which is why I found it so hard to believe that this could ever be anything more than just a single night. Because what could be better than what we had that night? At least…that’s what I thought. Then you came back. You were on that flight. It was…I dunno…I couldn’t believe it. The odds were impossible. And yet, there you were. Watching me slosh fruit juice all over myself like an idiot. Trying to be helpful, like the wonderful person you are.”

Crowley’s voice cracked and he shook his head, “I’m hardly wonderful.”

“Stop it, you are,” Aziraphale insisted. “Do you know, no one else, out of those three hundred passengers, came to that person’s aid like you did?”

He shrugged and mumbled, “Just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Aziraphale observed, his tone hollow, “It seems like you always do the right thing. And I always do the wrong thing.”

Crowley’s head snapped up. He argued, “That’s not true.”

Aziraphale lifted his gaze and exhaled heavily, “Well I’ve done wrong by you. And I’m sorry for that. I know I’ve no right to ask for your forgiveness, but I will anyway. Because I don’t want to lose you, Crowley.”

His focus landed on Crowley, and the tremor in his lower lip returned.

Crowley wiped at the wet streaks along his cheeks with the back of his hand, sniffing and swallowing hard. 

Aziraphale bit his bottom and carried on as steadily as he could, “I understand if you need time. I do. I just…I wanted you to know how I felt before I left.”

Crowley cleared his throat and asked matter-of-factly, “Are you afraid of being alone?”

“What?”

“Because you were with your ex for years. And you said…he hurt you…made you feel badly about yourself…then you met me a few days later and…I mean…are you saying this now because you realize you could lose me if this doesn’t become something and you don’t wanna be alone?”

“You’re right, I don’t want to lose you, Crowley.”

He prompted, “Because then you’d be alone?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Ok, well, for months now you’ve told me you didn’t want anything serious. Why do you feel differently now?”

He was surprised how steady and non accusatory he sounded just now. Perhaps it was because they had both laid out so much of their heart and expressed so many emotions over the course of this talk, there wasn’t anything left to express. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale consider the question before he answered with, “Because we aren’t just friends. You said so yourself. What we shared it’s more than that.”

“And you want it to be more ?” Crowley probed, angling his face until his glasses slid down a notch. “More than friends?”

The other man nodded. “I think I might. Do you?”

Like Aziraphale had set his own boundaries around his heart, Crowley had just drafted up a rough design of one for his own. Whether or not it would figure into the final image, well, they’d decide that at a later date.

“I think...I think we need to talk about this more. Another time. When you aren’t leaving.”

“Ok.”

“This just feels like one of those really important conversations that shouldn’t be rushed, y’know? We’ve got so much wrong up until this point. And if this is what we both want, I mean, really want, I wanna try to get this right.”

“I understand. And I want that too. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Crowley nodded. He believed that now. And perhaps he even believed that before. Because Aziraphale didn’t seem the type to willfully inflict damage on other people and enjoy it. In fact, Aziraphale seemed the type who put up with a lot of shit before he lost hope in someone. He believed that Aziraphale was now approaching this with open and honest intentions. 

After some silence, Aziraphale asked, the question lifting hopefully, “May I still text you?”

“Yeah, I think that’s alright.” 

Because truthfully, he didn’t want to think of a world where Aziraphale and he didn’t talk to one another. 

“You would tell me if it wasn’t though?” Aziraphale probed earnestly, “Because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable again.”

“I’d tell you, Aziraphale.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he assured the other man, “I’m alright with it though.”

He nodded before lifting his mug to take another sip.

Crowley soon followed suit, wincing at how the lukewarm espresso tasted. 

There was still an uncertain tension thrumming between them, but Crowley had to admit that in spite of that, he felt the bundle of nerves that had been bounding around in him, settle down.   

Aziraphale wiped the cream from his upper lip again, folded the napkin and discretely dabbed at his eyes when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking.

When he felt in control again, he asked, “Crowley?”

“Yeah?” He angled back his face, arms hugging his middle.

Aziraphale exhaled, “I really am sorry.”

Crowley felt his contrition and offered quietly, “Yeah, me too, angel.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Aziraphale responded, sounding perplexed.

Crowley let out a breath, his mouth working into a frown. “I could have told you sooner. How I felt. That this…arrangement…wasn’t working for me.”

A saddened smile graced Aziraphale’s face and he pointed out, “I’m sure I didn’t make you feel as though you could tell me.”

“Well like I said, why don’t we think about things on our own and then when you’re in town next we can maybe talk about this again?”

“I’d like that very much.”

Crowley tossed back the rest of his espresso and smacked his lips. “Right well, I’ll wait for you in the car while you finish that.” He gestured towards Aziraphale’s mug before he said, “No rush though. I’m just…done here.” 

He stood to deposit his empty mug on the barista counter before opening the door and stepping out into the sunshine. 

Before all of this, he might have believed it to be a good omen. But today was just another day he had to put his glasses back on and bend his head down low as he strode back to The Bentley.

Chapter Text

“Awww I knew you liked him!” Maggie squealed, wrapping her arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders in a quick squeeze of a hug.

Aziraphale shushed, “Keep your voice down!” 

He quickly glanced behind them as if anyone could burst through the front galley at any moment. Though if they were at their assigned posts, they shouldn’t be. And if the passengers were compliant, they wouldn’t be either.

“What?” Maggie taunted while flipping the coffee makers on, “Afraid someone might know you’re taken?”

“No!” Aziraphale affirmed while he tapped on the tablet screen in front of him, going through the passenger list of dietary restrictions. “We just have a job to do, Maggie.”

“Alright, alright,” she practically sang out before adding in a more serious tone, “I do expect a full update once we’ve landed though.”

“How about once Crowley and I determine what we even are to one another?” Aziraphale replied with an exasperated edge that bordered on laughter. He arched a brow over his reading glasses and asked, “Will that suffice?”

She smirked and rolled her eyes before relenting, “Alright, fair enough.” 

“Nothing’s official yet,” Aziraphale reminded her.

As she brushed past him to exit the galley, she whispered, “I’m just glad you two idiots are finally talking about it.”

“Go prepare the jump seats, please,” Aziraphale huffed and waved her off.

Though he wasn’t ready to quite admit it out loud to anyone else, he was glad they were talking about it too. 

He still wasn’t entirely certain he could be what Crowley wanted. He supposed they would have to discuss that when they saw one another again. Just as he supposed it was time for him to give Tracy a call. 

Therapy had helped him realise he was in a horrible relationship in the past. Had helped him take notice that he wasn’t losing his mind, he was just with someone who was a master manipulator when it came to evading accountability. Perhaps it could help him navigate what he wanted out of his future too while ensuring he didn’t muck things up with Crowley anymore than he already had. 

“Remember, we’re shipping out to Boston next week.”

Out of his periphery, Crowley saw Bee standing on the other side of his computer screen. When they continued to tower there, he replied with a short, “Ok.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask me twenty questions about it?” They quipped.