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Chapter Text

March 2020

The world was always a dreary place when pestilence and hopelessness ravaged human civilisation. This time was no different, although the modern aspect of things seemed to make it all the more difficult; life was all the more full and rushed now, the days rolled by spent with activities and mundane pleasures, and when it all was ripped away, one was left with the bleak monotonousness of lonesomeness. The bookshop had always been Aziraphale’s favourite place, since the day he walked through its threshold for the first time, but now the walls seemed suffocating, the emptiness of the streets seemed forlorn, and the lack of contact with others slowly chipped away at his usual cheerful self. How infinitely guilty he felt too, that the selfish yearning for a normalcy he had grown accustomed to seemed so insensitive to the endless suffering of the many.

One good thing that ought to come from this though, is that he would ensure the bookshop would be perfectly pristine, organised to an extent never before achieved, and surely that would last for the short period this illness roamed around free. Surely.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale when the rotary phone chirped, knowing there would be nobody else on the other side at a time like this.

“Angel, you okay?” asked the familiar voice on the other end, the freshness of the new lockdown oozing a dollop of worry onto his words.

“I am completely fine, my corporation is not susceptible to this awful infirmity.” reassured Aziraphale, before falling silent for a moment. “You did not have a hand in this terrible business, did you?” his tone was as much accusatory as it was concerned.

“No! What do you think of me?” Crowley sounded scandalised, one could practically hear the scowling through the telephone. “Plus, this is shit for me too, you know. I don’t have a flat anymore. I’m going to have to live in my car.” 

The line was silent for a minute, while that admission lingered in the air. Aziraphale so wanted to reach a helping hand out to his… friend, to tell him he should just come over to the shop and find himself at home, but he couldn’t. The fear of being met with ridicule, for one, was sufficient deterrent, but a far more robust obstacle presented itself – yes, Heaven and Hell alike were so completely horrified with the pair’s little display of indestructibility that they oughtn’t be making an appearance any time soon, but what if they were still watching? The worst that could come to Aziraphale would be to Fall, which was frightful enough of a prospect, but Crowley would be obliterated for good, either side would make sure of it. For fraternising, for sharing an abode with an angel.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go angel. Tons of evil to foment, and all that. Catch you later.” that last phrase came out more like a hopeful plea than a pleasantry.

“Oh, yes, absolutely. Mind how you go, be safe.” responded Aziraphale, being brought out from his own thoughts, putting the phone back on its perch hastily and rubbing a hand over his face, not at all acknowledging the promise of mischief he knew was as empty as a deflated balloon.

Crowley dropped his mobile device onto the passenger seat of the Bentley, sagging pathetically into his own with a blow of air through his lips, staring at the vacant street ahead with a despondency worthy of the deepest circles of Hell itself. He castigated himself for letting slip that he was, well, homeless, for lack of a better descriptor, for letting hope guide his tongue, for letting expectation brew in his chest just to come crashing down with the devastating force of unrequitedness. He had wished, as much as a demon was capable and allowed to, anyway, for their relationship to blossom into something beyond this arms-length friendship they’d nursed over the centuries, that the horridness of the situation could perhaps have a silver-lining of cohabitation, but deep down he knew he would do better to be realistic. 

The last years had been good, the proximity had been cultivated, some ephemeral touches of skin here and there, some fleeting glances he was so keen on believing meant more. But of course Aziraphale wouldn’t ask him to just move in, the very creature who spooked at the very feeling of a knee against his under a dinner table and who had worn the same coat for over one hundred years could not possibly be comfortable just taking a step of that magnitude. 

So, Crowley drove. He went somewhere of no consequence, so utterly bored as the days went by that his only solace was Aziraphale’s voice, always sprightly and amiable, whenever it would greet him on the other end of a phone call, when they’d share the equally utterly boring errands they’d filled their days with, a small ritual that meant so very much. 

Aziraphale had picked up baking again, the ability to miracle ingredients a very convenient thing indeed when shops were closed and humans were holed up in their homes just as he was, and he was creating the most darling things. Simple sponge cakes turned into muffins, turned into adorably (and intricately) decorated biscuits, turned into elaborate multi-tiered concoctions worthy of a television-show like those Crowley enjoyed consuming, even if he would never admit it to anyone except Aziraphale. A shame Aziraphale was incapable – or unwilling, as it were – to get himself a mobile phone, or else the demon would have been very pleased to see photographic evidence and encourage him on his endeavour.

***

May 2020

A fortnight turned into two, and then into neverending months that dragged on as did the sickness, the world having ceased turning and people having ceased living for so long they were all preoccupied with whether they’d know how, when the time came. The days grew warmer, pointedly sunnier, but that did nothing to lift the spirits of people and celestial beings alike – the ghastly reality of a pandemic was abominable enough, gut-wrenching in all its death and sorrow, but the loneliness did no favours to those unaffected so directly. 

Aziraphale, as much as he wished to believe himself different from humans, was not so distinct after all. Perhaps it was because he had lived amongst them for too long, perhaps it was Crowley’s demonic wiles seeping into his cells and corrupting every inch of his corporation, but he was more alone than ever before. The only respite had, in fact, continued to be the near daily habit of phoning Crowley, hearing his grouchy voice on the other side as he strove so hard to disguise the grim and comfortless reality of his vehicle-bound existence from him, but it was hardly enough. 

They had spent centuries apart before, that much was true, but this time it had a whole different feeling to it. Perhaps because before, they had actively chosen to not speak, too enthralled by their own duties or too miffed at each other to converse, and this time it was entirely against their will. Or perhaps it was because before they didn’t share the existence they did now, one of companionship so close, one that could almost be mistaken by a couple to the less observant eye that did not pick up on the millennia of repression.

So, it was armed with a yearning that he had felt bubbling in his soul for the past months, a certain calling of his atoms to be near just that one, particular being, that Aziraphale blurted out his offer in one of their many evening chats, his small spectacles suddenly heavy on his nose, his free hand fidgeting with the edge of his oldened waistcoat as he stood by the telephone.

“You know, you can stay over at the shop, if you like.” 

The silence was palpable, as an incredulous Crowley was hit so unprepared he was hardly capable of forming words, his mouth agape but rendered useless, his free hand loosening its grasp on the familiar wheel of the Bentley. So, after a silence long enough to feel profoundly unnerving, Aziraphale continued.

“I simply offer because this seems to be dragging on longer than one would hope, and surely the comforts a vehicle can offer are not at all comparable to those of a proper abode, so I figured you might find it more convenient if –”

“Yes. I would like. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” 

And the call fell silent again.

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes had never seemed like such an endless breadth of time to Aziraphale before. Perhaps it was the pestilence and all the isolation it birthed that had made it so each second ticked by so slothful. Or perhaps it was the promise of a tall corporation with languid hips and shining copper hairs bursting through the shop’s threshold at any moment. Suddenly, the suffocating lonesomeness of the bookshop’s walls felt even more constricting, wrapping around divine lungs like iron tendrils, the expectation of co-habitation far too great of a thrill for a simple, ignorant Principality to handle. How was Aziraphale to know Crowley would not leave in the foreseeable future and yet be expected to function? To not let the domestic closeness consume him and bring him to combustion? How he had prayed so many times before that Crowley would not make his way home at the end of a pleasant evening of shared drinks and inebriated conversation, instead making his way upstairs to collapse on a bed which had seldom had warmth to hold.

Crowley rummaged around his car, collecting a pathetically empty cardboard box of belongings, most of which inconsequential. He had never been one for many material possessions, preferring instead to miracle his ensembles onto his body, not keeping much around his flat aside the essential furniture (yes, a throne is essential) and the vibrant collection of plants. That did seem rather pitiful now, to be not only living in one’s vehicle, but also to have nothing to one’s name except a pair of monsteras, one pothos and a lush ficus tree. He couldn’t just bring himself to show up at the angel’s doorstep and make himself seem like some kind of woeful Dickensian orphan one could feel nothing but sorrow for. So, with a few clever miracles, Crowley ‘packed’ himself a small, leather carry-on suitcase, four wheels and everything, far more stylish than perhaps the situation called for, and accepted more than that would maybe clue Aziraphale into his machinations, and he was unsure how much co-living he could handle with that hanging above his head.

Crowley was always punctual, at least whenever Aziraphale was concerned (when meeting with humans, he always did prefer to arrive maddeningly late. Nothing wrong with a bit of fury in the morning, was there), and so after the agreed upon twenty minutes had rolled by, menacing and slow, a knock at the bookshop’s door brought the angel back from whatever frenzied tidying he had gotten himself wrapped up in.

“One minute, I’ll be right with you!” shouted Aziraphale somewhere from the back, perceiving the elegant silhouette of a demon at his door, with what seemed to be a squared object in his hand. He ran his palms through his attire, the beige cardigan impeccably ironed over the balding threads of his waistcoat, his bowtie ever so prim, his feet covered now by some semblance of slippers, one perhaps no one of this century or the prior would recognise as such. He made his way to the door hastily, tidying up the unruly coils on his head one last time before turning the golden knob, pulling it open to be ever so delighted by the slender figure he knew so well. 

Crowley gawked for a moment, the view of Aziraphale a welcome one after long, dreary weeks of nothingness and the dashboard of the Bentley, peering over his sunglasses to give the whole of his corporation a good look, before settling for the hideous beige monstrosities on the angel’s feet. They were something out of Victoria’s reign, surely, boxy at the tip and covering his extremities like a sort of less hardy ballet pointes, exposing the top of his foot and the woollen tartan sock that covered it.

“What on Earth is that?” asked Crowley, lifting his gaze back up to leer at a miffed Aziraphale, who shook his head and rested his hands upon his hips.

“They are my house shoes. I have succumbed to homely comforts. If you don’t like them, you are more than welcome to return to living in your vehicle, dear.” responded Aziraphale with an eyebrow raise, stepping aside as a silent invitation, not succeeding in biting back a self-satisfied smile when Crowley merely grumbled and made his way inside. 

Crowley dropped the box of plants in the middle of the angel’s desk, disregarding completely the array of papers and books that decorated it, spinning on his heels to behold the being which approached him now, the atmosphere one of a slight bit of awkwardness. 

“Cheers, angel. For inviting me here and all.” offered Crowley with a stern nod.

“Ah, no need to thank me. I couldn’t bear the thought of you cramped in the car any longer. At least here you might find more… comfort. You are welcome to use the chamber upstairs and sleep, if you wish.” Aziraphale was sincere, if a bit unsure, his heart somersaulting against his ribcage as the scent Crowley always brought along with him filled the space around them, an intoxicating mix of aftershave and smoke and an essence that was so very him. In an instant, the shop was no longer a lonely and austere place, where the walls seemed to inch closer and closer as the days went by, where the windows felt no more than barred cells keeping the world away. Now, it was a place of infinite possibilities, of endless late-night conversations, of shared beverages and banter. 

Crowley pondered the offer for a moment, digesting it, having spent exactly no time considering the actual living situation he was about to step foot into, too drawn in and enticed by the prospect of proximity to work out any of the practical aspects at all. 

“Where do you sleep?” asked the demon after a moment, cocking his head.

“Oh, I don’t do much sleeping. I much prefer reading in the evenings.” responded Aziraphale with a smile, plucking his small spectacles from the bridge of his nose, sliding them into the chest pocket of his cardigan. 

“Even now?” Crowley seemed incredulous, honey-gold irises attentive and keen.

“I do admit I have been engaging in sleep more often these days. Some days are awfully long.” he paused. “More importantly, however, I have gotten into baking.” continued Aziraphale, his lips curving into a brimming smile that nearly divorced demon from vessel entirely. How utterly darling he looked now, cosy in what was his version of homewear, corn silk curls fluffy and soft. 

“Oh?” Crowley gave the air a sniff, nodding in contentment. “I thought I smelled something sweet.” 

At that admission, Aziraphale’s cheeks pinkened lightly. How he wished that was about him, about how he smelled sweet and like home, about how Crowley yearned to leap into his arms and bury his nose in the plush crook of his neck. He shook his head, scolding himself silently for his lovesick foolishness, nodding as he made his way past his standing companion, picking up his luggage with one firm movement, making his way towards the spiral steps.

“I have much to show you. But let's get you settled first.” said Aziraphale as he peaked back at his guest. Crowley nodded, following obediently as he so often had in the past. The curve of the steps felt different somehow, like the angles and turns knew the heft of a shared life, understood just how ardently they had wished this possible for so long, how incredulous they were that such seemed conceivable now. Aziraphale was here , and though he felt still horribly far, something in his affect betrayed the possibility of proximity, of development. One could not be chastised for finding hope in the lines of his face, in the gleaming brightness of his smile, in the softness of curves under cotton and wool.

“This is the room.” advertised Aziraphale sheepishly, standing now just past the door, gesturing towards the small space with a meek smile. It wasn’t much, but he had made sure it had all the comforts he knew Crowley would seek. The bed was clean and made, covered in a warm duvet and blankets, lest the serpent catch a chill, the books had been almost entirely confined to a corner, rather than spread over every available surface, and there was a black satin sleep mask resting upon one of the pillows.

Crowley stepped in, tentative, having never really seen the inside of the angel’s bedroom before. It was just as he expected, all yellow walls and frilly sheets, but it felt homely in a way his own space never did. It was so completely Aziraphale that it nearly brought his blood to a boil, consumed him with a fervent fondness he could hardly contain.

“It’s nice.” muttered Crowley, irked by his own incapability to form coherent thoughts, stepping in and inspecting his surroundings. He approached the bed with a few ample steps, captivated by the object upon the pillow, picking it up with a long index and thumb, turning to present it to Aziraphale. “Who’s this for?”

Aziraphale tutted.

“You. Black is not my colour.” 

“What for?” a dark eyebrow was raised.

“Well, you see, in the evening I do so enjoy reading under the covers, now that the weather is still a bit chilly, and I figured perhaps the light of the lamp might be disturbing, so I acquired this for you. Might be convenient in keeping it dark whilst you are attempting to sleep.” explained Aziraphale with a dollop of bashfulness in his voice, a tight smile on his lips.

Crowley paused for a moment. 

“Are we going to lay here at the same time?”

Chapter Text

That question hung in the air for a moment too long, thick and heavy, the warmth of it rising directly to Aziraphale’s cheeks in a visible, crimson flush, the words he wished he could utter trapped in his throat, suffocating him, his mouth making nothing but pointless, sputtering sounds.

“Oh, no, I mean, surely not. That would hardly be appropriate.” corrected Aziraphale once he got a hold of his own vocal chords, running his palms down his belly, fidgeting with his attire and tidying his waistcoat, a habit born nervousness he had picked up longer ago than he could care to remember. “There is the other room, you see, you are welcome to it, although it is not prepared, though I can go and make it suitable. It may not be as comfortable as this one, the bed is awfully small, but you are quite lean, I am sure you would fit just fine. However, I would much prefer you staying here, I am sure you will be more comfortable–”

“Angel.” interrupted Crowley, raising his hands in front of his chest, making a motion recognisable as an attempt to put a stop to Aziraphale’s bashful ramblings. “It’s fine. For one thing, appropriate is not a word I’d care much to associate myself with. Secondly, I’ll stay here." he gestured towards the bed. "Anywhere is better than the bloody car.” continued he, shrugging, tossing the sleep mask haphazardly onto the mattress, his affect concealing the uproar of tenderness in his chest. Nonchalant as he prized himself to be, a façade carefully curated over the millennia, there was no amount of feigned insouciance that could bring down the thrill and excitement the very thought of laying beside Aziraphale sparked. 

Aziraphale stood silently, nodding, fidgeting with the edge of his old waistcoat. They looked at each other for a moment, Crowley’s honey-gold irises inspecting the Principality over the top of his glasses with a mix of amusement and curiosity, before his lips curved into a small, mischievous grin.

“Lean, huh.” echoed Crowley, sitting down upon the edge of the bed, raising his eyebrows, his expression one of dancing deviancy and fondness, tapping his lengthy digits upon the denim of his jeans.

Aziraphale tutted, endeavouring, though in vain, to look irritated, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Oh, do be quiet, you devil.” the angel held his own hands in front of his torso, striving to be as prim and decorous as he could muster despite the weight of his embarrassment. “Could I tempt you into a nice cup of tea?” 

Crowley’s nose scrunched, and he leaned back on his hands, using them to support his torso against the suppleness of the mattress.

“Tea? No. Offer some whiskey though, and you might successfully complete your first temptation on me.” 

“First?” retorted Aziraphale as a smile danced on his lips and he turned to make his exit out of what now felt like a room too small for the two of them to coexist in. “I do believe you are sadly miscounting.” he smiled and started walking, leaving a trail of playfulness and cologne behind for the demon to pursue.

Crowley jumped up, following the angel as he took his leave, that dollop of confidence in his expression an irresistible thing he found so utterly enticing. Crowley did always enjoy Aziraphale’s smug and confident side, though it infuriated him beyond belief whenever it chose to make its seldom appearance. Something about how he could muster the wisdom of his years and mix it with a tone he could only hope was flirtation a dazzling cocktail he was not hardy enough to resist.

Once in the kitchen of the small flat above the shop, the cabinets dark wood and the walls a familiar yellow, the piles of books having seeped into even this room, Aziraphale set to start brewing up some tea, always enjoying the humanity of the ritual rather than snapping his fingers to a hot beverage in his hand. Crowley leaned against the doorframe, attentive, his sunglasses still perched upon his crooked nose, his mind foggy with the stark contrast between the lonesomeness of his vehicle-bound existence and the unbelievable domesticity of being around Aziraphale.

“Such a dreadful thing.” spoke Aziraphale in a tone that betrayed his heartbreak towards the situation, the endless angelic empathy a blessing and a curse at a time like this. Times of pestilence were always particularly hard, he thought, as the devastation entangled with the fear and hopelessness permeated every human act. 

“They’re dropping like flies. Eesh.” agreed Crowley, crossing his arms, a bit of disdain in his voice. “Hell didn’t have anything to do with it either. They’re not clever enough to come up with something like this. All humans, this. Can’t be bothered to wear a bloody mask.” 

“They are awfully frightened.” concluded Aziraphale with a sorrowful expression, before picking up the angel-wing mug he kept ever so pristine, now filled with a most deliciously steaming, warming, amber liquid. “Want to pop downstairs, for a drink?” the angel offered, turning back to his companion, leaning lightly against the kitchen cupboards. 

And how could Crowley ever say no, when those greenish-blue eyes of infinite affection regarded him so, glistening under the yellowish light of the lamp dangling from the ceiling, more beautiful and darling than any constellation or nebula he had ever dreamt of creating, his fairy-floss curls reflecting the illumination and giving him a most angelic halo.

And so of course, as they had many times before, they descended those spiral steps and arrived to the main chamber of the shop, Aziraphale sitting comfortably at his ornate armchair, which had eavesdropped on more drunken conversations than any other object upon this Earth, and Crowley lounging himself on the length of the sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Aziraphale couldn’t help but to behold him, to take in the endless beauty he had missed over the last months of isolation, how the range of his legs seemed to go on forever, how the red of his hair looked so charming under dim light, how the curve of his throat sang a song he wanted so badly to heed. Alas, he said nothing about his longing, sipping at his tea instead and exchanging words of conversation that hardly scratched the surface of his affections.

“‘s nice here, angel. Much better than the car, I can stretch my damned legs.” thanked Crowley, stretching his corporation further with a groan, seeming so satisfied at the freedom of having a home.

“You can stay here as long as you like.” said Aziraphale with a smile, and he meant it, too. Crowley knew he did, and he knew how fantastically special it was to be invited into his space. 

“Cheers.” responded the demon with a raise of his glass, eyebrows raising over the rim of his spectacles.

“You may thank me by removing those glasses, Crowley.” Aziraphale reached for his pocket, pulling out his pocket watch to verify it was, indeed, about one o’clock. “I hardly expect humans to come peering into windows or barging in with pitchforks. And the sun will not be out for at least some four-odd hours.” 

Crowley obeyed, as he did so often when Aziraphale spoke to him with that disciplinary affect, plucking the accessory from his face and tossing it onto the disarrayed desk, giving him a look that teased are you happy now without so much as needing to form a single word.

“If people do come in with pitchforks angel, you’re the one to blame. Deal with that mess on your own.” said Crowley then, serious yet not meaning it at all, taking a long draught of his burning drink.

“As if you’d ever leave me to handle any mess on my own.” confessed Aziraphale, striving to sound less touched by that fact than he very truly was, bringing his refreshment to his lips. That was one of the very things he loved most about Crowley, the knowledge he would step into hellfire and bathe in holy water for him, to protect him, to help him, damned be anything else, that he would walk the ages of the world alone if it meant in the end he’d find Aziraphale waiting for him. And Lord, did he love him so.

“Yeah. I’d blow this whole planet to bits for you. But you know that.” suddenly, his pale complexion dusted pink, the warmth of his flesh framing his lovely freckles and spotlighting them as they deserve, leaving one angel enthralled by the view, nearly dropping to his knees in reverence, wishing each had been left behind by one of his loving kisses. How Aziraphale wanted to believe that blush arose from fondness and not drink, how he wished he could be so brave as to speak everything he’d collected in his soul for centuries, how he craved to feel that cool hand against his now, the glass obsolete in turn of divine fingers.

“I do.” was all he said, and yet, two syllables held the weight of six thousand years of love, and deep down, Crowley knew it too.

Chapter Text

“Darling?” called a deep and soft voice from the lit hallway, the clarity seeping in and consuming the darkness of the chamber in its wake. The angel received nothing if not light snores, a sound he had gotten used to the past week or two of cohabitation. 

Crowley liked to sleep, this much Aziraphale had always known, and though he would justify his slumber as proper engagement in demonic sin, a healthy succumbing to Sloth, as it were, there was something inside his chest that felt more like safety. Crowley felt safe in the bookshop, he always had, though the space was shaped after Aziraphale and not he; something about yellow lights, old, peeling sofas with a bony shape moulded to their middle, piles of dusty books prized as though they were bars of gold, and now, frilly embroidered sheets brought with them a sense of tranquillity and security. It was, however, not the beautiful amalgamation of those things that brought with them the strongest sense of assurance. Not even the aroma of baked goods whenever the angel milled about in his kitchen, or the little memos left in pristine handwriting wherever Crowley could find them. It was that scent of bergamot cologne and old books, the bounce of fairy-floss curls that reflected the lamplight, the stoutness of fingers brushing his whenever he was handed a warm cup of tea in the afternoons. 

Having received no retort to his calling, Aziraphale stepped in, taking a gander at his pocket watch and noting it was still rather early, about five o’clock. Perhaps he was too eager to chat his companion up, to show him the biscuits he had just spent the better part of two hours decorating, knowing he’d receive a nonchalant word of encouragement that would just about set his soul on fire. Poor old thing, Aziraphale thought to himself, not having the heart to insist on rousing him, after taking in how utterly lovely he looked. The black silk mask covered the endless beauty of his long dark lashes, but the rest of his face remained visible, almost angelic in how perfect it was. His lips parted slightly as he snored, the v-shaped neckline of his pyjama top teasing just a smidgen of dark hairs against the alabaster of his skin, his limbs spread about as though they had no bones. It was an endearing sight, as it had been the seldom few times Aziraphale had witnessed it, and a familiar idea crept into his mind as he observed it.

What if he was just to lay next to him?

Not in a perverse way, of course, and surely not in a way that would cause disturbances to what otherwise amounted to an extraordinary sleep. But maybe, just maybe, he could sneak onto the mattress, make the shift of his weight imperceptible as he did so, and he could enjoy the warmth radiating off of Crowley from mere centimetres away, and he could read a book and maybe feel like the world wasn’t that lonesome after all.

This time, he did. He gave in to the intrusive nature of his yearning and he stepped forward, the door creaking to a close behind him. A book had materialised in his hand, a good excuse to lounge in one’s bed that would be explainable, and as Aziraphale’s manicured nails dug lightly into its threadbare cover, he stepped closer and closer, until the mattress hit the front of his thighs. Crowley grumbled, perhaps lost in dream or perhaps his ophidian senses had felt the vibrations in the air and knew someone was near, but he didn’t stir further or awaken, instead smacking dryly before resuming the rhythmic harmony of slow breaths. Encouraged, Aziraphale took his time climbing onto the bed, equipped with the stealth of a proboscidean in a fine china store, relieved when Crowley did not move.

But Crowley was now very much awake indeed. He had sensed Aziraphale’s presence when he had approached him, because though he was a domesticated demon now, he was still very conscious of being approached when vulnerable, a self-preservation habit collected over millennia that was awfully hard to kick. Despite that, he did not move; he stayed perfectly still, lest the angel spook as he had so many times before when Crowley endeavoured to make a move. He felt the weight of Aziraphale’s corporation settle onto the mattress, the slight shift in the air that his cells sung to whenever he was around, that smell of bergamot and parchment and biscuits, an intoxicating mix that kept him so very awake. He heard the rustling of paper as Aziraphale’s fingers brushed every page, the susurration of cashmere rubbing against itself as he adjusted his legs in place, and just those sounds made every hair on his body stand to attention. His arm hung stretched by his side, and he could practically feel Aziraphale but a few millimetres away; if he were to just stretch his fingers, to unfurl them like blooming flowers, he could touch that leg, feel it's forgiving suppleness, but he didn’t; he couldn’t, but just the thought of it was maddening enough.

Aziraphale turned the bedside table lamp on, its antique shade dampening the light and making it oh so very cosy, and he strove to read. He tried, he really did, but he fumbled miserably, feeling awfully distracted, and perhaps it wasn’t all because of the low light, or the fact he had left his spectacles on his desk downstairs... Perhaps it was more the fact that Crowley was near, and sleeping, and peaceful, and so utterly gorgeous, and his hand was so close he could practically taste the smokiness of his flesh, and he craved so badly to hold it, to bring it to his lips and cover it in kisses, to whisper against the skin the centuries of love held deeply inside his chest. But he didn’t. Instead, he let his own hand hang limp beside his body, nestled just against the demon’s, close enough to satisfy some of the impatient hunger but distant enough to be nothing of consequence at all.

Crowley could barely contain the sharp intake of breath when he felt the angel’s hand graze his, how the soft, delicate hairs on it felt against his skin, covering him in gooseflesh. He pretended to be asleep still, a performance worthy of an Oscar as far as he was concerned, and he shifted just a tad, just enough that Aziraphale would be none the wiser to his consciousness while the back of his digits pressed further into his. They had touched hands before, the occasional handshake, the fleeting touch here and there, when their fingers lingered just a moment too long. But they never held hands, not really. Not properly. Not like they wanted to.

Time ticked by so very slowly, Crowley’s blood roaring in his ears as he could barely hear himself think, and Aziraphale’s hand did not shy away from the touch. In fact, it leaned all the way in, one strong index now moving in listless circles as it caressed the back of Crowley’s very own. How pathetic it was, Crowley thought, to be utterly surrendered after such a meaningless touch. But it wasn’t meaningless, not at all, because it told him all Aziraphale couldn’t, it confessed that the nature of his fondness was requited, that this wasn’t just some sort of bizarre, long lasting friendship ending in cohabitation, but it was, and had always been, love.

After a while, Crowley didn’t want to pretend to sleep anymore, and he wanted to let Aziraphale know, in whatever emotionally stunted and not at all verbal way he could, that he felt it too.

“Aziraphale?” called out the demon in a gruff and sleepy voice, feigning the act of waking, writhing slightly in place as he did so, his hand never once breaking contact.

“Oh, I’m here darling, did I wake you?” Aziraphale’s voice was very soft, very gentle, and though he felt his cheeks be set alight with a blush at being caught on the bed, he kept his eyes focused on the words upon yellowed pages as to not give away his abashment, and he did not move his hand.

“No.” lied Crowley, the pet name twisting his stomach into knots as it always did, even now that Aziraphale used it more often, lifting his free hand to pull the mask off his blinking amber eyes. “What are you doing?” his irises observed Aziraphale keenly for a brief moment, blinking lazily before he slumped back into his pillow, settling for observing the cream ceiling.

“Just a bit of reading.” lied Aziraphale, who had hardly managed to read more than a paragraph.

“Right.” responded Crowley, and the room fell silent again. Aziraphale was preoccupied for a moment that the demon would be offended, perhaps that he’d feel intruded upon, and he began thinking of what to say, how to dig himself out of whatever hole he’d sunk into this time. But as his lips parted and his throat unclenched to attempt to form words, a long, bony pinkie reached out, snaked itself around his, and squeezed gently as it did so. 

And suddenly, the silence was filled by the inaudible weight of the unspoken admission.

Chapter Text

As the days trickled on, the tentative-but-definitely-there lingering touches of fingers scraping by the back of lonesome hands remained, with the occasional enthralling interlocking of fingers, one or two at the time, snaking themselves around each other like the flesh was magnetised and they couldn’t resist the pull. Which was all very lovely, a decided, undoubtedly romantic progression from the usual arms-length friendship they’d held over the millennia. An arms-length that always felt so horribly, painfully distant. Aziraphale would bake biscuits and scones and lap them up like something out of a demon’s mind most sordid alleys, the reddish marmalade tainting the corners of his lips and just begging Crowley to erase it with his tongue, would let his knuckles leave a whisper of a touch on his bicep when he handed him his daily doses of caffeine. 

And Crowley was very thankful, very glad the angel did not spook, very content with the shared domesticity forced upon them by a world that seemed to crumble around the edges. It was just as Crowley had always dreamed, just the two of them, no distractions or intrusions, a bubble of their own to coexist in, to let their guard down after centuries of distress…

And he was also terribly, desperately impatient.

Not that he didn’t enjoy the fleeting touches and little moves Aziraphale was undeniably laying on him, mind. He reckoned his enjoyment was entirely the source of the issue. You go too fast for me, Crowley were words that still rang fresh in his mind, seared into his grey matter like some sort of cruel brand. Perhaps this was the angel’s idea of romance; of a proper, human relationship. He didn’t seem the kind to ever have been interested in mortal fraternisation outside of his dusty books, always preferring to be a fascinated intruder in the world of people rather than an active participant, unless one was speaking of food or music. A hedonist at heart, but one so crushingly aware of his nature and the motive for his Creation that he seemed always too buttoned up to properly let go. At least around Crowley. 

Crowley shuddered at the vision that popped in his mind as he lounged languidly on the familiar settee. Aziraphale’s halo of corn-silk curls tousled, spreading around his flushed face as some man crawled all over him, made him huff and sigh in contentment, wrapped his arms around the plushness of a rounded waist. All of a sudden, he felt an uncomfortable, aching sort of nausea. He had wondered before, if Aziraphale had ever dipped his cherubic toes into the pool of romance. Part of him wanted to believe he hadn’t, he couldn’t possibly, not prim and prudish Aziraphale. But the other, darker, bedevilled bits of him told him to observe how comfortable he was on Earth, how humans felt drawn to his gleaming charm and friendly demeanour, how he licked the spoon clean after every bite of Victoria sponge… 

If he were human, he would have definitely been heaving over a toilet bowl right about now. Good thing he wasn’t, but the knot in his stomach wasn’t any less painful for it. He sprung up from his reclined position, shaking his head as if to shoo the thoughts entirely, to keep their tendrils from seeping in and doing a number on his temper for the rest of the day, make him so impossibly grouchy and unbearable to be around Aziraphale would most certainly be pushed into the embrace of some poor sod who would have the most terrible experience in the afterlife for it. 

But the impatience was all too familiar to him, all too demonic, too natural. It permeated his cells and left a ringing in his ears that was growing hard to ignore. He couldn’t help but want to cling to the angel’s lapel and snog him good and proper, until he never even dreamed of looking in another person’s direction ever again. But that wouldn’t do, and would probably cause some tension that would be awfully difficult to unravel in the gaps of this shared life. Or maybe Aziraphale would simply snap his way out of the feel of his lips and go get gruesomely discorporated in another galaxy. Either way, not exactly the end result Crowley was aiming for.

If only he knew how utterly, completely, all-encompassingly mistaken he was.

With a miserable blow of raspberries, he strutted his way to the kitchen atop the bookshop, where a familiar sort of milling about was echoing from, the clang of pots and pans and the faint humming of a deep voice trickling down the steps and enticing Crowley’s attention. 

“Angel,” called Crowley as he pushed the door open with his foot, the wood moaning wounded with the disrespect of his entrance.

Aziraphale beamed at him, the look of him in a cream, frilly apron with round spectacles perched at the tip of his nose, a faint dusting of flour on porcelain skin, bubbling up inside Crowley’s chest. 

“Oh, there you are, darling. Fancy a cup of tea?” offered Aziraphale with a tight upturn of his lips, pointing towards the still steaming kettle with his eyebrows as he hugged a white bowl he whisked briskly.

Crowley waved a hand dismissively.

“I have a question.” 

The depth of the demon’s tone brought a knit to Aziraphale’s brow. Whatever was about to come through those bewitching lips of his, the angel knew he most definitely wouldn’t like it. He placed the bowl down on the wooden counter, his movements stiff and painfully slow, his gaze fixated on the silhouette of black standing under the threshold.

“Okay, do go on with it, then.” he wished he could stop time just now, keep it frozen in the bliss of their proximity, not blemished by whatever concern gnawed at Crowley’s heart, running his palms on the cotton of his apron. A bit of a nervous reflex, if he was honest.

“Okay. Here it goes.” commenced Crowley, placing his hands upon the pointy bones of his hips, looking around the small room with a swallow. “You, humans. Have you ever..?” a wiggle of his index clued Aziraphale into his meaning.

Aziraphale looked properly scandalised.

“You can’t possibly mean” his mouth was agape as his cheeks coloured red in a mix of bashfulness and disbelief, his fists clenching lightly at the side of his hips. The mere suggestion was an insult, both to his character and to the profound love he had nurtured for his companion for far too long. 

“You’ve been on this Earth a long time.”

“Need I remind you, as have you. And out of the two of us, I’d wager you would be the most likely to have had some sort of… dalliance.” Aziraphale huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“What, me?” asked Crowley with a lift of eyebrows. “Why would you ever think that?”

Aziraphale tutted, helplessly gesturing at the demon up and down.

“I mean, look at you. I must look a fright to humans, but you? Positively dashing. Not to mention, demon.”

The descriptor almost sounded like an accusation. Perhaps now would have been a good time to tune into the heavenly, benevolent side of his, to diffuse this situation that gently rose to proper bombasticity by being calm and civil. But the proximity of the reason why his heart thumped pathetically at his sternum on a daily basis, coupled with the sheer outrage Crowley’s implication, was enough to fray even the strongest of nerves.

“I did no such thing. They don’t interest me.” Crowley vehemently shook his head, a deep wrinkle between his brows signalling to his dismay. Did he truly think himself unappealing? How could he not see how people crowded him like ants to sugar water, how they salivated in expectation of him... Or maybe that was all Crowley. Either way, the point remained.

“Oh, yet another thing to add to the vast list of things that don’t seem to capture your interest.” Aziraphale looked away with an indignant turn of his head, lips pouting and a heated pink oozing down his collar.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” the demon ogled the Principality keenly, head serpentine on his neck as he attempted to catch his gaze. 

“You must know.” Aziraphale was defeated now, the tension around his shoulders melting into a sag. He tentatively let his eyes meet the scrutiny of slit pupils and sighed, bringing a palm to rub at his expression. 

After a pregnant pause, which indicated Crowley most definitely did not know, he continued.

“I’ve been trying so hard to get close to you. To share my… affections with you. And you seem about as disinterested as you could be. It’s– well, it’s humiliating.” 

Crowley seemed so perplexed, like he was positive he had died and now was dead, properly dead, and this was some sort of cruel scheme concocted by the Dark Council to torture him, because there was no way this was a real, tangible conversation they were having. The rich ocean-blue of angelic irises seemed to glisten, to catch the warm glow of light as they moistened, how the reddening of soft skin made them all the more prominent. Crowley felt his heart dip below his stomach, bringing a hand to his nape as he grabbed the flesh there, fixating the linoleum floors, for the first time in his long, ancient life feeling like there were no words to be formed in his throat.

“All I can say,” said he after a long silence, voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper. “Is that I can’t believe someone so perceptive can be so completely bloody blind.”

Chapter Text

Quarrels between the pair had never been easy to either, often leaving a taste of rot in their mouths they hardly knew how to shake. But like the Moon loves the Earth, then so did they, cursed to orbit around each other for all eternity, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to exist in distance, in cold bereftness. Had been that way since the Garden, since a Principality had given away his sword in a bout of righteous disobedience, since the serpent had stood to be the most beautiful being Aziraphale had ever seen. But now, under the prospect of cohabitation, of being made to, not entirely against their will, mind, to live under the same roof, disagreements seemed to leave behind an even deeper sense of disquiet.

Aziraphale had watched Crowley grumble and make his way out of the kitchen with haste, shoving his sunglasses over his face in annoyance as the angel had all but run him out of the space with a broom, and he heard as the bell above the shop’s entrance yelped with surprise as he opened the door with force. Where would he go? There was not really anywhere to go, not these days, not when pestilence hung around the air like a dark cloud, like a miasma that brought out the worst of Mankind and kept everyone cooped up behind the safety of their walls. Worry crept up Aziraphale’s chest as he observed the space Crowley’s languid silhouette had occupied just seconds before, nibbling at the flesh of his lower lip, his brows knitting with a revolting mix of concern and regret. Why did he have to say that? To put his feelings out in the open, vulnerable to scrutiny, to make himself sound like a desperate and pathetic man ever so in love? 

After that first night that that bony finger swirled around his, Aziraphale was sure he couldn’t be alone in his fondness, that Crowley must have felt it too. And after that, they had done it a handful of times. And Aziraphale had tried to come closer, to take minute steps towards proximity, towards romance. But it all seemed to be met with such… indifference. He reckoned that hurt more than plain rejection would have. Did Crowley feel perfectly satisfied with simple interlocking of fingers, with shared brews over morning chats? Or did he simply not see how ardently Aziraphale tried to reach out? It was possible the angel was longing for something that he had no hopes of obtaining, not unlike he had been for the past six millennia. He let out a wistful sigh, shaking his head lightly before turning back to his bowl, whisking its contents as his mind wandered. 

Meanwhile, Crowley had crossed the street and barged into his vehicle, hitting the steering wheel a couple times with his palm between a string of frustrated curses. The streets were vacant where once bustling human activity had been. No sign of life, just grey skies and humid pavement. It was strangely peaceful. Crowley always liked the fervour of Earth, the constant movement and rush, the inexorably dizzying flow of life, since the Beginning, with a short pause in the fourteenth century – that time be damned. When he was confined to his Bentley, it always seemed so dreary. But now it was blanketing him in a feeling of calm and serenity. There was no one around to witness his anger, to perceive him. He could just… be.

And he was, for a moment, before glancing up to the building he had just exited. The light shone out of the window, yellow and warm, singing to him, beckoning him back to a space he knew had comfort and Aziraphale. 

He dropped his forehead on the wheel of the car with a sigh.

“Tosser.” mumbled the demon to himself, tapping his foot impatiently.

How could Aziraphale not see? How could he overlook how desperately Crowley craved for his touch, for his love? Sure, maybe he hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with his intentions, by fear of absolute scandal and cold repulse. By fear of you go too fast for me, Crowley and centuries of silence. But scandal he got anyway, with his lovely stunt of asking an angel whether they’d ever gotten intimate with a person before. 

Fantastic move, Crowley, real good job he thought to himself. 

But was it so difficult to realise that question came not from judgement, but from deep seeded jealousy and envy, from a profound desire to be the only being who ever got to appreciate Aziraphale that way?

He sat in his car for Satan knows how long, until the skies darkened and the sun threatened to dip below the horizons, to hide behind buildings to welcome the arrival of his lover. 

Aziraphale, for his own, paced helplessly around the top floor of the bookshop as blueberry muffins rose in the oven, wiggling his fingers by his head as he muttered to himself, endlessly frenzied about the prospect of having blown this whole living arrangement to bits. It felt different to bicker with Crowley now; now that there wasn’t the excuse of Heaven, of sides, it felt all entirely too personal. What if he got the wrong impression he wasn’t loved? Endlessly admired? 

That wouldn’t do.

After a while, he couldn’t handle the effervescence in his bones anymore. He had to go to Crowley, to speak, to finally use this mouth he was given to make sense of their relationship, of his intentions. He knew Crowley was around, too. He could feel it in his cells, he could sense the lingering electricity he left behind wherever he was, the disarray of air particles around his corporation that Aziraphale could all but taste. How deliciously addicting it was.

He raced down the steps, his heart thumping miserably against his sternum. His stout fingers reached for the golden doorknob, they twisted, they pulled the door open and–

Crowley stood there, eyebrows raising at the sudden disappearance of a door that he could swear was just there, his hand still hanging in the ether in front of his body, where it was about to grasp the handle to make his way inside, his lips ajar with bewilderment.

“Oh,” exclaimed Aziraphale with a little step back, surprised, placing his hand over his chest.

“Angel.”

“You gave me quite the fright.” admitted Aziraphale with a sigh, taking a bit of a sideways step to signal he was giving Crowley permission to breach the threshold. And Crowley did. “I was about to call for you,”

“Listen, it's best I do all the talking now, and you stay quiet, or else this is never coming out and none of this will work out.” Crowley seemed distraught, waving a finger about to emphasise what exactly wouldn’t work out, hinting towards their living situation, as he reached the core of the shop just near Aziraphale’s desk, twirling on his heels to face him. 

Aziraphale nodded tentatively, approaching, fidgeting with the edge of his waistcoat.

“Right.” Crowley sighed and placed his hands upon his hips, looking at the glimmering snakeskin of his boots. “So, you say I’m disinterested. I say, personally, that you are an idiot. A proper fool of biblical proportions.”

Aziraphale knitted his brow, feeling a concoction of hurt and confusion. 

“I am not sure I understand.”

“You don’t, that’s the problem. I could have held a bright big neon sign above my head saying I’m interested, I’ve been interested for six thousand bloody years and you still wouldn’t have seen it.” Crowley gestured about, his patience clearly frayed, his cheeks colouring red with his abashment and frustration.

The angel winced. It hurt him, almost in a physical sense, to hear those words.

“You can’t possibly mean–”

“No I can. I am. I don’t understand you, angel. Before, Heaven, Hell, I get it. I was terrified too. I looked into that smug bastard Gabriel’s eyes and heard him tell who he thought was you to die. How do you think that makes me feel? That you ought to have died because of me?”

Aziraphale raised his hands above his chest and took a step forward, devouring a few more centimetres between them.

“You? Because of you? As if I couldn’t have stopped you, had I wished. You judge me for a helpless fool, Crowley, but you are mistaken. You never forced me to fraternise with you. It was my choice.”

“And you lost Heaven because of it.” 

The silence extended for long enough to be unnerving. Aziraphale got closer, beheld the chasms of Crowley’s forehead wrinkles with affection, the kink between his eyebrows as concern twisted his marvellous features. He tentatively raised his hands, placing them gently upon the demon’s chest. He could feel how the taut muscles underneath tensed, like Crowley’s entire body froze in place at the unexpected contact. Aziraphale could feel the piercing, disbelieving gaze of slit pupils from behind the darkness of those spectacles, despite observing nothing but a mellowed angel on their reflection. 

“I am an angel. I have duty. And… I trust the Almighty. And She made me into someone who is drawn to you. And I am starting to think that is the bit that is ineffable. She doesn’t make mistakes, not really, and if She chose me to care for you, then that is an honour I do not take lightly.”

Chapter Text

Pestilence. It had permeated every aspect of life and brought the world to a halt. Worse than the other, many times Aziraphale and Crowley had watched an infirmity decimate a population, in fact, perhaps because of how connected the world was these days, or perhaps because information was oozing from everyone’s fingertips and yet they seemed all the more blind for it. 

And yet, none of it seemed to matter.

It was a horrid thing to admit, to angel and demon alike. How desensitised they had become to the horrors just around the corner, how focused they had been in their own endeavours, apparently none the wiser to the emptiness of streets and the despair in every news broadcast. They didn’t even keep up with the news, not really. Aziraphale had decided long ago it was all too dreary, preferring instead to bask in the melodies emanating from the old gramophone. 

Crowley, for his own, did spend some time on his cellular device, on social media most of all, endlessly fascinated by the disconcerting direction human behaviour seemed to take. Not that he had anyone to share those observations with; Aziraphale would politely listen to him ramble about this and that, nursing a steaming cup of tea, seated primly on the old leather sofa by the desk, eyes focused on the globe he’d kept since the late eighteenth century as words he did not comprehend filled his ears. He’d end the cascade of words with an oh dear, how dreadful, you really ought to spend less time on that thing, and they’d discuss something else instead, and it was all repulsively domestic and so very lovely.

And as much as it felt alien to admit, they were happy.

Perfectly, completely, utterly happy.

Except for the evident, looming chasm between them, a rift of biblical proportions that separated them, that kept them on different sides, shouting helplessly over the abyss and longing to grow wings to fly to each other. It had been there for six thousand years, and over the last decades, it had grown ever so smaller, almost imperceptibly so, leaving the pair clinging to a devastating sense of hope. It is God’s cruellest emotion, hope; it can build you up only to rip you apart, leaving you clutching the guts pouring from your wounds with no expectation to survive. 

But now, it didn’t feel like hope anymore. No, now it felt much more like reality. The way the angel’s ocean-grey eyes glimmered under dim light of warm bookshop lights, how the lines on the ancient visage Crowley had loved for seventy-five generations of people softened when he spoke of his affections, when he said something about the Almighty and duty that Crowley was far too dizzy to understand. 

“Angel, stop.” said Crowley in a croak, lifting his hand to pinch the crooked bridge of his nose, his voice cracking as his brain struggled to keep up with the tightening at his chest. “Please. Please stop.”

And Aziraphale did. 

He couldn’t go on, not when Crowley’s brewing tears were audible in his voice, not when his elegant shoulders sagged and gave him this appearance of a man broken beyond repair. So Aziraphale simply sighed, looked at his own Balmoral boots, drummed his fingers on the familiar velveteen of his waistcoat.

And the silence stretched on for a bit, long enough to unnerve, until Crowley didn’t have it within it to sustain it.

“Look,” he started with a sigh, long fingers wrapping around his hip bones as ophidian pupils focused on the image of the Principality standing there, eyes moist for him, for a demon he held such fondness for, apples of the cheeks pinked with emotion, a knit between pale eyebrows that was ever so familiar. It had Crowley’s heart somersaulting in his chest. “I don’t know what I ought to say. Every time I think I’ve got the words I fuck it up somehow. But we’ve always relied on each other. I’ve always trusted you, and you’ve always trusted me. And that’s an important thing, right?” 

Aziraphale took a step, letting the question hang in the air around them, expression impervious, reaching his hands to Crowley’s glasses. He removed them from the demon’s face with such gentleness, such grace, his knuckles scraping ever so slightly against the freckled skin and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. He folded the frames and placed them carefully upon the nearest surface, handling them as the shield they were, feeling their weight between his hands and knowing just how much they meant. 

Aziraphale stepped back to his original position, inspecting momentarily the twisted expression on Crowley’s face, the wrinkles between his brows that betrayed his concern, the deep seethed fear of rejection cultivated over millennia of being kept at a distance, how his arms now laid limp by his thin silhouette.

“Crowley,” the word trickled off pink lips like a prayer, like a reverent utterance of someone who associates that name to all the beautiful things in the Universe. “I have trusted you, since the moment you created all the stars in the sky.” Aziraphale offered a tight smile. “I haven’t trusted myself, however, not really. Every time I have allowed you to come close, I have repudiated you and found a way to cause you pain. And it is ever so unfair. You have been so brave my dear. You are the bravest person I know.” A rogue tear slid listlessly down a cherubic cheek.

Crowley blinked, unable to digest the words thrown in his direction. He lifted his right hand tentatively, trembling, almost bringing it back down a couple times, watching Aziraphale intently, desperately seeking any sign of withdrawing or repulse.

It never came.

So the back of his index and middle fingers grazed the wetness on that porcelain skin, the warmth of it contrasting with the coolness of his fingers. Aziraphale closed his eyes, nuzzling his head towards the contact, the whiteness of the flesh staining red as he did so. Crowley hardly breathed, not that he needed to, anyway, but somehow he felt crushingly out of breath.

“My darling, I do not believe you will never understand just how much I love you.” Aziraphale’s words were a mere whisper, almost as though he was still clinging to a lingering paranoia that someone beyond the protection of these four walls would hear them. The angel always expected those words would feel heavy on his tongue, that they would bring a sense of dread and fright, but they didn’t; they felt natural, like they were meant to be spoken, like the Almighty Herself blessed them and put them on Aziraphale’s lips. 

For Crowley, however, they felt like a dam bursting on his face, like he was drowning under the pressure of the roaring water, like he would fall to his knees and crumble. But he didn’t. He closed his eyes, his breath hitching, and his fingers unfurled like blooms, the palm of his hand cupping Aziraphale’s cheek like they were made to do just that.

And Aziraphale hummed, a low, deep noise brought on from his chest, contentment filling his corporation. He felt so light now, like he was floating around the cosmos, like his wings stretched out against the sun as he flew, watching the Earth turn under him. And that hum turned into a sound of appreciation ordinarily saved for exquisite meals and vintage red wine when lips clashed against his, wet and tasting of salt as Crowley’s own tears came free and streamed down his face. And it was lovely, it was all wetness and desperation, all imperfection and inexperience, and it lasted longer than it should, and neither of them wished for it to be any different.

And when the illness was gone and life resumed, Crowley never left, and Aziraphale never told him to. Their evenings remained lovely and repulsively domestic, talking about nothing and everything at all, between sips of hot beverages and wine and Scottish whisky, punctuated by reading in bed and some more of those extraordinary, unsophisticated kisses.