Chapter Text
INT. BOOKSHOP - DAY
A. Z. Fell’s bookshop is historically unique from its commercial brethren on Whickber Street; it is one of the only businesses to be open practically seven days a week. Occasionally, a holiday or an event will close it down for a half day, perhaps a full; but the locals have come to know it as a rain-or-shine certainty. Today is a rare day, one where the bookshop is closed.
Aziraphale hurries in through the front door, snapping it quickly shut behind him. Winter in London is not marked by the solstice, which is still a few weeks off; no, it’s marked by the first frost, which hit several weeks ago and has come and gone at its leisure ever since. As far as winter-like days go, this has been a mild one; but the sun has started setting in the late afternoon, bringing enough chill in the air that Aziraphale doesn’t care to spend any more time in it than necessary without good reason, nor does he care to let the cold in. The bookshop tends to keep rather well insulated, having been built in an age of brick and stone, before the prefab boom of a post-World War II England. Although not currently lit of course (Aziraphale has been out for a few hours), a fireplace at the far end of the shop keeps the place quite cozy in the winter, and Aziraphale does what he can to keep the heat shut in as long as possible.
He sheds his winter clothes — first the earmuffs, then the scarf, then the mittens (and yes, he is quite overdressed for the 12°C weather by most Londoners’ standards) and finally the coat, which he hangs on the rack by the door, stuffing the accessories into its pockets. He checks his gold pocketwatch; just under an hour or so until his Call with Crowley begins, and even though he has nothing to prepare, frankly, he feels so underprepared.
He’s no longer nervous to show him the sketches; after his trial run with Jim, he has full confidence that he will get a positive reaction from Crowley. But he does feel as though the occasion deserves some type of fanfare; nothing over the top, but something classy and understated — perhaps a pot of tea or some steaming mugs of cocoa. A fire in the fireplace to keep them company. Some candlelight, a bit of music on the gramophone —
A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. His brow knits in worry; perhaps he forgot to flip the sign to “closed”? He hasn’t made it far from the door, so he spins back around and opens it to find —
“Crowley?”
“Mind if I come in?” he asks, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders high and tight against his ears. “Only I forgot to wear something a little warmer, you see.”
“Of course, come in, come in” Aziraphale says, stepping aside to allow him in, then sweeping the door closed behind him.
“Thanks,” Crowley says as he ambles into the foyer. “‘S nice in here, though. Very cozy.”
“I was just about to put a fire on,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the hearth across the room. “But what are you doing here? Our Call isn’t until later tonight.” He checks his pocketwatch again, just to be sure.
“I know,” Crowley says, whirling around to face him. “But I couldn’t wait any longer to give this to you.” He reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out something wrapped in holiday paper — something conspicuously shaped like a book.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, taking it from him. “But Christmas isn’t for another few weeks still,” he says. “And I haven’t got you a present.”
“‘S all right,” Crowley sniffs, “it’s not a Christmas gift, it’s just a... well, open it, already!” He waves a hand at it impatiently.
Aziraphale chuckles, already shucking the wrapping away. Before he can even get through the first fold of the paper, Crowley rushes, “It’s a book. A book you don’t have in your shop.” He’s practically bouncing with excitement and pride.
Aziraphale smirks up at him. “You know that for a fact, do you?”
“Yup.”
He shuffles the book out of the wrapping, dropping the paper to the floor in a crumple — too eager to bother with the mess at the moment. The back of the book faces up, so he flips it over to reveal —
“What’s The Big Deal About Sex?"[8a] he reads with a laugh. “Well, you’re right. I don’t have this in my shop.”
“Knew it.”
“I’ve never even heard of it, which is even more peculiar.”
“Course you haven’t,” Crowley shrugs. “‘Cause a friend of mine wrote it, and it’s not published yet. Will be early next year, though, mind.”
Aziraphale looks up, his eyes alight. “You’re giving me a proof copy?”
“I think you’ll find it enlightening,” he says, ignoring the question. “Especially the part where she gets into — well, I’ve put a little page marker, see?” He nods and points to the top of the book where a silver string and a tassel peek out.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, gazing down at the cover with fondness. “I don’t know what to say. Except that I look forward to reading it.”
“Lemme know what you think when you do,” Crowley says as he drops his messenger bag and flops down into the nearby armchair in the most unusual, haphazard position — back against one arm rest, legs over the other — comfortable as you please, right at home.
“I will,” Aziraphale replies. “And have your friend get in touch. I should love to carry her book when it’s ready.”
Crowley sits up a little straighter in the chair, an awkward feat given his position. “You mean it?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you wanna...” He brandishes a hand vaguely. “You know, read it first? Make sure it’s good ‘n all?”
Aziraphale smiles. “A recommendation from you is the only accolade I need.”
“Oh,” Crowley says. “Thanks, Angel.”
Aziraphale glances back down at the book as he combs his fingers through the tassel of the bookmark where it drapes across the lightly embossed title. Crowley has always been thoughtful — the way he notices little things, like how his China must mean that he likes tea; the way he always intuits what will make Aziraphale most comfortable without ever having to be asked. But this feels different, feels particularly personal; like a part of Crowley speaking to a part of Aziraphale that neither of them share with the rest of the world. The part of Aziraphale that brings Angel to life. Inspiration strikes him — either Aziraphale, or Angel, it doesn't seem to matter. “Actually,” he says, “do you know, I do have something for you after all.”
He hurries past the armchair toward the register. Crowley sits up interestedly, twisting to watch him go. “You do?”
Aziraphale drops the proof book on the desk and swaps it for his sketchbook. He had left a pencil holding the page at his first sketch of Crowley so that he could skip right to it when the time came. But sharing only those sketches seems insufficient in light of the vulnerability Crowley has offered him. Aziraphale removes the pencil so that he can start at the beginning of the book, from his earliest sketches. “It’s not wrapped,” he says as he walks it back over to Crowley, who has already stood up and met him halfway. “And, well, technically, the book itself is still mine to keep, but the gift part of it is — well, I wanted to show you —”
Crowley takes the leatherbound portfolio from him with curiosity. “M’kay,” he says, unsure how else to respond yet. He flips the book open to the first page — a drawing of a young boy holding a small bird in his hands. “What is this?”
“It’s my sketchbook,” Aziraphale answers simply.
“Your — you drew this?” Crowley asks, looking up at him in amazement.
“I did,” he confirms. “All of them.” He nods for Crowley to keep going.
Crowley looks back down and flips to the next page, which contains the image of half a dozen vases each with a unique bouquet[8b]. “Holy shit,” Crowley says, “these are brilliant.”
“Do you really think so?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley doesn’t answer, or look up, lost in the procession of sketches as he flips page after page, eyes growing wider by the moment. Aziraphale doesn’t have an exact count of the sketches in the book that Crowley will pass through — he has a nebulous memory of what’s in there, more of a feeling of the quantity of sketches that he did Before Crowley.
“It’s nothing, really,” he says humbly, suddenly anxious to lower the expectations. “Just scribbles. I mostly do still lifes, as you can see.” He gestures as Crowley passes the image of a rabbit in a tophat, followed by a quintessential bowl of red apples. “Things around the house. Scenes from books I’ve read. But I've been experimenting with faces, as well. People I see out on the street. Customers, from time to time.”
“Angel,” Crowley says in a low tone, almost as though he may scold him, turning another page; he pauses his thought briefly to admire the illustration of a nightingale. “When I asked about your hobbies,” he continues, “and you could barely come up with ‘reading’... did it never occur to you to mention this?”
“I don’t really see it as a hobby,” Aziraphale supposes. “More of an idle hands thing, I think. Working on these... well, tends to free up a busy mind, you see.”
“These are seriously good,” Crowley says, stopping on the image of a wide oak tree whose thick, spiraling branches wrap around itself with splashes of penciled-color in the leaves. “You are seriously talented. I mean, you should do something with it.”
Aziraphale laughs. “Like what?”
“I dunno,” Crowley shrugs, turning to another drawing. Count the pages. How many are left now? There’s still the portrait of the old man at Tintern[8c], and the metropolitan skyrisers of Berlin. “Sketch people’s dogs in the park for a couple quid,” Crowley continues. “Do people’s portraits and sell ‘em online. Illustrate books, I dunno,” he repeats. “Just... you could do this professionally.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Aziraphale dismisses as Crowley flips to reveal the silhouette of two figures in the rain, faint shading and definition on the umbrella that hangs above them.📷 “Gone are the days when an artist could make a living selling paintings. And besides, it’s a little late in the game for me to be making a career change, I’m afraid.”
Crowley seems to only half-hear him, absorbed in the pages as he turns. His fingers roll down the center along the torn edges of a missing page. “What’s this?” he asks. “You didn’t like this one?”
“Oh!” Aziraphale cries happily, remembering this is where his portrait of Jim used to be. “That was a customer I drew. He liked it so much, he asked if he could have it.”
“See?” Crowley says, smiling up at him, smacking his shoulder with the back of his hand. “There ya go!” He looks back down and turns the page, and suddenly the smile drops off his face.
There, looking up at him, is his own face — the first portrait Aziraphale ever did of him. It’s changed since he first sketched it, as his image of Crowley has evolved. Aziraphale has since added finer details in the cheekbones, a closer approximation of the freckles that drape across his nose, laying the groundwork for his eyes. While the entire sketch is still primarily black-and-white, Aziraphale has used a spectrum of yellow-to-orange colored pencils to give a sunset gradient to his irises.
“You drew me,” Crowley says, so evenly that Aziraphale can’t get a read on his temperament.
“I did.”
Crowley turns the page and sees the next sketch — one of him with a pair of wings — and the next — one of him with a crown of the red camellia petals around his head — and the next — a set of five variations of Crowley’s head with different expressions, different levels of mastery over the detail. “You drew me a lot.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, still unable to parse any meaning from his tone. “Do you like them?”
“Like them?” Crowley asks, inscrutably. He walks past Aziraphale, head hanging, eyes still buried in the pages as he goes. Aziraphale spins around, confused, still anxious for an answer as Crowley sets the sketchbook down on the desk. When he looks back up, his honeywarm eyes are practically swimming with tears. “Angel...”
He steps one, two paces forward, taking both sides of Aziraphale’s face in his hands. They’re warm for a change, alleviating the wintercold sting that still sits on Aziraphale’s cheeks. He basks in it like a cat in the afternoon sun, fighting every urge to close his eyes and nuzzle further into the touch. Time rolls and swoons to a stop, like a train pulling into the last station of the night. The moment stretches in the space left behind, a moment where Aziraphale can see thunder and lightning and the clearing of stormclouds in Crowley’s eyes. Thumbs stroking at his cheekbones, Crowley parts his lips, ready to say or do something that Aziraphale is sure will stop his heart.
He clears his throat and drops his hands, eyes cast downward to his fumbling fingers. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know what for,” Aziraphale says with a humble chuckle, “but you’re most welcome.”
Crowley sniffs vigor back into his lungs. “If ‘s not too much to ask... d’you think... could I have one?”
“Tell you what,” Aziraphale offers, “give me a day, and I’ll have them framed for you.”
Crowley glances back up at him, smiles in his goldrush eyes. Aziraphale takes one of his hands.
“Now, you’re a bit early for our Call,” he reminds him, “but since you’re here...”
With a bit of a mischievous flourish in his eyebrows, he tugs Crowley toward the staircase.
EXT. BOOKSHOP/ROOFTOP - NIGHT
Aziraphale and Crowley exit onto the roof of the bookshop. The sun still hangs on for its last few moments before giving the sky back to the night, leaving enough light to make visible the makeshift patio which, to be fair, is not much. A hammock hangs from two metal tethers with cement bases, held in place with sandbags. A small round table sits snug in a corner with four chairs around it and a meager offering of flowers in a vase. The ghost of a firepit that hasn’t seen use in years off to the side.
“Welcome to the best view in Soho,” Aziraphale says proudly. “Well, in my very humble opinion, of course.” Still hand-in-hand with Crowley, he walks them toward the center of the roof. “It’s the tallest building for a few streets,” he continues, ”so we’re high enough to see the whole neighborhood, even a bit beyond.” He points off the roof in the direction of the Thames. “There’s the Victoria Tower at Westminster, and the Millennium Wheel, of course.” His finger traces the skyline along the water. “You can even see the Heron Tower at Bishopsgate.”
Crowley turns, taking in the three-sixty view. “It’s not bad,” he agrees.
“I’ve always wanted to transform this into a proper entertaining space,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the meager décor. “I haven’t had much time to work on it as of late,” he explains, “what with my father’s recent passing.”
Crowley glances at him, mooring him with an encouraging smile. “Well, it’s a great start,” he says.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, swallowing down the knot of grief sticking in his throat. “I have some ideas, you know,” he continues. “Perhaps a horticulturist such as yourself could assist me?”
“What’d you call me?” Crowley teases, drawing a deep laugh from Aziraphale.
“Let me show you,” he says, leading him still by the hand. “I thought it might be nice to build a little zen garden, like the one you took me to on my birthday.” He waves his free hand toward an empty section of the roof. “Here, perhaps.”
“That’d be real nice, yeah,” Crowley agrees.
Then Aziraphale walks them to the hammock. “Now, a proper hammock really should be hung from the trunks of trees. I can’t plant trees up here, of course,” he taps the concrete ground with his brogues, “but I would like to dress these pillars up with a little nature.” He indicates the cold metal poles. “Perhaps some vines that could grow up the sides? I’m afraid I don’t know much in the way of my options here.”
Crowley walks around the structure, examining it with his eyes, his hands, sizing it up. “Depends on the vibe you’re going for,” he says. “If you’re looking for something floral, something with some color, you can’t go wrong with wisteria. Beautiful lavender color, and there’s quite a few species of it that would do well outdoors, even in cold climates like this.”
“That sounds lovely,” he replies, admiring the familiar look in Crowley’s eyes as he sojourns down the rabbit hole of his unique knowledge. Aziraphale can tell he’s spent his life trying to hide his excitement, but there’s no mistaking it.
“Course, there’s always honeysuckle,” he goes on, “if you’re interested in a nice scent rather than the look, although they look quite nice as well,” he offers. “Some species of it might struggle a bit once London starts getting down into about zones three and four, in my experience, but you can handle that with a little extra care in the wintertime.”
Aziraphale pops a curious — and impressed — eyebrow. “In your experience?”
Crowley’s mouth twists, that self-conscious doubt cloaking his otherwise confident features. “I... have some house plants,” he mumbles, and Aziraphale smirks with ever-growing adoration.
“I should have guessed.”
“There’s also the practical options,” Crowley presses on, seemingly unable to contain himself. “Some perennial fruits, like blackberry, can grow up trellises. That way, you get the nice look, nice smell, and they make for a great jam.”
“Very sensible,” Aziraphale smirks.
“Of course, a tea guy, such as yourself, maybe you want to think about growing something like hyssop, eucalyptus, chamomile — that way you get the look, the smell, and — what’s up?”
Aziraphale has put his hands on Crowley’s arms, gently calming the endless tide of his thoughts. “Thank you,” he says. “Your insights are wonderful, but you needn’t try to impress me any further; I’m already impressed.”
“Should’ve known you were opening a can of worms, Angel,” Crowley tuts. “Gimme the go ahead and before long, I’ll have this whole place landscaped.”
“I would like that very much.”
Aziraphale trots off to a nearby wardrobe trunk, tucked beside the chimney toward the edge of the roof. “I was hoping it would be a warmer night,” he laments as he pulls out a stack of blankets. “The view of the stars from up here is really quite lovely in the winter.”
“I’m sure we can manage,” Crowley says, accepting one of the blankets on offer to him. Aziraphale places his stack on top of the closed trunk, then takes one off the top and shakes it out to lay it flat on the ground.
“I could put the kettle on,” he suggests as he takes up a second blanket, wrapping it around himself like a cape. “A nice cup of tea might do the trick.”
“Maybe in a bit,” Crowley says, plopping himself down cross-legged on the blanket, balling up his quilt into his lap to rest his arms on. “I’m okay right now.”
“Very well,” Aziraphale says, sitting beside him, legs crossed in front of him. The sun says its final goodbye, disappearing beyond the horizon as the first stars begin to appear in the sky.
“So,” Crowley drawls. “Come here often?”
Aziraphale laughs. “Actually yes,” he says. “I know it doesn’t look like much. But you know, sometimes,” he says, shuffling inside the cocoon of his blanket until it fits him comfortably, “when I can’t sleep, I’ll come up here. Just looking up for a while.” He turns his head up, eyes scanning the sky. “When I was little, I used to find patterns in the stars. Not proper constellations, mind you, I was never very good at spotting those,” he explains. “But simple little things that spoke to a child’s mind. So whenever I couldn’t sleep, I would look out my window or sneak up here and try to locate them all. There’s the butterfly with half a wing; and the teacup. The cat’s eye, and the frog leg. Then I would search the sky for new ones until I was sleepy enough to go back to bed.”
“Instead of counting sheep, you counted stars,” Crowley offers.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Did it work?”
“Usually, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Whenever it didn’t, I would read. There used to be a little streetlamp by the hammock,” he says, pointing. “It made for a nice little reading nook, but too many years in the rain and snow, and eventually it gave out.”
“I know the feeling,” Crowley jokes, lending Aziraphale a few giggles.
“I always used to think,” he says, “when it’s my turn to pass the shop down to my kin, I’ll build a little loft up here, perhaps a glass domed ceiling. Live out the end of my days looking up at the stars.” Something like a smile peaks faraway in his eyes, the hindsight of decades behind him coloring the memory. “Well, I suppose I’ll need to come up with a new plan, won’t I?”
“Angel,” Crowley wonders, “if you don’t end up with any kids, what happens to the bookshop, when you... you know, go to the great library in the sky?”
Aziraphale chuckles softly. “That’s a great question,” he says. “One that my father and grandfather impressed upon me all the time.”
“What was your answer?”
“I had several,” Aziraphale recalls. “They were easy enough to prepare, and I always knew when I would be needing one. Every family gathering, every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, it was the same fare. My grandfather would be the first to start in with the when are you gonna get marrieds, and the when are you gonna have kids? When I was at university, it was easy, you know. Oh, I’m busy with exams... I just haven’t met the right girl yet... When I’m older, when the time is right... et cetera, et cetera.” He laughs in a sad sort of way. “You reach a certain age, and those answers just don’t suffice anymore.”
“So, what’d you do?” Crowley asks.
“I improvised,” he says simply. “Blamed it on the busy season at the book shop, current events, politics, anything and everything I could think of.” He shakes his head. “My grandfather, he couldn’t understand,” he continues. “It wasn’t just that all their friends’ children were getting married and having babies...” He pulls the blanket a little tighter around his collar. “The family, the legacy of the shop... it was so important to him. He felt like it was his sole purpose in life. In a way, I suppose it was — at least, the way his father instilled it in him. It surpassed everything else in magnitude.” He looks down at his knees, bouncing in agitation. “I knew he was disappointed in me.”
“Must’ve been hard,” Crowley murmurs.
“Well,” he sighs, revising his tone with the optimism of hindsight, “he passed away when I was twenty-nine, so I suppose he may have left this earth thinking there was still hope for me yet. My father, though... well, as you know, he only just passed a few weeks ago, and I’m...” Aziraphale pauses, catching Crowley’s sly smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Well past twenty-nine now,” he finishes smoothly.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Crowley grins.
“You flatter me,” Aziraphale mutters. “But my father... I believe he stopped asking about it sometime in my mid-forties. Perhaps he knew I was a lost cause.”
“Not lost,” Crowley says quietly. His eyes dart to Aziraphale’s hands as though he might reach out. “Maybe he just finally accepted you as you are.”
“It’s a nice thought,” Aziraphale allows. “But no, I rather think he just felt sorry for me, in the end. He stopped asking not because he knew the answer or was accepting of the answer. But because he thought the answer was hurting me.”
“But it wasn’t. Was it?” Crowley asks.
“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale admits. “I suppose I’ve always fancied the idea of being a father, but...”
“‘S never too late,” Crowley says with an encouraging shrug. “I mean, plenty of ways to have kids that don’t involve makin’ ‘em yourself.”
“That’s true,” Aziraphale agrees. “But there’s a bigger part of that — being a father — well, one doesn’t wish to do it alone.”
“Ah,” Crowley says. “Well, ‘s never too late for that, either.”
There’s affection in his voice, as sincere as it is severe. Aziraphale feels himself loosen his grip on the blanket around his shoulders, letting it slip enough to let a cold breath from the night waft over his neck. He clears his throat, shuffling his position a little.
“What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“Well, as a Host, you lead a rather... sociable life,” Aziraphale says. “But I don’t suppose it leaves much room to... settle down, as it were.”
Crowley nods his head, eyes back on the blanket in his lap. “It does not.”
“Is that something you ever wanted?” Aziraphale asks gently. “Get married, have kids?”
“Dunno about the having kids part,” he says. “Not sure what sort of a role model I’d make.”
“A very good one, I’d say,” Aziraphale says solemnly, overcome by the urge to list off all the reasons why he admires Crowley, to pluck the doubt from his heart, warm it in his hands, transform it with a kiss, and put it back in as courage. Instead, he says, “So no kids then, but...”
He trails off, hoping that Crowley will pick it up and run with it. But this still seems to be an area where Crowley is not a natural conversationalist. He recalls their first conversation where this came up; how the mood had shifted when Aziraphale pushed, how he regretted asking the questions in the first place. It only serves to remind him how very little he actually knows about Crowley, about his history. The last thing he would ever want to do is push Crowley into something he didn’t want to talk about. But he wonders how much of Crowley’s silence on the matter is by choice, and how much of it is waiting just under the surface, begging to be healed.
Desperate to find out, Aziraphale tentatively says, “Well, you mentioned... you’d been in love once.”
Crowley nods. “Yep.”
Aziraphale bites his lip, searching for a sign in Crowley’s face. “Tell me about them?”
Crowley looks up at him, tension in his brow, seeking something — integrity, perhaps. He looks wary, as though trying to discern the motive behind Aziraphale’s question. People always seem to have motives when they ask their needling questions. Aziraphale knows more about that than anyone. His family’s motives when they asked, “So, baby, have you met anyone at school?” were never about Aziraphale’s happiness.
“What d’you wanna know?” he mutters.
“Well, you mentioned that you met through the Hosts,” Aziraphale recalls. “Were they a client of yours, a — a fellow Host?”
“Client,” Crowley sniffs, still maddeningly unreadable.
“Repeat customer?” Aziraphale probes gently, desperate to get clarity on Crowley’s disposition before he pushes too far.
“Yeah,” he says. “Well, no, not at first. It was just the one Call to start, but... then they became more frequent, I guess. We started seeing each other twice a week, sometimes more.” He picks at the blanket in his lap, trying to right a stitch that has come loose. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear about all that, Angel —”
“But I do,” Aziraphale says, placing a palm over one of Crowley’s shaking hands. “I like learning about your past, about you. About... the sort of people you fall in love with.”
There’s a quiet, fragile danger in the way he says it. It’s a living thing; it hangs in the air between them, sticks in their lungs like black soot. Their eye contact burns with the heat of the unspoken, so Aziraphale looks down at their joined hands instead.
“Tell me about them,” he asks again, applying a light squeeze. Crowley doesn’t answer right away, but he works his jaw like he wants to. Aziraphale sees all the same signs in Crowley that he sees in himself when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how — the intake of breath to summon a word, followed by the frustrated puff of breath at the lack of one. Aziraphale releases Crowley’s hand to pull the pocketwatch out of his waistcoat and offer it.
“What’s this for?” Crowley asks. In response, Aziraphale clicks it open. Inside the doorswing of the gold encasement is a small compact mirror. Crowley laughs as he takes it, cradles it in his hands.
“What were they like?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley looks down at the small mirror in his lap. An unsteady deep breath in serves to steady his hands. “Sort of goofy,” he tells his reflection reverently. “But in a loveable way, y’know? Easily underestimated, but really... really strong underneath. Stronger than anyone I ever met.”
“You really loved them,” Aziraphale says.
“Yeah,” Crowley says. “But let’s say we focus on the here and n— hang on a minute.” He pulls the mirror closer, turning his face to adjust the picture in the reflection. He grabs the bridge of his nose and pushes it side to side as though seeing his own reflection anew. “The other night, when you were studying my face...” He snaps the pocketwatch shut and looks up at Aziraphale with wonder. “It was for your art, wasn’t it?”
“Guilty as charged,” he admits sheepishly. “You have very distinctive features, I wanted to get them right.”
“Well, it’s all in the color, really,” Crowley replies modestly, running a hand through his fire-red locks.
“Your hair is quite lovely,” Aziraphale agrees. “But I was referring to your natural features.”
“You tryna say this isn’t natural?” Crowley asks, wounded, as he tucks the hair behind his ear. “I will have you know I came straight out of the womb with a full head of hellfire.”
“Come on, dear,” Aziraphale nudges fondly, “What is your natural hair color? Really?”
Crowley grins in concession, unable to resist surrendering total honesty to Aziraphale. “Somewhere between a reddish-brown and an orange, I think.”
“You think?” Aziraphale laughs.
“Well, bit hard to remember, you see, been a few decades since I’ve seen it,” Crowley winks. “But I think this shade of red suits me far better. Makes me more memorable.” He tosses the pocketwatch up into the air for Aziraphale, who catches it.
“You don’t need any help being more memorable,” he says as he slips the pocketwatch back into his waistcoat.
“Well, of course, you’ll remember me, what with all this time we spend together.” Crowley knocks Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own.
“Even if I’d only ever met you once,” he says, “I could never forget you.”
“Now you’re gonna make me blush,” Crowley mumbles, looking down at the blanket still balled up in his lap.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Angel,” Crowley chides, “we’re a bit past that now, don’tcha think? No, it’s — usually I’m the one saying this kind of stuff. ’M not used to having it turned round on me, ‘s all.”
“See, now, if the roles were reversed,” Aziraphale points out, “this is the part in the conversation where you would tell me to get used to it, am I right?”
Crowley grins. “Yeah, something like that.”
“You are quite memorable, though,” Aziraphale reiterates. “It’s the eyes, you see.” As if to help his point, Crowley peers up at him, giving Aziraphale full access to the golden landscape of his eyes. “The pigment... it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
Crowley smirks. “Well, what if I was to tell you that they’re colored lenses?”
Aziraphale sniffs a laugh. “I’m afraid I wouldn't believe that one,” he says. “No, these,” he says, reaching a hand up to brush his knuckles along Crowley’s temple. “These are you. Uniquely, and only, you.”
A signature silences falls around them. It’s a moment that may have caused Aziraphale to pull away, many moons ago. But somehow, Crowley has knocked that nonsense out of him. Perhaps it’s the Angel in him.
“And your freckles,” he continues, his thumb moving along Crowley's face to rove over them. “Like constellations.”
“Like the ones from your childhood?” Crowley asks, a touch of something hopeful in his voice. “A cat’s eye and a frog leg?”
“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says, breathing a laugh but not letting Crowley derail his quite serious mission. “Or perhaps one brand new.” He lets his hand fall back down into his lap, his eyes following its trajectory as it goes.
“D'you ever wonder why we find stars so romantic?” Crowley asks then. Aziraphale glances up at him, shaking his head like a shrug. Crowley extends one leg in front of him and pulls the other knee up to his chest, resting his elbow on it, letting the blanket fall to the side. “There’s a reason why it’s in every book you’ve ever read,” he continues. “Everything that’s ever been written.”
“And what reason is that?” Aziraphale asks, surprised by the slight pitch in his voice as he speaks.
“Wwelll. Legend has it,” Crowley begins enigmatically, with a gaze to the stars to follow his story, “before there was life, before time itself had ever begun — a demon fell in love with an angel. Now, a love such as that was, of course, forbidden — forbidden by God, forbidden by Satan. And he knew that if Heaven or Hell ever found out about it, they would destroy them both. So the demon had to hide his love away. Problem was, his love for the angel was so big, and so bright, that the only way he could hide it was to break it into millions and millions of pieces and scatter them throughout the universe, creating the entire cosmos as we know it.”
Crowley looks back down to Aziraphale. “What d’you think of that, Angel?” he asks.
“That’s quite a legend,” Aziraphale says softly, quietly spellbound by Crowley.
“Now, according to some,” Crowley continues, “this demon, they say that he set each and every star in the sky as a blueprint, with every constellation a unique landmark, known to no one but himself. So that in every universe, every iteration of time and space, he could use those stars like a map to find his way home to his angel. So every time you see a shooting star, you’re looking at a blazing piece of that love, searching the universe for the angel. Stitching the demon’s love back together one star at a time, piece by piece, over hundreds and thousands of millennia. Slowly enough that no one would notice, not even God Herself. And one day, when the last star falls from the sky, pitching the universe into blackness, the angel will have all the pieces of the demon’s love back, and nothing and no one can keep them apart again.”
Aziraphale’s throat stings, like he’s about to burst into tears, but he doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the emotion in Crowley’s voice; perhaps it’s the story itself. They say that every story has been written and rewritten, told and told again. Aziraphale knows them all. If ever there were a new story to be told, he's used to discovering them for himself. Having one told to him like this is a kind of intimacy he didn’t know existed until now. It’s visceral, it’s ancient, exposing him to the vulnerable, secret parts of Crowley.
“Every star is imbued with a love stronger than all the forces of Heaven and Hell,” he continues suddenly. “It’s why sailors love the sea, using the stars to navigate the waters. It’s why we fall in love under a night sky. It’s why we wish on stars, because love is the only thing that brings our hopes and dreams alive. We are incapable of loving without the stars, and humanity only loves because they loved first. A love so strong, it birthed the universe.”
Crowley searches the heavens as though waiting to see the demon and angel streaking across it, ablaze in a comet of their forbidden hearts. And perhaps he does. His voice is faraway, lost somewhere in the constellations as he says, “You deserve a love like that, Angel.”
He says it so effortlessly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s remarking on the weather or the price of milk, as opposed to saying the most romantic thing Aziraphale has ever heard, the most romantic thing that anyone has ever said to anyone ever in the history of mankind. Aziraphale looks at him like he’s never seen him before; like this is the first time he’s laying eyes on him, truly laying eyes on him.
“Crowley,” he breathes. His voice sounds heavy, laden with the fear of asking the question, the fear of hearing the answer. He readies the words in the back of his throat, afraid more than anything of losing his nerve. But before Aziraphale can even ask the question, Angel makes the decision for him — it must be Angel, because Aziraphale hardly recognizes the breathless, wanting voice that comes out of his mouth as he asks, “Will you kiss me?”
Crowley’s head turns slowly to look at him; not with alarm or confusion, no; there’s something quieter in his eyes, an ease of comfort, of resolution. Of surety. Like the sun setting and rising, the moon waxing and waning. Like this was always going to happen, in every universe, every iteration of time and space. A mathematical inevitability, a scientific certainty. A promise, destined since creation.
He rotates to kneel beside Aziraphale, sitting back on his feet. Aziraphale’s spine straightens like a bow being retracted after a fired shot, bringing them closer together. Crowley is backlit by the moon, while a concentration of stars winking behind his head fit him like a halo, with Aziraphale’s seaglass eyes like mirrors reflecting the same constellation back at him.
Crowley reaches out and brushes his fingertips along Aziraphale’s forehead, just where it meets the start of his blonde curls. He traces the hairline down the side of his face, pausing to stroke a lovesick melody along Aziraphale’s temple with his thumb. Aziraphale watches his campfire eyes with a look that borders on idolatry, but Crowley’s attention is focused solely on his own ministrations, zeroing in on his fingers where they trace Aziraphale’s face, taking in the sight of him like a sculptor studying the inspiration for his next work of art, the seminal masterpiece of his career. He strokes with reverence as though Aziraphale were a fine piece of art that he had exclusive permission to touch. The fervor in his eyes sends a flutter through every nerve ending in Aziraphale’s body, buzzing with so much electricity that he could power the universe.
Crowley’s fingers round the back of his ear, tucking away a few strands of hair like a secret stashed away for the quieter hours of the night. Aziraphale shudders as Crowley’s fingers ghost the back of his ear before painting a path along his jawline, ending at the curve of his chin. Aziraphale’s throat closes up, his breath becoming shallow as Crowley wades in the waters of this new beginning, the anticipation somehow making everything better and worse at the same time.
His thumb reaches up, anchoring into the dimple just below Aziraphale’s mouth, the rest of his fingers curled into a loose fist beneath his chin, gently supporting with the knuckles there, lifting then to tilt Aziraphale’s head up slightly. Crowley’s thumb slides across his bottom lip, assessing its softness, its yield. He tugs down, just enough to let out a shaky breath, the messiah of a heady desire that perches on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. His hand slides back to cup Aziraphale’s jaw in the palm of his hand, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek, the rest of his fingers stretched behind his head to card through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, sending a thrill down Aziraphale’s spine like a shooting star on a mission for redemption.
Crowley leans in closer, bringing their foreheads together, then nudging his nose into the chill-stricken cheek there. Aziraphale can’t bear to look in his eyes any longer, has to strike out at least one of his senses because it’s all too much. So he closes his eyes, shutting out everything but the feeling of Crowley’s skin against his, touching him everywhere except his lips. Aziraphale pants like an animal in heat, lungs heavy with need, burning to feel Crowley’s mouth on his. He knows it’s near because he can feel Crowley’s breath moisten his skin, hot and aching like his own, can hear his shallow breath coming and going in broken staccato, thin as paper, thin as ice starting to form on a lake, that crystal clear emblem of danger, don’t step, don’t come any closer, lest you fall in.
Aziraphale can feel the blanket fall from his shoulders, shrugged off in light of his own climbing temperature, summoned by the thick, dark urgency of needing Crowley to get on with it already. He feels as though he has been suspended in this moment since the dawn of time, since before time even existed, and that he will be long after time expires. If time began in the Garden of Eden, then Aziraphale has been waiting for Crowley to kiss him for more than six thousand years.
The march of time feels fractured, like a decimal with a repeating number, infinitely approaching but never reaching, hurtling him toward a cosmic paradox where he’s on a train, unstoppable and barreling for some disaster or a miracle; but also somehow so slow that it seems as though it may never reach its destination at all. Crowley’s breath continues to run hot and ragged across his lips, leaving Aziraphale wondering if this agony is going to go on forever —
And then, with all the tenderness of a well-worn heart, Crowley kisses him.
It happens slowly, like the sun rising after its slumber — the way you notice the light in the sky before you ever see the crest of the sun above the horizon. Nearly imperceptible, as though it may not be rising at all, and then suddenly it’s there, undeniable. It’s so slow at first that Aziraphale can barely tell his lips are moving. But then Crowley’s mouth rocks against his, a salacious pressure that feels entirely too much and somehow also not enough. It’s warm and comforting, like a strong cup of something on a winter night, like seeing a familiar face in a strange crowd; like coming home.
Aziraphale had heard about — well, read about — such things as experiences that can engage all five of the senses. Kissing Crowley is an ode to the senses. Until now, he’s only experienced Crowley with four of his five senses, but he’s finally adding the last one — taste. You might expect, as Aziraphale did, that this would be the first one to unfold, but it’s actually...
The smell of him, as intoxicating as it is devastating; there’s arabica and spice and some kind of malted spirit, spiking Aziraphale’s blood alcohol as though he had drunk Crowley’s very scent. The next sense to kick in is touch, and it happens everywhere at once, anywhere their bodies touch, Crowley’s hands still on his face, fingertips digging into the back of his head, reeling him in, his mouth rolling gentle tides over Aziraphale’s, ebbing and flowing, crashing and receding.
And, then, the taste...
Crowley parts Aziraphale’s lips with the heat-seeking press of his own, his spellcast tongue summoning Aziraphale’s and, fuck, he tastes good. There’s ambrosia and fire in his kiss, strong like whiskey, sweet and sticky like syrup, hot like a freshly brewed tea, full-flavored and full-bodied like a vintage wine. Something that before would have activated his fight or flight now has Aziraphale careening forward, desperately seeking more of it, as much as he can get, chasing the high as far as it will take him, as far as Crowley will let him take it. He tastes like fireworks and smoke and the ash of all things Aziraphale was told he shouldn’t want, or should want differently; releasing all the things he’s held captive inside of him all this time.
It’s sound that he registers next, because the sounds that Crowley makes are, to put it politely, evocative. A trembling breath on every reset of their lips, a shudder in his bones, the catch of a moan in the back of his throat — Aziraphale feels like he shouldn’t listen, like he’s spying on someone else’s private moments, but then he remembers that this belongs to him, too. Crowley’s kiss is like a salve, drawing out the venom of every lie that Aziraphale has ever been poisoned to believe about what he's allowed or not allowed to have. It emboldens him, and he finds himself gripping a fistful of Crowley’s collar, anchoring himself like a boat to the shore. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling now but he is feeling it, and it’s electric and it’s alive and it’s —
...over.
Crowley pulls back, the sting of the sharp night air rushing across Aziraphale’s lips in his absence, and that’s when the sight kicks in. Aziraphale’s eyelids raise like a red-satin curtain call, revealing Crowley at the end of his performance, his tigerseye gaze soft and unfocused beneath half-raised eyelids before he opens them fully, hands finally falling from Aziraphale’s face. The look in his eyes is blinding, like every star in the universe is behind them, radiating that age-old forbidden love, that star-crossed destiny between a demon and his angel.
Aziraphale has been kissed before — in manufactured moments of forced connection, performed on a stage without an audience. It was always stilted and disappointing, the threadbare necessity of an empty obligation, in aid of fulfilling some unnamed and needless duty. Nothing Aziraphale has ever experienced — neither in those lackluster encounters, not in fantasies he could dream up, nor in poems or fairytales that he has ever read or that have ever been written — could have prepared him for this. Aziraphale once read that there is no such thing as a perfect kiss. He is starting to believe that books don’t tell us everything.
But they do, inevitably, come to an end. He asked Crowley to kiss him, and Crowley kissed him. It’s there on the last page, just before the book closes. But Aziraphale isn’t ready to let go of this, not yet. Not when it feels like he’s spent his whole life becoming the man he needed to be just to get here, to this spot, tonight; as though every breath he has ever drawn has been to get to this moment, with this impossible man. A butterfly could have flapped its wings and he would never have met Crowley, but it didn’t. Every major ecosystem on earth, from insecta to aves to animalia, worked so hard and in perfect, delicate harmony to make sure that everything happened just so. So while the breath between them is still a latticework of shared oxygen and borrowed time, before the spell is broken, before he loses his opportunity or, worse, his nerve, Aziraphale steals one more kiss.
He rushes in, like a teenager stealing a front-porch kiss after a first date, like a child stealing a gift from under the tree before sunrise — quick, furtive, desperate to avoid witness, to avoid repercussion. It’s hurried and a little sloppy; Crowley careens on the spot like a man at sea, caught off guard by a calm ocean suddenly striking the shore with a vengeful wave. They sway together, forth and then back; it’s dizzying, in a way Aziraphale rather likes, rather enjoys liking. But he knows he’s been greedy, knows when a story should end, when an epilogue has had its final say. Not every story gets a sequel; so he savors one last taste, commits it to memory, and lets go.
Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something — perhaps thank you, or some equally empty platitude about how nice that was. If he had the courage, he might ask, “do it again, please, right now,” but he’ll never know what he might have said because by the time he registers the open palm on his cheek and the fingers curling back behind his head, Crowley is kissing him again.
There’s no trace of the caution from their first kiss just moments ago, nothing left of hesitation or reluctance. Crowley moves in like a cobra striking, fast and merciless and hungry. The heat between them becomes a freight train, steamrolling them both, throttling them to some inevitable collision. Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s face with both hands now as he hoists himself up onto his knees, kissing him from above, and the new angle makes Aziraphale’s head spin, neck stretched and face tipped to the heavens in supplication but with no one to answer his prayer. Crowley kisses Aziraphale like he is a reservoir at the end of a dessert, a feast at the end of a famine, a roaring fire at the end of a long winter, a long rest after an eternity of sleeplessness, and Aziraphale kisses him back like Crowley put the stars in the sky himself.
Their lips briefly break apart when Aziraphale gasps, his lungs desperate to catch up, before Crowley is pushing back into him. A feeling like the earth suddenly dropping from beneath his feet overcomes Aziraphale, his whole body hot and combustible like a star on the brink of collapse, only held together by something fragile and transient. Suddenly Aziraphale knows what it must feel like to shatter into billions of pieces and be scattered throughout the universe, understands exactly how it must feel to be a star plummeting through the galaxy, flying and falling all at the same time, how it feels to exist somewhere outside of gravity, where the laws of physics have given up their claim, because Aziraphale and Crowley go tumbling to the ground or perhaps the ground tumbles up to meet them; he isn’t sure anymore, but it doesn’t matter because Crowley is completely on top of him, his hands roving over Aziraphale’s body, looking for the fastest way in.
Aziraphale undulates under Crowley touch, ascending up into him as though he were a black hole, consuming all life around. Crowley’s hips have a gravitational pull of their own, drawing Aziraphale’s hands in haste, fingers fumbling and clawing at his bony waist, pulling Crowley’s hips down against his own. Crowley’s name thrashes at the back of his throat, screaming to be let out on the coattails of a whimper; but letting it out, not kissing Crowley for one millisecond would be to suffocate, to starve — so he keeps it locked up tight and kisses Crowley for all the world like he’s the last gasp of breath in the universe. As though God Herself had created Crowley for the sole purpose of kissing Aziraphale.
They touch like familiar lovers, the heel of Crowley’s hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, fingers behind his head pulling him off the blanket and into his waiting lips, drinking him like wine, taking him like communion; Aziraphale’s hands sweeping from his hips up his spine, the fingers of one digging in between the vertebrae beneath his jacket while the other hand moves to Crowley's neck, curling around the muscles where it meets his shoulder, pulling him down. Crowley breaks just long enough to breathe fire into Aziraphale’s mouth before kissing him again and again, and Aziraphale kisses back with total abandon, every nerve ending in his body alight, like holy water thrown onto a raging hellfire, sacrilegious, sacred. Crowley leverages his position to shift himself higher up along Aziraphale’s body and there’s that intoxicating angle again, the movement bringing chills that feel hot somehow, like the stinging burn of frostbite. Their lips part for a nearly imperceptible moment as they both fight for what little air remains between them. Aziraphale’s lungs burn with the deficit, which somehow only makes him more desperate to keep kissing Crowley forever. He wonders how he made it this far in his life without kissing this man; how empty had he been, longing for this without ever knowing it was missing?
Distantly, he registers that Crowley has whispered something — a vulgarity, perhaps, or Aziraphale’s name, or maybe a sonnet. Whatever it is makes Aziraphale’s toes curl, makes his pulse stutter in his neck, in his wrists. Crowley’s body is kinetic and desperate and hot, and there’s fire on his tongue, burning through Aziraphale like a meteor. Crowley tastes timeless, like sin, like redemption, and Aziraphale is completely lost at sea in the endless depths of him. Crowley’s hands are in his hair, kissing him like a wave surging toward the shore, like rainwater rushing to find the ocean, like thunder desperately chasing the lightning that created it. The hammer of Crowley’s heart resuscitates him like contact with a live wire, sparking an electric need to feel more. Aziraphale can’t remember what it’s like to understand time; the passage of it becomes an illusion, something abstract and impossible, without beginning or end, without linearity. He surrenders completely, consumed by Crowley’s every exhalation, every curl of his fingers in Aziraphale’s blonde hair, reigning them in closer with the magnetic pull of their hearts.
They break apart once more, leaving Aziraphale gasping for air that his lungs just can’t seem to get fast enough. Crowley moves his lips from Aziraphale’s mouth to kiss along the side of his face, then slowly down his neck. Aziraphale whimpers into a sigh as Crowley sinks his teeth into the skin there, accelerating the liquid fire rushing through his veins. Aziraphale rolls his head to the side, exposing as much of his neck to Crowley’s lips as he can, swept up in the current of Crowley’s service.
And then, at once, Crowley’s lips are gone.
It takes Aziraphale a moment to even realize it, to open his eyes from their long slumber, to shake off the illusory fog and come back to some semblance of reality. Undone and completely disoriented, he vaguely registers that Crowley has fallen gently onto his still-heaving chest, head resting in the center of it, an arm slung across his waist. Aziraphale clamps a hand to his mouth, silencing the loud confession of his overworked lungs, hoping it silences the heart bludgeoning the ribcage beneath Crowley’s ear, too.
There are so many things Aziraphale didn’t know, so many things books did not teach him. Like how your lips alone can taste and feel so different in the moments after they’ve been kissed. How your body can develop a craving in the absence of another person’s touch. How alive you can feel in one moment and so empty the next. How one kiss can make you feel like the moon in the light of the sun after a lifetime of living in a shadow.
The evening air chills him all over, from the crown of his tussled hair to his Crowley-anointed lips, now vacant and bare of him. Aziraphale closes his eyes, wraps his shaking arms around Crowley and shivers, an imprint of the night on his skin and a whisper of good night.