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What struck Crowley most about the conversation was the sheer improbability of it. He tightened his hands around his oversized mug and laced his fingers through the generous handle. Aziraphale's new hobby was patronizing the potter's stall at the open market up the street. Secretly, Crowley loved English summer, but the steam rising off his coffee made the humidity seem like overkill. Like Hell, even.
"I'm terribly sorry," said Aziraphale, adjusting his glasses. "I shouldn't have asked." He took an unconcerned sip of his coffee and stared sidelong out the back room's one and only narrow window, which was by now so grimy you couldn't actually see outside.
"No," admitted Crowley, setting his mug down forcefully in order to get Aziraphale's attention. He rubbed a few escaped coffee droplets into the badly stained wooden tabletop so Aziraphale wouldn't notice. "It's a valid question."
"I mean, it isn't as if we haven't got anything else to do," agreed Aziraphale, his voice deceptively mild. "Perhaps we ought to call the next couple of weeks a food festival instead? I've heard the new Ethiopian establishment is remarkable."
Crowley frowned and brushed the tip of his nose.
It wasn't that he thought Aziraphale's initial suggestion had been bad. He just wasn't sure how to go about accepting without sounding too eager, because, in one of the myriad corners of his mind, he was, in fact, dying to accept. And dying wasn't something to be taken lightly, especially when one had no life to lose.
"Already tried it," Crowley lied, leaning back in his chair.
If the ruse didn't work, he was doomed.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, undeniably hurt, but clearly in denial. "Without me, my dear?" His tone was teasing, but that edge of venom hadn't made an appearance since before the Apocalypse, which had done the world no more harm than a hiccup.
Crowley shrugged. "No better than Queen of Sheba."
"Kentish Town," sniffed Aziraphale. "At least we have options in our own backyard."
"I don't want to go out tonight," said Crowley, leaning forward. A trickle of sweat had begun to gather at his nape, and he hadn't wanted to let Aziraphale see him rub it away. It snaked down his spine, making him squirm. Please don't ruin this, please.
Aziraphale yawned and finished his coffee. It was the least convincing nonchalance that Crowley had ever seen. "What would you like to do, then?"
Crowley slipped his tongue between his teeth, hissing silently. He'd have to give in.
"Your idea can't be all that bad," he sighed, giving a put-upon tone his best shot. "What made you think of it, anyway?"
The color drained from Aziraphale's face, leaving him looking, for once, inhuman.
"I told you," he snapped, one finger flicking lightly at his temple, which shone ever so faintly with perspiration. "I was bored."
"Well, then, it ought to chase off your boredom, oughtn't it? Something you've never tried? Something…exotic, was that how you put it?"
"Sex is exotic," Aziraphale croaked. "We don't need it."
"Nor even want it, I should think," Crowley said, tilting his sunglasses a fraction. He had every last ounce of the Aziraphale's attention, and he realized that it was perhaps the first time he ever had. The angelic tendency to distraction had vanished.
"No, of course not," Aziraphale said, rising abruptly. He collected both mugs and took them to the kitchenette, his pace rather more brisk than usual. When he returned, there was a plate of biscuits in his right hand and a bottle of sherry in his left. "It's the principle of the thing. We're meant to be knowledgeable under all circumstances."
"Human circumstances?" Crowley prodded, snatching a chocolate digestive as Aziraphale resumed his seat. "Point taken, however."
"Crowley, really," muttered Aziraphale. "We don't need to eat, either."
"Yes, but you have cravings."
"So do you."
"It's not far off from alcohol, is it?"
"What? Food cravings?"
"No," Crowley said, bringing Aziraphale back around to the idle suggestion that he was so clearly regretting. "Sex. Seeing as you brought it up, you must, on some level—"
"Don't pretend to that," Aziraphale cut in. "You wouldn't know."
Crowley sat back again, distinctly offended. After six thousand years, did he not?
"I might," he said, finally, too weary of baiting Aziraphale to be anything but candid. "I might know because I'm telling you my side of the story. But as for yours, you're right—I couldn't know, could I?" His world was had been reduced to hopes and repetitions, none of them satisfactory.
Aziraphale set his biscuit down on the table, as if he'd suddenly lost his appetite.
"You could've just said something."
Crowley shoved the rest of his biscuit in his mouth, chewing deliberately.
No, I really couldn't.
"Did you think I would have laughed?"
Crowley shrugged, huffing out a few crumbs.
Didn't I laugh at you?
Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair, which seemed to have a few more strands of grey than usual. "Not as such, no. And this complicates things."
"Not really," Crowley said, forcing himself to swallow. "So, what do you think?"
Aziraphale spread his hands, shaking his head incredulously. "I mean, we'll have to find suitable…er, partners, of course, and—"
Crowley stared at him, and knew, for the first time, what genuine fury felt like.
"That," he said, not caring what he knocked over on his way out, "is bloody insulting."
"Wait," Aziraphale called from the back room, huffing at Crowley's side a blinding split-second later. He caught Crowley's hand on the handle of the front door, his palm as damp as his temple had looked. "I didn't mean it that way. I had to say—that is, I had to make sure you didn't think I automatically assumed you would—"
"Why not?" Crowley asked, and the door vanished, knob and all, leaving their hands clenched in mid-air for a split second before gravity took over. "I assume things about you all the time. Don't you think I appreciate it when you return the favor?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it again, and then sighed.
"Oh. In which case…"
"In which case what?" asked Crowley, tugging his hand out of Aziraphale's and stepping onto the pavement. He'd give the angel three seconds, which was more than he'd given the door, and he supposed he'd be replacing the door after a few blocks in any case, as Aziraphale would ring Crowley's ansaphone nonstop until he complied.
"In which case," said Aziraphale, as if the words pained him, "I owe you an apology."
"Fair enough," Crowley replied, stepping back inside. The door politely reappeared and closed itself behind him. "So, what are your terms, exactly?"
"I…hadn't really thought about it," admitted Aziraphale, weakly.
"Ah," Crowley said, reaching for the doorknob. "I'll be at home if you need me."
"I don't—" Aziraphale took a deep, careful breath. "I don't know if I do. Wanting and needing are two different things, aren't they? I'd hoped to find out."
"I suppose you will," Crowley said, opening the door. He stepped outside, breathing in the humid air. London was in for a storm before nightfall.
"Wait, won't we?" Aziraphale said, stepping across the threshold, but not following him into the street. "One would have thought that's the point. What about you?"
"Me?" Crowley asked over his shoulder, walking. "I already know."
If the anticipation that flared with the first clap of thunder pulsed through Crowley alone, he didn't want to know. He'd heard the door close, and that was that.
* * *
Aziraphale's call came somewhere around mid-morning the next day.
Crowley threw off his duvet, stumbled out of bed, and groped for the phone on the nearest patch of floor. When he failed to find it, he snapped his fingers instead, summoning it from wherever it had been hiding. "Hallo?"
"I'm sorry. I've awakened you."
Crowley yawned into the receiver, not bothering to cover his mouth.
"Should've been up."
"I've given our discussion a great deal of consideration, and I've decided that it's not the best idea after all. You've been terribly worked up. I'd never forgive myself if—"
"That's the spirit," said Crowley. "My place or yours?"
"My dear, this is no laughing matter."
"I didn't say it was."
"Your tone suggests otherwise."
"Yeah, and so do the dreams I had last night. D'you have any idea how my subconscious thinks you look naked?" Crowley paused, wondering if he ought not to've said it. No use crying over spilt milk. He waited through deafening silence.
Finally, Aziraphale said, "Fair to good, yes, which is why I'm calling this off."
Crowley blinked at his elaborately moulded ceiling. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm quite serious. I don't think I can work up the nerve."
"For sex? But this was your idea."
"No! To—to strip off, thank you very much!"
Crowley permitted himself a few seconds to be stunned before inwardly admitting that he was impressed with Aziraphale's forthrightness. It was what humans would call hot.
"Really?" he asked. "Is that all?"
"Oh, certainly it's easy enough for you," Aziraphale muttered. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. I imagine that body of yours is in top form."
Crowley blushed scarlet down to his toenails, which, if he looked close, resembled scales more than anything else. All of a sudden, the thought bothered him intensely.
"Not as easy as you would think," he admitted.
"Whyever not?" said Aziraphale on the end, his voice pitching ever deeper into territory that was making even the most neglected bits of Crowley's flesh tingle. "With respect to, er, appeal, you chose your form wisely. I didn't. End of story."
"What's wrong with your form?" asked Crowley, mildly apprehensive. "Has it got a chronic rash, or something else equally unpleasant?"
"I daresay you're missing the point. You…still fancy the thought, do you?"
Crowley nodded into the phone, biting his lower lip. "Er, yes."
"This could turn out to be troublesome. May I request specific terms?"
"By all means," said Crowley, impatiently. "Whatever floats your boat."
"No lights. I won't agree to this unless the room's pitch-dark."
"That's a bizarre kink. How do you know you'll like it?"
Aziraphale ignored him.
"Second, I'd appreciate it if the undressing bit could be…you know, quick. Painless."
"Short of making everything vanish once we're under the covers, I don't see—"
"That's a fine idea. It all goes in one go, so to speak."
Crowley dug his fingernails into his scalp. Surely he was dreaming now.
"Crowley?"
"That's, er, fine. Just fine. Splendid. When and where?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Your flat will do nicely."
Crowley glanced around his room, which was something of a tip.
"Needs some work," he said, and waved the clutter away. "Anything else?"
"If you say so much as a word about bringing confections into this—"
"Not on my sheets, you don't!"
"Ah. Never mind. No, of course not. Right."
Crowley sat up, his sheets falling about his waist. He felt curiously vulnerable, in the middle of his spotless (if rumpled) bed in his newly spotless room. Scratching his elbow, he added, "And what about when?"
"What?" asked Aziraphale, sharply.
"Scheduling, angel."
"Ah, of course. I should think tonight is perfectly acceptable."
Getting it over with, thought Crowley, grimly. "I should think. Seven?"
"Eight. No dinner."
"There's half the fun gone," Crowley said, disappointed.
"It'd be a distraction, don't you think, all that digestion?"
"Fine," Crowley sighed. "Eight. No dinner. What about wine and roses?"
"I suppose you think that's very funny."
"No, I think it's called ambiance."
"I'm not in this for the atmosphere. I'm in it for you," said Aziraphale, and hung up.
Crowley tossed the phone on the floor and wrapped his arms around himself, staring at the sheets. It was going to be a long afternoon and a longer evening. There was nothing, not even something as mundane as decorating, that he could do to prepare.
* * *
Aziraphale turned up at seven forty-five with a bottle of Sicilian red tucked under one arm. "I changed my mind; drinks are always a good idea," he admitted, his eyes fixed on Crowley's bare feet. "Crowley, is that…"
"Polish? No," said Crowley, defensively, gesturing Aziraphale inside. "They've just been a bit…shiny lately. You know. Happens after a shed, nothing to worry about."
"You still shed?" Aziraphale seemed morbidly fascinated.
"Does wonders for getting rid of dry skin. Requires changing shape, of course."
"Remarkable," said Aziraphale, closing the door behind him. "Wine?"
"After," Crowley said, already heading up the stairs. "No offense, but I gave your neuroses some thought and actually found them logical. I'd like to stay sober."
"Oh dear," murmured Aziraphale, a few steps behind him.
"Right," Crowley said, throwing wide the door to his room. "I've temporarily got rid of the windows so no light can get in," he said, indicating the far wall, which was now solid and off-white like the ceiling. "As long as the hall light's off, closing the door completes the blackout. Have I overlooked anything?"
"No," said Aziraphale, setting down the bottle.
The door snapped shut behind them.
Crowley blinked, forcing his eyes to conform to the limitations of mortal vision.
"Where are you?"
"Here," said Aziraphale, almost whispering, and took hold of Crowley's hand.
The kiss was soft and tentative, and their respective pairs of glasses knocked briefly against each other before surreptitiously vanishing. Whether they'd each instinctively banished their own or Aziraphale had taken care of both, Crowley wasn't sure, because he found it difficult to concentrate on manipulating matter when Aziraphale's tongue was inexpertly tracing the contours of his eyeteeth.
"Careful," he mumbled, closing his eyes. He bit Aziraphale's lower lip gently, aiming for a tease. What it got him was renewed fervor in return, Aziraphale's arms crushing their bodies together as insistently as their mouths. Interesting. Crowley found Aziraphale's shoulder blades under his jumper and cardigan and something else, how many layers he didn't even know, and let his palms glide down to the angel's fever-warm middle. Soft, yes, but not unduly; Crowley's dreams were honest.
Aziraphale broke the kiss and froze, actually breathing. Crowley fanned his hands around to catch the angel's ribcage, his heart lurching from still to a hummingbird's pace in less than half a minute. This kind of seduction would kill a mere mortal, surely.
"What now?" Crowley whispered, trembling. His palms were already damp with sweat, his fingers restlessly counting Aziraphale's ribs.
"I suppose…" Aziraphale pulled away so that Crowley's hands fell at his sides, and a moment later, the mattress sagged with hardly a creak.
What happened in the next split second was difficult to sort out chronologically; what Crowley remembered was taking a step toward the bed and crawling onto the mattress, one hand and one knee and then his other hand, but what it felt like was a stir of the air and Aziraphale taking hold of his shoulders and good God, that was skin.
"Ngh," said Crowley, and shifting fitted him all the more snugly against the contours of Aziraphale's body, which was stretched out under him, every muscle tense.
"Oh," whispered Aziraphale, one hand finding Crowley's cheek. "Oh, my dear."
Crowley wanted to flinch away in embarrassment, as immediately, achingly hard as he was, but Aziraphale's other hand at the small of his back was reassuring, urged him closer, and when Aziraphale moved just so—well, no denying they were in the same state. He relaxed a little, but his pulse raced still faster. Aziraphale let his hand slip down Crowley's jaw line to his throat, then around to the nape of his neck.
"Not so bad, is it?" Crowley whispered, finding that he scarcely had a voice. His body was screaming all sorts of things without language, most of which suggested that he was a blessed moron and that they should really get on with it. Tentatively, he worked a hand in between them and let his fingers sweep up Aziraphale's length before taking him in a gentle, if possessive, grip. He'd dreamed of this for too short a time to let the chance go to waste. Aziraphale trembled, grabbing hold of Crowley's wrist.
"I don't—I really don't think you should—"
Instantly irritated, Crowley cut him off with a kiss and started stroking.
Aziraphale's groan was lost somewhere in Crowley's mouth, or perhaps under the sudden thunderclap as it reverberated through the walls. Crowley realized that doing away with the window had been a mistake; there was no circulation, and the room was heavy with strange, still air that, he suspected, was heavy with the scent of them both. Crowley heard Aziraphale's voice break before he felt the slickness in his palm.
Too much, too unexpected: Aziraphale coaxed Crowley's hand away and drew it up above his head, twining their fingers against the pillow. Crowley had no choice but to collapse, the strain in his legs giving way to the solid cradle of the angel's body, limbs with which to tangle in losing his last sense of self. He shouted with the near pain of it, the wonder, and almost resented Aziraphale for resting so calm in his tremors.
"What's wrong?" Aziraphale asked, no longer whispering. The raggedness of his voice seemed to rend the darkness around them, almost as if it were part of the storm.
It took Crowley at least a minute to catch his breath. Can't feel my brain, he thought, but what he said instead was, "Ssstupid question."
Almost wistfully, Aziraphale ran both hands down Crowley's back, bringing them to rest on his hips. "I hate to leave, you know," he said, his voice low again.
Crowley yawned, stretching, and found that they were already clean. He shrugged and resumed roughly the same position he'd been in before, sprawled haphazardly on top of Aziraphale. "Then don't. Stay. It's called sleep. S'good for you."
"Not as good as it might be, much to my regret," Aziraphale murmured, rolling Crowley onto his back. The kiss was confident, as if Aziraphale had caught the hang of it in the past twenty minutes—and, for all Crowley knew, he had. Crowley broke for breath and, reaching for him again, found nothing to clutch but empty sheets.
Bringing back the window brought only a view of dusk and the storm. Crowley reached for the bottle of wine and collapsed back against the damp pillows, dissolving the cork into thin air. The wine bit at the back of his tongue and stung his throat like tears.
* * *
At 10:00 AM, like clockwork, the phone rang.
Crowley had been up for at least an hour, watering the plants and making toast.
Under any other circumstances, he would've claimed that he hated toast, but he had the sneaking suspicion that it was all he he'd be able to stomach. Under normal circumstances, he didn't suffer a hangover after a single bottle of wine, either. He let the phone ring ten times, one for each hour, before picking up. He aimed the Sainsbury's plant mister threateningly at his wayward ficus from across the room.
"This had better be good," Crowley said, steeling his nerves.
It worked, because Aziraphale's exhalation on the other end was remorseful.
"I thought I'd better check in. Last time I left you alone with a bottle of red wine—"
"Yes, let's not get into specifics," muttered Crowley, irritably. He set the plant mister down on his coffee table and blinked very, very rapidly. "What do you want?"
This time, the silence was offended, which Crowley found offensive in and of itself.
"I would have thought it was obvious."
"If it's the wine you want back, you already know it's gone."
"There's no need to be cruel, Crowley. I was just hoping—"
"No need to be cruel?" Crowley echoed. "No need to be cruel?"
After half a minute of chewing on his lip—unmistakable, that sound above all—Aziraphale said, "Point taken, my dear. I should explain myself."
"I don't think there's much to explain," said Crowley, now struggling to keep his voice casual. "You wanted to try sex. You tried it. You didn't like it."
"When did I say that I didn't?"
"You walked out on me!" Crowley shouted, unable to contain his anger any longer. "There I was being polite—you know, the part where I opened my house and threw down my sheets and asked you to stay the night even after your appalling demands—"
"Appalling demands? I think I was being perfectly reasonable. And as for 'walking out' on you, well, that would've involved having to face you by daylight, wouldn't it, you and all of your habitual half-loaded remarks about…well. Call it self-defense."
Crowley thought about that for a few seconds and couldn't find much logic in it, at least not until he looked at Aziraphale's touchiness—he'd always been, at least as far back as Crowley could remember—and looked at his own fondness for working Aziraphale up just for the sake of it, not for any actual looking down on the angel for not caring about culinary indulgences. Two and two didn't, in this case, make five.
"Crowley? Crowley, are you there?"
"Wait, wait," said Crowley, finally, grabbing the mister and giving it a good, hard shake in Aziraphale's imaginary direction. "You mean to tell me that, how many millennia later, you don't know teasing when you hear it?"
"Of course I do—but how am I to know what's really behind it?"
"This," Crowley announced, "has been an epic failure of communication."
"My dear, this is no time for wise-cracks."
"I'm not being funny. But if you want funny, here you go: it's so epic that I'm genuinely impressed. Do you really think I would have said yes if you disgusted me?"
More silence, this time terribly incriminating, as if Aziraphale himself had found a few equations sitting around his own brain that needed solving.
"I had wondered why you seemed so terribly earnest when you said you were in this for me. It didn't have your usual trace of…what would you call it, flippancy?"
"I'd call it self-defense," said Crowley, acidly.
"There! See, that's what it sounds like. Was that honest, or are you being sarcastic?"
"Both. You mean you can't tell when that's the case, either?"
Aziraphale groaned. "This is going to take a lot of work."
"Probably," Crowley sighed, just as the smell of burning toast reached his nostrils. He waved over his shoulder at the kitchen, where the toaster instantly went pop.
"What do you propose we do, then?"
"You're asking me?"
"I've caused you a lot of trouble, I think, these past forty-eight hours."
Crowley thought this over and decided that it was nearly as good as an apology.
"If that's the way you feel about it, then we ought to try this over again."
"You mean…?"
"Yes. With windows."
"At night," countered Aziraphale, quickly.
"Daylight," Crowley said, shaking his head. No compromises, not this time.
"But I'd want to make a day of it," Aziraphale admitted. "Have more than just—"
"Nighttime, then, with the lights on," Crowley countered. "I pick the lunch and dinner venues and everything else in between. You're paying for all of it."
The sound of Aziraphale pursing his lips was harder to catch, but it was satisfying.
"Very well," said the angel, resigned. "Tomorrow?"
"Friday."
Crowley needed at least two days to get back to actually wanting to see Aziraphale. At the moment, another shag in the dark seemed fine, but if he saw Aziraphale's face, he'd throw something. He couldn't decide if a punch or a vase was more appropriate.
"That's…understandable," said Aziraphale, slowly, disappointment flaring in his voice like the sudden burst of sun through Crowley's living room window. "Very good. Friday. I'll come for you at, say, eleven?"
"No earlier," said Crowley, and hung up. For now, he'd take it out on the ficus.
* * *
By Friday morning, Crowley had mostly got back his desire to see Aziraphale, and thought that he'd probably get past answering the door without throwing the ficus. Whether or not he'd be able to refrain from throwing a punch was a different story altogether, but he was willing to show some restraint if Aziraphale remained contrite.
Eleven o'clock came and went, and there was no sign of the angel.
Crowley paced around his office, snatching up pieces of scrap paper and tossing them in the bin as he found them. He had no idea he'd become such a doodler, and he hadn't realized he used that many staples, either. He'd have to buy more soon.
At 12:30, while Crowley was vacuuming up the plants' latest bout of shedding, the doorbell rang. Over the Hoover's racket, he almost didn't hear the volley of desperate knocks that followed the third ring. Satisfied, Crowley turned off the vacuum and strolled downstairs. Crowley clutched the doorknob for a few long seconds, taking a deep breath. If Aziraphale didn't have a reasonable explanation, he'd—
Getting snogged off his feet wasn't something he'd expected, but it definitely wasn't worth risking a punch. Besides, his arms were quite effectively trapped by Aziraphale's, and his hands couldn't find much purchase except for the hem of Aziraphale's jacket and his trouser pockets, which, Crowley discovered a few moments later, actually worked out nicely. When they finally drew apart, Crowley was still crushed against the wall next to the coat rack, and Aziraphale was imploring him with such wide-eyed remorse that there wasn't any room for misinterpreting the situation.
There had been a definite change of plans.
"Honestly?" said Crowley, trying to catch his breath, "I wasn't that hungry anyway."
"I'd like to state for the record," Aziraphale managed, "that any and all dithering responsible for my tardiness ought to be disregarded. Agreed?"
"Dithering?" said Crowley, dazed. "I wasn't suggesting—"
"No, I'm suggesting. However, there's the matter of the blinds. Perhaps if…"
"Halfway drawn," Crowley said, pushing Aziraphale away just enough to work his proffered right hand up to eye level. "Deal?"
"Three quarters."
"Half," insisted Crowley, and started to withdraw his hand, but Aziraphale caught it.
"Very well," said the angel, and kissed Crowley's knuckles.
Not that well, but it's a start, Crowley thought, and mentally adjusted the blinds and made up the bed for when they got there, if they got there, in good time.