Chapter Text
Aziraphale had grown tired of the city. After their respective trials, he didn’t really feel at home in the bookshop anymore. And even though he never actually witnessed its demise, he couldn’t look at it without picturing it as a pile of soot and rubble. Of course, it wasn’t burned down anymore, thanks to the prepubescent Antichrist. But it was the principle of the matter. Just like the stain on his favourite coat, he would always know it was there underneath.
So, one lovely Spring day, he packed all his belongings up—with the help of some divine miracles, of course—and moved out into the countryside. He had found a wonderful cottage in the South Downs, right by the sea. Crowley, of course, complained about his move. But ultimately ended up helping anyways before returning to his flat in Mayfair. He would visit sometimes—less often than Aziraphale had hoped—and work little wonders in the garden to help it grow. They would have dinner together, drink, and then he would return back to his place in London.
Aziraphale spent most of his days curled up in his chair by the fireplace reading, sipping at his cocoa. Or sometimes he would write at his desk. On the occasion, he would wander into the nearby town to peruse the shops, say hello to his neighbours, and enjoy the ocean air.
Crowley hated it. He hated being away from Aziraphale. They had spent enough time apart over the past six millennium that he didn’t want to spend any more time away from the Angel. He hated it. He hated that he felt this way too. He would pace his flat and spray at his plants angrily before curling up in his bed to wallow in his self-pity. If Aziraphale ever called to invite him over, he would mask his excitement under clipped or bored tones.
Aziraphale was not an idiot. He could tell that Crowley was unhappy. Oh, the wily serpent could try to hide his true feeling as much as he could but at the end of the day, Aziraphale knew. They had been friends for too long for him not to know. So, he invited him over for dinner and the Demon promptly agreed.
The Angel—since leaving the city and reading far too many cookbooks—had become quite the accomplished home chef. He had come a long way from trying to peel an onion with a vegetable peeler. Thus, he stood in his quaint kitchen with a frilly apron tied around himself while he fried off some vegetables in a pan. Crowley stood in the doorway watching him intently from behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale held out a spoon of something, Crowley took it into his mouth and nodded with a hum of approval.
“Lamb?”
“Indeed.” The Angel smiled, portioning out the dish into two bowls. He placed them on the dining table and uncorked a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. “With pan seared vegetables from the garden.”
“Hnnm.” Crowley only grunted in response and took a long drink from his wine. After dinner and dishes, they retired to the front room, a few full wine bottles tucked under their arms in tow. And they drank. They drank until things didn’t really make sense and every other thing that came from their mouths was perceived as amusing. They sat together on the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace and laughed, each drinking directly from their own bottle. “’Nd I sssaid…I said to ‘em…wha’d I sssay to ‘em? I dun ‘member wha I said to ‘em but the point isss that he had a fez and it was ssstupid!”
“Fezzes are rather ridic— redac— silly.” Aziraphale nodded, a long drawn out motion that sent his head bobbing limply. “…Crowley?”
“Hn?” The serpent turned his yellow gaze to the Angel next to him and was met with closed eyes and a flushed face. The tip of a pink tongue darted out for a fraction of a second to wet plump lips. The blond’s head had lolled to one side and it seemed he was about to fall asleep.
Crowley, in his drunken stupor, swore he could see a halo, lighting up the Angel’s features from behind. He was beautiful. Perfect. And he wanted him. All to himself. To call his own. Crowley licked his own lips, mouth suddenly feeling very dry. And he did it. He leaned forward and pressed their lips together. When he felt no resistance, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss and was shocked to find a tongue slide into his mouth, battling with his own. He groaned into it, pressing the blond down onto the sofa.
Aziraphale, for his part, ran his hands along Crowley’s sides, pulling him closer atop himself. They found a rhythm together in their kisses and in their hips. They ground into one another, moaning into each other’s mouths. Until Crowley rolled them off the couch and they stumbled their way to the bedroom, shedding clothing along the way.
They tumbled onto the bed together, limbs and mouths entwined. Aziraphale wrapped his legs around Crowley’s hips, pulling him closer with his heels as hot breath puffed out against the Demon’s neck. They found a whole new rhythm together then. Pressed flush together, hips moving in tandem, hands exploring and groping and scraping skin and blankets. The glisten of sweat rolling down faces and spines, matting hair to foreheads.
Crowley found himself saying something, but his inebriated mind couldn’t process the words leaving his mouth. He only noticed that they made Aziraphale smile and cry. They must have been good words to have that sort of response, he thought as he kissed the tears away. They called each other’s names as they finished and collapsed in a heap on the quilt of the bed. Both quickly drifted off into a peaceful, drunken slumber, nuzzled in each other’s arms.
With daybreak, Crowley woke first. Very slowly, he opened his eyes. It was still a little dark outside, but a clock on the wall read that it was a quarter past six in the morning. He groaned quietly and looked around before settling his vision on the head of white-blond curls that was cuddled against his chest. And he panicked. Slowly and carefully, he extricated himself from the Angel’s hold and gathered his clothing up. He dressed and, giving one last look over his shoulder at the sleeping figure, left the cottage.
Aziraphale woke as the sun rose high, peeking into the window of his bedroom. He was alone in his room in a cold bed. Crowley had been gone for some time, it seemed. The Angel frowned and lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Had he scared Crowley off with his advances? No, that couldn’t be it. Though his memory was a bit hazy, he remembered that Crowley had participated and had said some rather sweet words. Worry built in his mind and he chewed his lip before getting up and dressing, hurrying down the stairs and to the phone.
It rang and rang and rang. When his Demon didn’t pick up, it went to the voicemail. He hung up and tried again with the same outcome. He left a message and proceeded to fret for the rest of the day. He tried the phone again as the sun was setting. Nothing had changed from the morning. No one answered, so he sulked through the night. The next morning, he tried again. Still the same. And the next. And the next. And the next until suddenly a whole two months had passed. He had not seen or heard from Crowley and his worry began a frightening crescendo, an allegro of panic.
He left his little cottage by the sea in a whirlwind of anxiety, taking the train all the way to London. He stayed in a hotel there for another month, reaching out to any and all sources available to him to try and find his serpent. His car was still there, but he wasn’t in his Mayfair flat. He wasn’t in his favourite pubs. He wasn’t wandering the streets. And when Aziraphale reached out to try and locate the Demon via his ethereal powers, he couldn’t sense him either. Crowley was gone. Or, in the very least, hiding himself extremely well. Exhausted by the search, he informed Shadwell to keep an eye out, and left to return back to the South Downs.
He sulked for months on end. Calling Crowley’s phone every morning and evening in the off chance the red-head ever returned. He became despondent and no longer left the cottage to go into town. Instead, he spent his days waiting by the fireplace. Until one afternoon, a year and a half later, the phone rang.
By that point, he had stopped getting excited about that though. There were days when he would jump up excitedly, stopping what he was doing to run and snatch up the receiver only to be disappointed by a telemarketer or a surveyor or anyone that wasn’t Crowley. The ringing echoed through the cottage as he slowly shuffled into the front room.
“Hello, this is Mr. Fell, how may I help you?”
“…Zira.”
“…Crowley?” Azira’s voice caught in his throat at the question, coming out in a mere broken whisper. And he found himself sobbing. “C-Crowley, where are you? Please come home, dear! I miss you dreadfully.”
“Zira, I—” The Angel could hear a deep breath being drawn on the other end and waited patiently for him to continue. “I’m on my way over. Leave the door unlocked.”
“Crowley! Wait—” The dial tone sounded in his ear and he sighed, replacing the receiver back into its cradle. Standing, he followed his Demon’s instructions and unlocked the front door of the cottage. He stood back and stared at the entrance for a very long time. Until his legs felt stiff and he had to sit. He did so, never taking his eyes off the door.