Chapter Text
1.
The moment they are alone, Crowley gives in to his fatigue and all but collapses into Aziraphale's arms.
“Oh dear,“ the angel speaks softly into his hair, "we will need a bed."
Crowley barks out a laughter. He is so exhausted it is bordering absurdity. Unfortunately, they cannot leave this place without taking care of the goddam artefacts. The amendment goes something like: Don't let magic stuff get into the hands of mortals. And that's basically why they are still here. Formalities.
Aziraphale does most of the work. He puts all the artefacts in a box and miracles them back to the village. He even helps him to the bench. Just when he’s about to stand up and move away, Crowley grabs his sleeve. “Thank you.”
Aziraphale looks down at him, eyes heavy with emotion Crowley is too scared to name. "You're welcome."
He sits down on the other end of the bench and folds his hands in his lap. The familiar mannerism makes Crowley smile. An idea pops into his head.
“Tempt you to a bottle of red?”
Aziraphale looks at him with gratitude. “You know I can resist everything except temptation.”
Crowley grins.
The wine just appears. It's one dusty bottle and they drink from it in turns. And even though Crowley feels like he's going to die from exhaustion anytime soon, he has to admit that this moment is pretty special. What with the way the angel keeps brushing his hand every time they pass the bottle between them. What with the way Crowley loves him.
2.
Crowley doesn’t realise he’s crying until Aziraphale stops talking and asks in a worried tone, “what’s wrong, my dear?”
They are still at the Ritz. The sky outside has darkened and the pianist has had two smoking breaks so far. There’s a candle on the table in front of them, tall and yellow, slowly dying as the evening progresses.
Crowley touches his hand to his cheek and discovers the moisture there. He wipes it away fast, his cheeks burning.
“What do you mean?”
Aziraphale studies him carefully. ”Have I said something wrong?”
“What?” Crowley snaps, confused by the question, “no, no! You haven’t. Nothing to worry about, angel. Tell me more about the secret cocoa recipe. So, you add the marshmallows, yeah? And then what? There must be a different secret ingredient because otherwise the recipe isn’t secret at all. Everybody knows about the marshmallows.”
Aziraphale closes his mouth and doesn’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t even resume nibbling on his cheese cake. There’s an expression on his face that’s full of worry still and now tainted also with a little bit of guilt. Clearly, not the one he’s had on before, the one of childlike excitement as he was telling Crowley about the secret cocoa recipe that he’s found in one of his centuries-old cooking books. The mood’s shifted. Crowley’s own tears betrayed him and now the silence is almost unbearable.
“Angel, you really shouldn’t worry about me,” he pleads.
“But your eyes, dear. Can I see them?”
“My eyes? Why would you want to see them?”
“Please,” Aziraphale interrupts him in such insistent tone that all resistance Crowley’s planned to show, drains away.
“Okay,” he admits with a sigh and slides the Valentinos off with a jerk of his hand.
A soft gasp escapes Aziraphale’s lips the moment his tear-stained eyes are revealed. Crowley lowers his gaze in shame.
“Darling,” Aziraphale speaks softly, “what on Earth is going on?”
There’s enough sharpness in his voice for Crowley to look up again. He swallows, wondering what’s there to say. He shakes his head at his own sentimentality.
“It’s… it’s not what it looks like.” He offers him a watery smile. “I am happy. Those are happy tears.”
Aziraphale gapes at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Crowley wipes off his eyes with the hem of his sleeve and puts the sunglasses back on. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down.
“Have you never cried from happiness?”
Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him. “No.”
“Have you ever cried from sadness?”
“No- oh wait, yes. I have.”
“Well, then imagine that feeling you had when you cried from sadness but imagine it in reverse. That’s how I feel right now - the happiest I’ve ever been.”
“But why?”
“What why?”
“Why are you the happiest you’ve ever been?”
He can feel himself blush again. The answer has been sitting on his tongue for the past 6,000 years. He wants to say it. He wants to get it off his chest but the longer he looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, the less courage he has. He feels it leaving him, making way for fear and doubt.
Aziraphale catches his hand on the table and squeezes it tight.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
“But you deserve to hear it.” His voice is so small it doesn’t even sound like his own.
“And you deserve to say it when you’re ready, my dear.”
“What if I will never be?”
Aziraphale smiles at him then, an adoring smile, one that heals and destroys Crowley both at the same time.
“Then it won’t make a difference to me because I already know.”
3.
Of course they become inseparable after the averted apocalypse.
There’s no yours or mine anymore. There’s just home. Let’s go home, Aziraphale says after their date at the Ritz. And, the truth is, it has always been their home. The bookshop. The place Crowley associates with warmth and safety, where he’s hidden himself many times in the past, where all his fears just disappear and he can sleep in peace. They go there. They go home.
But it’s not quite like he remembers.
The feeling’s stronger. The walls remember him in the fire. They witnessed his grief and rage. They know how deep the bond goes and they are ready to protect it.
Because, just look at him. Aziraphale belongs here. The bookshop loves him back. It’s a joy, watching him reunite with it. He is adorable. The way he touches the backs of the books and hugs the pillars upon which the ceiling stands. The way he frowns at the new titles but can’t quite hide his interest in reading them.
Crowley falls even deeper. Not sure how that is possible, but he does.
He leaves him to it and explores the rest of the place, with his own eyes this time. The backroom looks the same as ever. There’s the sofa and the armchair, the desk and the wardrobe. It’s not much.
It’s very small in fact. So small, Crowley starts playing with the idea of rebuilding it into something bigger. Something with a bedroom for a start.
And so he gets on with it. He doesn’t change much about it since he wants to preserve its cosiness but he does let his imagination run a bit wild.
He adds another sofa and a fluffy carpet that covers the entire floor. He elevates the ceiling and miracles a fancy chandelier that he hangs from it because it looks dope.
He leaves the backroom (now a proper living room) be and proceeds onto the next important room, the bathroom. He builds a bath, about the size of a small swimming pool and installs five different kinds of faucets to the bottom.
At last, he miracles a bedroom that would make any couple jealous.
Speaking of couples, he goes to find Aziraphale.
Of course he finds him reading.
Crowley smiles because he should have known. He sits down next to him, leaning closer to his body heat, resting his head on his shoulders.
He squints at the letters.
“What’s it about?”
“Hmm?”
Crowley chuckles and presses a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t repeat his question. Instead, he moves even closer to him and slides his hand under his shirt. He feels him shiver from the unexpected touch.
His fingers spread as far as they can and run upwards to his torso. The touch to his nipples is very gentle and slow. Crowley closes his eyes and concentrates only on Aziraphale’s sharp intakes of breath, on the way he relaxes into his touch and starts leaning into it.
Before he knows it, there are lips on his own, demanding to be let inside. He smiles against them because that was easy. He hears the book clink against the floor and then there are hands sliding into his hair, pulling his face impossibly close. A moan escapes his lips.
He almost forgets about their new bedroom. Almost.
4.
Soft as feathers, Crowley’s hair is on the back of his neck. Aziraphale presses his face deeper, feels the rising and the falling of his chest as if it were his own and just remains, breathing in the familiar scent. He loves sleeping. Not as much for himself as he loves it for Crowley, to be sleeping, while he revels in the simple luxury that is the nearness, from it the warmth, the comfort.
It is so…human. This need.
Holding Crowley, he brushes the back of his hand with his thumb, squeezes it gently, so as to not wake him but rather to reassure him, in whatever dream he’s in, that he’s also here, in their bed, being held.
He smiles in his sleep and Aziraphale adores him.
5.
Aziraphale’s fingertips stretch and brush against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley stirs in his sleep but doesn't wake up. Accepting the challenge, Aziraphale leans over him and kisses there where his fingers have been just a moment ago.
Pale yellow fires stare back at him, unblinking.
Aziraphale blushes but doesn't budge from the position. Casually, he mouths his way up to Crowley’s brows, and showers it in a plenty of kisses.
“What do you want?”
Crowley's voice growls like a thunder. Aziraphale knows him well enough to hear his smile behind the grumpiness.
“Do I have to want something to kiss you?” He plays all innocent.
“You usually do,” Crowley reminds him with his eyebrows raised incredulously.
“Not this time.”
Aziraphale traces a trail down his nose with little, snowflake kisses. Then suddenly, Crowley comes to life under him and wraps his arms around him.
“Liar,” he says and unites their lips.
Aziraphale finds himself on his back soon enough. Crowley is gentle with his wrists when he pins them above his head.
6.
Three times they do it. Three times and then they lose count.
First, on top of a tour bus. They sit close together. Elbow to elbow. Shoulder to shoulder. Hands joined, naturally, in Aziraphale’s lap. They’re driving down Oxford Street when Aziraphale gently cradles Crowley’s face and Crowley turns away from the window, little startled at the touch.
“What?”
Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him on the lips.
It’s the softest sensation.
They both close their eyes, both breathe carefully the same air.
Somebody clears their throat.
They pull apart with the sound.
“What was that for?”
Aziraphale shrugs his shoulders, tries to appear indifferent but can’t contain his smile.
“Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
Second, inside an old tavern in Finland.
They’re on holiday and Aziraphale’s had a bit too much mulled wine. His head is on Crowley’s shoulder, his arm around his waist and he’s drifting off slowly to the sound of other people’s chatter.
Crowley’s been listening to his voice the whole evening. The rises, the falls, the constants, he can’t get enough of them. Probably because he’s had too much to drink too.
But now the tavern is almost empty and they should get going. They don’t want to start a fight with the barman.
“Hey,” he starts as gingerly as he can, “we should sober up.”
Aziraphale lifts his head from his shoulder and opens his eyes.
He looks like a lost puppy.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said-” He stops suddenly. The realisation that he can kiss him now hits him and he does exactly that. Just for a moment, he presses their lips together, making sure to get a good taste of the mulled wine on Aziraphale’s tongue.
Soon the moment’s gone.
It’s Crowley who stops the kiss first.
“Sober up you idiot.”
He pushes himself off the table and waits for Aziraphale with his hand outstretched towards him.
Aziraphale stares at him like he doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“Oh for God’s sake.”
Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and pulls him to his feet.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Third, in the bookshop, in the backroom, in their bed.
It’s just like their normal sleep routine until it’s not.
The lamp on Aziraphale’s side of the bed is on. He’s reading a novel of some sort while Crowley’s sprawled on his belly next to him. He’s not sleeping yet. His cheek’s pressed into the pillow. His view of Aziraphale’s perfect like this.
Unobserved, he observes him calmly - the shape of his face, the light reflected on it, the infinitesimal movements such as the one of his fingers, flipping the page, or the one of his lips curling upwards or downwards depending on where in the novel he is at the given time.
He does get observed too, eventually.
Though he closes his eyes as he’s caught and pretends to be sleeping.
So Aziraphale moves into his personal bubble. His lips hover just a bit above his own.
“I love you,” he says and then they’re kissing again.
7.
Crowley knows Aziraphale.
6000 years will do that for you if you’re observant enough. And Crowley’s far beyond observant. He’s centred. His existence depends on knowing who Aziraphale is.
He’s kind and forgiving and warm but also very much not touching Crowley.
There’s a book in his hands now, the first edition, and his eyes slide down the page the same way they slide down the menu at the Ritz. With love, with reverence, with appreciation, with hunger.
He sits down on the sofa that Aziraphale’s lying on. They fit not because the sofa is particularly big but because the angel’s legs are bent. He’s using his thighs as a stand for his book and he’s using his lap to balance a cup of cocoa on it.
The whole image of him, so peaceful and content, fascinates Crowley beyond words. It’s now, in his old sweater and those unnecessary glasses that he looks the most angelic. Just because he cares so much for something so simple as a poetry book. Just because he’s real.
Crowley leans over and tucks a stray curl behind his ear.
Aziraphale doesn’t look up right away. He stills for a moment and then lifts up his eyes. He smiles.
“Thank you. It's been bothering me for some time now.”
Crowley smiles back.
Aziraphale reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently. “Everything alright, love?”
He knows him so well. Crowley’s smile falters a bit. He flicks his eyes towards the cup of cocoa and then back to Aziraphale. How does he explain that he’s jealous of a physical object? How does he explain the overwhelming need to be closer?
Aziraphale understands, somehow. He sits up and leans against the backrest, offering his now free lap to Crowley. Crowley accepts so eagerly that it wins him a soft laughter from Aziraphale.
In embarrassment, he lifts up his sweater and buries his face into the soft skin of his stomach.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs fondly, “you could have just asked.”
8.
“Why do you never call me baby?” Aziraphale asks one morning between sips of tea and bites of coconut flavoured muffin.
Crowley, who’s been reading the news up until now, puts them down and furrows his brows in confusion. “What?”
Aziraphale gives him a pointed look.
“Why do you never call me baby?”
“Why do I…”
Crowley’s expression goes from one of bored nonchalance to one of stuttering embarrassment in a matter of seconds.
“You are asssking… why I…”
“Yes.”
Aziraphale watches him calmly.
“Well,” Crowley blurts out, “do you want me to call you baby?”
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admits rather dejectedly.
“You don’t know,” Crowley parrots in a flat tone.
“I would have to hear it first.”
Crowley groans. “Really now?”
“Yes.”
Crowley looks around in fear that somebody might be following their conversation.
Reassured of their privacy at last, he turns back to Aziraphale with a sigh.
“You are a bastard, baby,” he says quietly.
Aziraphale gives him a sharp look before closing his eyes and pretending to be deep in thought.
“Well?” Crowley prompts him with prominent urgency.
Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that, my dear. Would you mind calling me baby again?”
Crowley rolls his eyes.
“Sure, baby,” he says, stressing out the latter word in the most sarcastic way possible.
Aziraphale opens his eyes with a snap.
“That’s not the way you are supposed to say it.”
Crowley frowns. Even though he wasn’t serious before, Aziraphale’s criticism hurts.
“What’s the way then?”
“Softer, my dear. Much, much softer.”
“Yeah, like how?”
Aziraphale smiles. “Like this, perhaps.”
“Baby,” he breathes and Crowley gasps at the tenderness of his voice, “I think you should stick with calling me angel.”
Crowley finds himself speechless.
“On the other hand,” Aziraphale continues, “do you want me to call you baby?”
Crowley’s blushing so hard at this point that even the tips of his ears are red.
“I take that as yes.”
9.
“Kiss me,“ Aziraphale says.
Crowley tears his eyes away from the movie, flicks them towards Aziraphale and his jaw drops.
The bookshop’s glowing. There are garlands, ornaments, stockings. Even the angel himself is wearing a fluffy halo above his head. His smug, self-satisfied grin, however, is what tops it all.
“Had fun?“ It comes out rather choked out of Crowley’s throat.
“Much.“
Aziraphale looks up and Crowley follows his gaze, finally noticing the mistletoe.
“No,“ he exhales, half in disbelief, half in embarrassment because he realises what’s all this about a second too late.
“Yes.“
Crowley gets up on his trembling legs, lets the blanket fall back down on the sofa, revealing his nakedness.
He meets the angel’s gaze with a tinge of pink on his cheeks.
“Gorgeous,“ Aziraphale says. He’s staring at him like he’s the angel and not the other way around. There’s something beautifully broken about that, giving him courage to cross the room.
“Kiss me,“ Aziraphale says again when he hesitates in front of him.
And Crowley doesn’t have to be told twice.
10.
“Love, love, love.”
“What is it, angel?”
“Look at those fairy lights. They are so pretty. We must get them.”
“Must we?”
“Oh, we most definitely must.”
And so, they do get those fairy lights, hanging them up on the windows and the walls until the whole place is glowing with pink softness. Aziraphale’s quite happy with the change.
“So, what do we do now?”
Crowley’s leaning against the doorframe, eyeing the angel with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
“We enjoy the view.”
“Oh, like this?”
He makes it a point to stare at him only and he blushes.
“No.”
“How then?”
“Come sit here. I’ll show you.”
Crowley complies. He lowers himself down onto the fluffy carpet between his legs, letting Aziraphale wind his arms around his waist and pull him closer against his chest. With his head on Crowley’s shoulder he asks, “aren’t they beautiful like this?”
“Yeah,” Crowley breathes back, closing his eyes, losing himself in the pleasant warmth, “so beautiful.”