Work Text:
Gaaaah. Crowley’s tongue feels as dry as sandpaper in his mouth. Too big, too, like a beached whale rotting behind his teeth. Gross. He tries to take a deep breath but it almost sends him into a coughing fit. He groans, barely aware of his surroundings but most definitely aware of his pounding headache.
He’s in bed. Not his bed, though. It’s far more comfortable than his own. The fluffiness of the pillow is a dead giveaway, then it’s the plump mattress he’s lying on, the soft-as-silk sheets tangled near his ankles. Right. Hotel. I’m in my hotel room.
He blinks his eyes open and turns his head, about to force himself out of his slumber-ish state so he can take care of that dry mouth before passing the fuck out again, except that the full glass of water he notices on his nightstand gives him pause. Strange. His past drunk self has never before been considerate enough to help him out in the mornings. He’s always had to drag himself to the loo and drink water straight out of the sink nozzle, cursing God and his chronic inability to drink responsibly in an endless, tiring loop.
Whatever. He doesn’t have the brains to analyse it or even silently thank himself. He sits up, slowly, groaning again when his headache reacts with more thunderous beats behind his eyes, and he grabs the glass to down water in big, hearty gulps. Ah. Better. Much better. Well, maybe slightly better. Judging by the fact that he can’t even remember getting back to his room last night, or getting into bed, he knows this hangover will be a massive one. Might even take him two days to recover. Fucking hell. You idiot.
It only dawns on him how much of an idiot he truly is when he sees two oblong white pills sitting on a tissue, right next to the glass he sets down. Now that’s fucking strange. A glass of water, that’s plausible. But Paracetamol? Nah. He wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have had the sense nor the energy to do that. He’s not that person. Never has been, never will be.
That’s when he finally hears it. Snoring. The soft, throaty inhales and exhales of a person sleeping, not nearly faint enough to be blamed on the adjacent room.
The realisation slaps him in the face, hard—a whip cracking on his cheek. This is the sound of someone sleeping right next to him.
He’s almost scared to look. He tries to soothe his nerves by telling himself that it must be Thema. He remembers bits and pieces of her being drunk off her arse, too, so he guesses she crashed with him instead of going back to her own room. Why they would’ve gone up together, two useless drunks stumbling down the hallways and most likely causing a racket, he doesn’t know, but she’s honestly the only person from work he imagines being comfortable sleeping—strictly sleeping—with.
But reality doesn’t lend itself to a soothing moment. Quite the fucking opposite. The person lying flat on his stomach, bed covers tucked all the way up to their chin, is clearly male. Crowley's gaze washes over a set of wide shoulders, a broad back, and straight hips.
And this clearly male person would be unrecognisable, his cheek pressed against the pillow and head turned towards the window, were it not for the back of his very recognisable head. His platinum blond curls, bleached nearly white—soft-looking blond curls Crowley has daydreamed about more times than he can count on his fingers (he’d need, like, ninety pairs of hands).
Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Oh fucking shit.
Aziraphale? He’s in bed with Aziraphale? He’s waking up hungover with the undeniable weight of Aziraphale’s body weighing down the king-size mattress next to him? Shut up. That’s… No.
He subtly, very carefully lifts the bed cover to take a peek underneath. He knows he’s not wearing a shirt but he’s suddenly very worried about pants. But oh, thank fuck, he’s not completely naked. He’s wearing pants. They don’t look out of sorts, either.
He brings his chin closer to his chest to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale’s body. He sees a white tee, baggy baby blue cotton boxers and the plump buttocks filling them up. It’s without a doubt the most undressed Crowley has ever seen Aziraphale be, but it’s not… it’s not…
He doesn’t know what it is. What it means. He doesn’t bloody remember.
He sneaks out of bed. The floorboards don’t creak beneath his feet, and he’s quick and nimble when he opens the door to the loo. He’s mindful not to make any noise when he closes it behind him. Whew. He doesn’t want to wake up Aziraphale. Or does he? Should he?
Alright. Alright. It’s hard to think properly with that fucking headache, and he certainly didn’t think to grab his phone before escaping into the loo. He can’t even text Thema, or Bee, to maybe get an idea of whatever the fuck happened last night, although he doubts that either of them are even awake. The small clock mounted above the door shows him 7:23 a.m.
No chance in hell either of them are awake. His phone would’ve been pointless.
There’s a small nightlamp plugged in beneath the mirror above the sink that makes it possible for him to see his reflection. He winces at the dark, heavy bags under his eyes, at the crumbs of dried drool in the corner of his mouth. He bends forwards—and ignores the relentless thumping against the walls of his skull—to rinse his face, grateful that the running water is way more quiet than at his flat. Then he grabs the mouthwash and swishes the liquid between his cheeks before silently spitting it down the drain. He’s worried that brushing his teeth would be too loud. He’ll do it later, when… after… fuck.
Alright. Alright. It’s about time to try and have a good think. Maybe his memory won’t fail him so much now that he’s not half asleep.
What can he remember? The open bar in the banquet hall, that’s one thing. The first few drinks of whisky he ordered, at least. The obnoxiously large banner pinned to the wall, announcing Tracy’s Retirement Bash in big block letters. That’s all easy to recall. What else? Gabriel’s farewell speech! When he walked up on the small stage and clinked a spoon against his glass to get everyone’s attention! That must’ve happened after plates were served, right after entrés and mains and desserts.
What next? Crowley’s trying to assemble a puzzle he can’t even see the pieces of in all their shapes and colours, but he tries his damned hardest to. He has a vague memory of Thema coming up behind him and hugging him at some point in the evening, slurring in his ear that she finds the new Rights Executive guy sorta, kinda, very fucking cute. He remembers snorting and struggling to get her off his back, to unwrap her arms from around his neck, before handing her off to Nina. He thinks they all talked for a while. Maybe? Oh, they might’ve gone out for a smoke. And he might have shouted nonsense at a passerby who gave him a bit of a stink eye, and he possibly called that man a fuckwit, but he’s fine forgetting about that.
He remembers leaning back against the bartop and keeping his drink close to his chin as he surveyed the room, his gaze often drawn back to a very specific table on the left side of the room. He remembers Muriel jumping up on said table and trying to get a singalong going—he most definitely remembers Aziraphale’s laugh when he tried many, many times to get them to come down from there. Aziraphale even shouted something, still laughing, about how he hadn’t finished eating his second piece of cake yet and that Muriel was about to kick it to the floor with their tomfoolery. Yes, he distinctly remembers Aziraphale loudly using the word tomfoolery.
The very last things he can grasp before they escape his mind in a cloud of fog are the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne, notes of honey and oakmoss, and the distant memory that they had some sort of long, hopefully pleasant conversation by the window. Is he insane to think that Aziraphale’s hand gently grabbed his shoulder at one point or another? Fuck.
There is a small—infinitely small—solace to find in the fact that he hadn’t been the only one to drown himself in drink. Most of the company took great advantage of the open bar, same as Crowley did. Except most of the company didn’t wake up in bed, half naked and hungover as hell, to find their workplace crush of the past two fucking years sleeping next to them.
He doesn’t think they had sex. He doesn’t believe Aziraphale would do that. He’s convinced that Aziraphale is not the type of person who would do that. Besides, he’s not feeling sore anywhere, or at least not beyond the general aches that make all of his muscles feel heavier than usual, which is to be expected after a night of heavy drinking.
No, they didn’t have sex. He’s sure of it.
The only questions that remain are simple, then.
What did they talk about for such a long time, just the two of them by the window?
How come they ended the night together in Crowley’s hotel room, in various states of undress, and fell asleep in the same bed?
Most important of all: Why is he such a goddamn drunken idiot, and what sort of stupid shit did he do? What did he say? What secrets did he share?
It’s not a great feeling, having all of these unanswered questions bouncing around in his skull, all of these black holes in his mind. It’s a pretty shitty feeling.
It’s the worst fucking feeling.
It would’ve been disturbing enough to wake up and realise he got way beyond pissed-drunk during a work event, but to wake up with Aziraphale? The same Aziraphale who Crowley can’t help but grin at like a lovesick lunatic whenever the man walks by the Design Department offices? The very same Aziraphale who always drives him mad with lewd thoughts whenever he nibbles on a pen cap or purses his lips to blow steam off his tea? Bloody Aziraphale, the one with the piercing blue eyes and the bastard little smile and the cosy sweater-vests and the insane collection of tartan bowties? That Aziraphale. The one and only. How is Crowley supposed to process that?
He never allowed himself to hope that whatever interaction he had with Aziraphale at work could ever mean anything. Sure, Crowley calls him angel from time to time, and he thinks he might have seen a faint blush rise to his cheeks when he greeted him that way once, but he quickly convinced himself that he must have imagined it, that it was hot on their floor that day. Anything but entertain the thought that Aziraphale’s suddenly rosy cheeks was a direct reaction to his words. To him.
And fine, sure, Aziraphale often asks him if he’d like some coffee whenever he’s on his way to the kitchen, and sometimes he lingers by his desk and compliments him on his illustrations—none of the generic stuff like that cover was beautiful but actual, thoughtful compliments about colours and perspectives and creative decisions—but he’s seen Aziraphale be nice that way to everyone.
Why would Crowley think he’s anything special? That’d be a definite path towards nothing but disappointment, a sure way to fall from high, high up.
There’s no way in hell or heaven that Aziraphale’s heart beats at the same relentless speed as Crowley’s whenever they smile and wave at each other in the lot. Or that he also gets that twisty, mushy feeling low in his gut whenever they get in the lifts at the same time and he insists on letting Crowley walk out first when they get to their floor. It’s far more likely that Aziraphale is sweet and polite and nice—and the fact that he’s gorgeous and adorable and perfect in all ways is something Crowley simply has to deal with.
He hasn’t been doing a great job of dealing with it. Unless dealing with it means pining after him thirty hours a week. If so, then he’s been doing a magnificent job.
He doesn’t know for how long he stays hidden in the loo, trying to decide on a plan of action. It’s not easy to come up with a plan when you’ve no idea what needs fixing. Part of him knows that all he can truly do is suck it up and face Aziraphale, face the awkwardness. Maybe he can quietly grab some clothes and escape to get breakfast, maybe he can avoid Aziraphale for a while, but all that’ll do is postpone the inevitable. Come Monday morning, they’ll have their big weekly meeting, and Aziraphale will be sitting across the conference table with the rest of the editorial team.
Would it be any better to face him then? The smarter part of Crowley knows that it definitely wouldn’t.
Only one thing left to do.
…
Quit his job?
Crowley doesn’t want to quit his job so he grows a spine and decides to peek out of the loo. Unfortunately for him, his newborn spine lets him down as soon as he sees that Aziraphale is not asleep but sitting in bed, typing on his phone.
He would’ve hoped for a bit more time.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale looks straight at him, his posture changing, his back shooting up straight, his hands flattening the bed covers over his lap. “Are you…” He frowns. “Why are you hiding behind the door? Come. The bed’s still warm, you know.”
Too stunned to do anything but obey, Crowley slowly steps out and approaches the bed, fighting the urge to cover his groin with both hands. His mouth feels dry again—too dry to speak. He hurries to get under the covers then makes a face that twists his features in ways he doesn’t even recognise, an attempt at a smile that looks more like a panicked grimace.
“Are you feeling alright? Would you like me to make us some tea?”
“No tea.” Crowley clears his throat, dragging his hand down his face. “I’m alright, thanks, just… confused.”
Actually he’s feeling dizzy and nauseous but he isn’t sure what the real cause is, if it’s all because of the poisonous effects of alcohol or the fact that Aziraphale sounds so bloody soft and calm and casual. It’s unsettling.
“Confused? But this can’t be your first hangover.” Aziraphale smiles at his own little joke. “Not feeling as invincible as last night, then?”
Crowley blinks. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his legs, or himself. He doesn’t know what to say. He tucks his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around his thighs and calves.
As for what to say, he settles on the truth. What else is there?
“No, not my first hangover,” he answers in all seriousness. “But I haven’t… er… blacked out like that in a while.”
Aziraphale’s smile drops. Not in one go but slowly, like it’s melting off his face.
“Oh, dear Lord.”
For a few tense seconds, maybe even a full minute, they stare at each other. Crowley tries to understand what’s happening in Aziraphale’s head by looking into his eyes, but it’s useless. He searches and searches for answers in a sea of bright blue and he comes up empty.
“What do you remember?”
Crowley gulps, tearing his gaze away to stare at the black screen of the telly instead. He can see their reflection in there, but it’s not a perfect mirror.
“Not much. Not anything important. Nothing that explains why…” He drops his head back, choosing to look at the ceiling instead. Even looking at Aziraphale’s blurry reflection, his silhouette sitting next to him, feels like it’s too much to bear. “Fuck, I dunno.”
A breathy laugh, an incredulous sort of gasp, escapes Aziraphale’s mouth.
“And yet you almost convinced me you weren’t that drunk. You kept saying you were pacing yourself fine!”
“Was I?” Crowley shrugs, wincing a bit because Aziraphale raised his voice and his head still hurts like a motherfucker. “Right, that sounds like me. Wasn’t pacing myself at all though. Sorry?”
“Sorry. Of course. What do you remember, Crowley?”
Now Aziraphale’s waiting for him to speak with his lips sucked in, with his eyebrows curled up. It’s strange but he doesn’t look angry, or even disappointed. He looks…
It’s getting increasingly harder to tell.
“I remember dinner. I remember almost everything until Tracy decided it was getting late and that she’d be heading up to her room. I remember her thanking everyone. I think you and I talked by the window for a while? Don’t remember how I got there, though, or what we talked about.”
He also remembers a hand on his shoulder, and he’s starting to remember warm breaths on his skin, close to his ear, but he doesn’t want to admit that.
“That’s it?” Aziraphale mutters a soft spoken, barely noticeable oh my god. “Jesus, Crowley. We talked for so long. You said a lot of things. I said a lot of things.”
There it is, then, Crowley thinks. He said things. His stupid mouth went ahead and decided to say things. A lot of things, apparently.
“Things? What things?” He is so fucked. “Aziraphale, what things?”
He’s fantasised before about what it would be like to take Aziraphale aside someday and let him know how he plagues his every thought. He’s imagined how that conversation might go plenty of times in the past. What he doesn’t understand is why his drunk self decided that last night was the night to do that.
Maybe I just told him I haven’t fucked anyone in a while, he tries to convince himself. Maybe I told him I’m lonely and miserable all the time. That’d be embarrassing but maybe that’s all it is.
“You told me…” Aziraphale sighs, raking his fingers through his curls. It leaves him looking even more disheveled than before, messy strands of hair sticking out at various angles. It’s devastatingly cute but Crowley can’t focus on that right now. “You said you were very attracted to me. That work was hell because of it. That it was…” Aziraphale interrupts himself with a chuckle, visibly nervous. “Well, actually, maybe it’d be best if I don’t remind you of all the details. Clearly you wouldn’t have been so forward had you had all your wits about you.”
There’s a fierce blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks, maybe even fierce enough to rival Crowley’s own.
“No, no, tell me. Please.” He knows it would be much worse not to know. He’d spend many, many sleepless nights wondering. “What’d I say?”
After taking a deep breath, Aziraphale lowers his voice down to a whisper.
“You said, and I quote: It's bloody difficult to draw mock-ups when you keep giving me hard ons, angel.”
NO! Because ‘I’m very attracted to you’ wasn’t bad enough?!
“No! No!” Crowley can’t even blink. He feels frozen on the spot, his heart racing, his massive headache nearly forgotten. “Did you slap me across the face?!” You should have!
“I… I didn’t.” Aziraphale looks down at his own hands, folding and unfolding them over his lap. “By that time you’d already tried to kiss me twice. I stopped you, of course. I couldn’t guess you would forget all of this, but I knew you were drunk. I confess you did manage to kiss my cheek, though. It was sweet.”
I kissed his cheek?! And I can’t remember it?! My lips on his cheek! My lips touched his cheek!
“Fuck. Me.” Crowley groans, wishing Aziraphale was the one who would’ve forgotten about all of it. “I’m so sorry. What did you do?!”
“Don’t apologise. I told you… Well… I said… I said that you should try reading and correcting manuscripts in that state. That it certainly wasn’t any easier.”
A complete reboot of Crowley’s brain might be required for him to process that.
“What?”
“We were flirting quite heavily, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiles at him, then gives a shy little shrug. “Not just you. Both of us.”
“Right.” Crowley can’t breathe. He looks to the side for his glass of water and finishes it, swallowing the Paracetamol along with it. He has a feeling his headache will come back in full force. “So, that’s why we…” He has no idea how to finish that sentence. He tries again. “That’s why you spent the night?”
Aziraphale is in such a hurry to clear things up that he immediately grabs Crowley’s forearm, squeezing it hard.
“Don’t worry, we did not have sex!” Not even a stutter in Aziraphale’s sentence. “Not for lack of you trying to convince me when we were in the lift, though.” He smirks. Aziraphale smirks. “I only came with you to make sure you’d make it to your room safe and sound, but you were all over me, dear. Saying that you’d thought about pushing the emergency stop at work and ravishing me against the wall whenever we’re going up together in the mornings. That you had half a mind to press the emergency stop right there and then. I nearly lost my mind.”
“God fucking damn it. What’s next, did I tell you that I think about you when I have a wank?!”
Crowley is half joking, because while that’s definitely true sometimes (correction—most times), he’s still hanging on to a flimsy thread of hope that the whisky didn’t loosen his tongue that much.
But the faint blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks darkens. Rapidly. His eyes grow wide.
Oh, fuck.
“I’m sorry, but you did say that.” Aziraphale giggles at the blatant shock crossing over Crowley’s face. “Well, not in those exact words. You were surprisingly eloquent. You said I was a recurring character in all of your wildest fantasies.”
Crowley stares, unblinking. He gulps. He dies a little inside.
“Of course. Yeah. Of course I said that. Jesus.” The embarrassment Crowley feels at his core starts being a bit too much to handle. He flips the corner of the bed covers, slipping a leg out. “Well, alright, don’t mind me then, I’m just going to find a nice place to dig a hole, crawl into it and never come back out, it was nice knowing you, Azira—”
“Wait! Hold on. Don’t run away from me.” Aziraphale bursts out laughing, arms flailing to grab one of Crowley’s and stop him. It works brilliantly. The sudden skin on skin contact, Aziraphale’s fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, although it’s warm, freezes Crowley’s entire body. “Do you not want to know what I said?”
Crowley scoffs. He settles back in bed, somewhat reluctantly.
“Bet you called me a pervert. Who says that to their fucking cowork—”
“I told you that I think about you, too.”
There are a few things Aziraphale said this morning that Crowley sort of… glossed over. His brain didn’t have the power supply required to compute it all in real time. He was using too much of it to save himself from morbid embarrassment. But now every single word Aziraphale said rushes back at him, flooding his thoughts.
It was sweet.
Don’t apologise.
We were flirting quite heavily. Both of us.
I nearly lost my mind.
And now—I think about you, too.
Then Crowley recalls Aziraphale’s reaction not so long ago, when he was cowardly hiding behind the door of the loo and Aziraphale only smiled at him and said: Come. The bed’s still warm, you know.
It’s stupidly obvious now. Aziraphale’s only confusion seemed rooted in the fact that Crowley wasn’t jumping back in bed to be with him.
Aziraphale seemed happy to wake up and see him.
“You’re kidding.” Crowley draws in a short, stifled breath. “You like me?”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but he also starts smiling with all his teeth.
“I cannot believe you’re making me say this twice.”
Crowley feels himself smiling, too. Probably more crooked and sultry than Aziraphale’s smile, but a bright and happy smile nonetheless.
“Think of it like you had a practice round. I promise I’ll remember this time. Every word.”
Aziraphale turns slightly on his side towards him, and it’s the first time since he woke up that Crowley truly lets himself acknowledge his deepest, most ardent hopes. He finally sees the way Aziraphale looks at him, that shining glint near his pupils, that spark of desire and longing. Crowley’s vision isn’t obscured by a thick cloud of shame, doubt and panic anymore. He sees.
“You drive me mad, Crowley. Absolutely insane. I’ve spent the better part of the last two years trying to work up the courage to ask you out. Do I like you? I do. Of course I do. How could I not? You’re the most clever, funny, talented man I’ve ever met. You’re the most stunning. The most charming. The most attractive. I like you beyond what feels reasonable.”
All it took was for Aziraphale to say that first sentence and Crowley was already reaching out for his hand, locking it in a tight grip, making sure he was real. Now he lets go, but only to run his fingers up Aziraphale’s arm, to graze over his bicep before he settles on the nape of his neck, soft hair ticking his knuckles.
He leans forward a bit. Just a bit.
“We’re a couple of idiots,” Crowley whispers. “I’ve been pining after you for the last two years, too.”
Aziraphale makes a face as if to say obviously, either to the first statement or the second, Crowley doesn’t know, but regardless he wants nothing more than to kiss him senseless. To kiss him hard and leave him breathless. And apparently he tried to do exactly that a few times last night. He imagines his reasons must have been the same as right now. Aziraphale’s lips are so tempting. So sweet-looking. The way he breathes with his mouth slightly agape suggests that he’s more than ready for him to lean in.
So, Crowley leans in. He shuts his eyes, ignoring how much of a mindfuck it is that this is finally happening, that what once felt like an unattainable dream is now within such close reach, it’s right there, Aziraphale likes him back, and surely they’re about to kiss now, surely—
Aziraphale gasps and recoils, almost like he’s been shot.
“No, don’t! I haven’t brushed my teeth yet!”
The initial shock of Aziraphale interrupting the moment quickly fades away. Crowley doesn’t even have time to be scared or worried.
He can only laugh.
“Damn it.” He keeps his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s head for a few seconds before he drops it, letting it fall and rest on his thigh. The covers are in the way, a soft barrier between his palm and Aziraphale’s skin, but even so, it’s the most he’s ever touched him before. It feels unreal. “Me neither, you know,” Crowley admits. “But there’s mouthwash in the loo. I used that. And I don’t care if we just press our lips together, angel. I need to kiss you. Please.”
Aziraphale nods, agreeing with urgency, but he still doesn’t move.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley gives a knowing smile, easily able to guess why Aziraphale is so stunned, and then he thinks, fuck it. He drags the bedsheets out of the way, uncovering Aziraphale’s legs, trying hard not to stare when he sees his bare thighs in the light. “What’re you waiting for?”
Aziraphale finally snaps out of it. He chuckles and gets out of bed, and then he hurries to the loo, shutting the door. Crowley’s left staring at the empty space in the bed where he was just sitting, at the dips in the mattress, smiling dumbly at himself. After a little while he hears Aziraphale gargle, and he smiles even harder.
When Aziraphale comes back, in quick little steps bringing him over to the other side of the bed before he slips under the sheets again, he scoots much closer to the center of the mattress than he was before. It’s almost like everything fades away but him. The fancy hotel room is only a background to his beauty. The world could’ve gone to shit outside and Crowley wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. Let it burn, he would’ve thought. Let everything collapse and crumble to dust. As long as I get to kiss him now.
The world doesn’t need to end for them to kiss, though. Now Aziraphale takes the lead, dragging a hand down Crowley’s arm until he gently grabs him near his elbow, and in only a few blinks Crowley sees his face get closer, and closer, and closer, until the gap between their bodies is barely a gap at all.
He shuts his eyes just as Aziraphale’s lips press against his. It’s not a hurried clash of their mouths, it isn’t lust taking the reins when Aziraphale tilts his head and finds a better angle for them to kiss. It’s not the sort of kiss they would’ve had last night had Aziraphale allowed it to happen. It’s not a senseless kiss, sloppy and heated and uncoordinated.
It’s just their lips meeting, moving only a little, no hint of tongue whatsoever. But it still leaves Crowley breathless. Aziraphale, too, judging by the way he pants when he slowly pulls away.
It’s the best fucking kiss Crowley’s ever had. Because it’s Aziraphale. The same Aziraphale who makes Crowley’s heart feel too big for his chest when they talk and joke for too long in the break room at work. The very same Aziraphale who has him squirming in his office chair whenever he gets a bit bitchy and asserts his opinion during meetings, or when he gets defiant and tells Gabriel off in strangely polite ways. Gorgeous Aziraphale, the one with the radiant skin and the pretty hands and the perfect posture and the most mouth-watering, round, perky arse Crowley has ever laid his eyes on. That Aziraphale. The one and only.
How is Crowley supposed to keep his calm after they’ve just kissed?
“Angel. Angel.” He presses his open palms to Aziraphale’s cheeks and runs a thumb over his mouth, catching his bottom lip and jutting it out, mesmerised by the wetness that’s shining there, of his own doing, by the pink natural gloss. “I’m sorry I got so drunk and messy last night. I wish I could remember everything.”
Crowley doesn’t leave time—or space—for Aziraphale to answer and leans in again, and this time Aziraphale doesn’t recoil. In fact he leans in as well, as if drawn to him in a way that suggests it’s impossible to resist. He feels Aziraphale’s hand tremble behind his shoulderblades before he applies a firmer touch, a more self-assured one, and then he follows the path down Crowley’s spine until he finds a nice spot to hold around his waist.
It makes Crowley feel the urge to deepen the kiss but he dives for Aziraphale’s neck instead, groaning appreciatively when Aziraphale cants his head back to give him better access. He grins before he kisses him beneath his earlobe, and he grins again when he gives a quick lick over his pulse point. He gently sucks on the flesh above his collarbone, not long enough to raise a bruise to the surface but only to feel Aziraphale writhe and to hear him moan.
Crowley has dreamed far too many times, for far too long, about what it would be like to arouse Aziraphale this way and he can’t get enough of it now. It feels right. Better than right. It feels meant to be.
“Crowley, oh God—”
Crowley hums and makes the decision to straddle Aziraphale’s lap in a split second, throwing the bedding out of the way. He stretches his legs as wide as he can and settles in, his cock feeling heavy and starting to tent his pants when Aziraphale immediately grabs his waist, and then Crowley’s hit with a thought. A question. A distraction from the urge to roll his hips down and chase after friction.
“Angel,” he says, trailing a finger along the soft line of Aziraphale’s jaw, pressing his hand against Aziraphale’s chest after. “I’m practically naked. Did you undress me?”
It sends a hot jolt directly to Crowley’s loins, to think of Aziraphale taking his clothes off, not even seeking pleasure but only to make sure he slept comfortably. It sends a hot jolt directly to his heart.
The thoughts in Aziraphale’s head are unreadable, even through his bright expressive eyes, but he wastes no time answering the question. Or, well, he wastes only a little bit of time, running his hands up and down Crowley's sides, biting down on his bottom lip until he breaks and a soft moan leaves him.
“I didn’t,” Aziraphale says, chest heaving. “You took care of that yourself.” He smiles, obviously remembering, then chuckles. “Even gave me a bit of a show. You danced. Without any music, mind you. Just threw your shirt off and kept your arms above your head as you swung those slinky hips of yours.”
“Oh, Christ.” What had he been thinking? That some sort of mating ritual was the perfect way to seduce Aziraphale? Christ.
“Then it was those maddening skin-tight trousers, but you struggled with that. Got tired.” Aziraphale settles his hands on the lowest curve of his back, pressing him closer. It’s almost difficult to follow the thread of his words now that he feels the bulge of Aziraphale’s erection beneath him, but Crowley takes a breath and he tries to focus. “You collapsed at the foot of the bed, half hanging off, and you refused to move. I had to drag you up to get your head on the pillow.”
“Fuck.”
Crowley feels equally turned on and guilty that Aziraphale had to deal with that. Aziraphale had to manhandle him to get him to lie in bed properly. He had to use his strength and grab him and move him.
It’s also absolutely tragic that he can’t remember it.
Aziraphale keeps talking, his face adopting the softest look ever known to man.
“Then you insisted I get comfortable, too. And you kept thanking me, over and over again. You… you asked me to stay.” He licks his lips. “Actually, you begged me to. I tried to leave but you started whining.”
Whining?!
“No I didn’t!” Crowley gasps, shocked. Whining has never been his style, no matter how fucked up he gets. Of course he doesn’t know how to act around Aziraphale even when he’s sober, but—
“Fine, you didn’t.” Aziraphale laughs, happily caught in his lie. “But you gave me the most irresistible puppy dog eyes, and it worked. I stayed. Prepared you a glass of water and the pain relief tablets and I got into bed.”
It now seems that most of the night is accounted for. Of course it’s all terribly embarrassing, but Crowley doesn’t mind it now that he can see so much plain adoration in Aziraphale’s eyes. He doesn’t mind it at all now that he’s had a taste of his lips, now that he’s seen a glimpse of what it might be like to be with him. To have him. To love him.
“You really took care of me, huh?” Crowley feels such a burning heat in his cheeks that he almost worries his face is about to catch up in flames. “Always knew you were an angel.”
Aziraphale hides his face against Crowley’s chest, forehead pressed to his sternum, giggling and laying a sweet kiss there before he raises back to the surface.
“You’re quite the adorable drunk. It wasn’t too difficult. It doesn’t take an angel.” Aziraphale never stops smiling. “Before I knew it you were wrapping an arm around me and hugging me from behind. Before I knew it you were content, muttering slight nonsense about how warm I was, and then you were snoring. Before I knew it, I was falling asleep as well.”
“I begged you to stay so we could cuddle?” That doesn’t sound like him at all but then again it sort of does. Crowley always wondered what it would be like to fall asleep with Aziraphale in his arms. For all the wild fantasies he’s had featuring Aziraphale at the forefront of his mind, he’s had twice that amount of domestic, loving, innocent dreams.
“Apparently so.” Aziraphale kisses his cheek, his lips lingering there as though he’s trying to savour it for as long as he can. “And I’m very glad you did.”
Crowley nods, agreeing with a mumbled me too, and then his hands start moving of their own accord, diving beneath the hem of Aziraphale’s tee to find the warmth of his skin. He moves up until he can caress Aziraphale’s chest, until he can brush his thumbs over his nipples, grinning when Aziraphale reacts with a gasp and a sudden, unchecked buck of his hips.
It makes Crowley feel drunk again, dazed and dizzy but without the horrible aftertaste of booze at the back of his throat. Aziraphale might very well be his new favourite drug, he thinks, and with the way Aziraphale starts arching his back into the touch, with the way he squeezes his eyes shut and moans when his nipples perk up from the stimulation, Crowley knows that he’s already addicted, that he’s downright obsessed. One hit of Aziraphale and absolute delight rushes through his veins. He’s ruined.
He brings his mouth down to Aziraphale’s and holds back a whimper when he feels the tip of his tongue dart out, when he gets a quick taste of wintergreen mouthwash.
Maybe whining is more his style than he thought.
“Mhm, angel…” He hates to interrupt such a fantastic kiss but he can’t help voicing his thoughts. “We have about three hours until it’s time to check out, right?”
“That’s correct, yes,” Aziraphale says in one breath, lazily chasing after his lips to try and resume the kiss. “What do you have in mind, dear?”
Crowley grins.
“For starters, I’m pretty sure the shower’s big enough for two. And I think I’m ready to make some of my wildest fantasies come true. What d’you say?”
Aziraphale smiles back at him, looking into his eyes almost like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and even less what he’s hearing.
“Do you really have to ask?”
On Monday morning, Crowley walks into the Dark Horse Press offices holding Aziraphale’s hand, winking at Bee when they shoot him an incredulous look, saluting Thema when she playfully bows at the sight of them. When they walk by Maggie’s desk, she clasps a hand over her mouth then immediately rolls her chair backwards to tap Nina’s shoulder and make her see. Muriel lets out an excited squeak.
Basically, everyone stares. Well, except for Shadwell—that old bloke obviously doesn’t care. He blinks at them then goes back to looking at the papers on his desk.
“How long do you think we have until this reaches Gabriel’s ears?” Crowley whispers to Aziraphale, squeezing his hand tighter before intertwining their fingers.
“Oh, dear, I should think everyone will know before we even make it to the conference room for our meeting. So… Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most?”
Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it, and he hears more than a few gasps around the room. Yeah. It won’t take fifteen minutes. It might not even take five.
“Perfect. Then everyone will know you’re mine.”
Aziraphale shakes his head, giggling.
“As if you’re the one showing me off. Silly.”
“Oh, angel, but I am.”