Work Text:
Crack!
Aziraphale materializes from a flash of light, blinking and disoriented, in the middle of Whickber Street.
Immediately, the back of his neck prickles and he looks around warily, ignoring the busy people parting around his motionless form like schools of fish.
Something feels…very wrong.
Moving hastily to the sidewalk and out of the way of any traffic, Aziraphale walks cautiously to the front of the bookshop, barely sparing a thought for how nice it is to see his home again in favor of casting his senses about, searching for the source of familiar, demonic energy.
It’s not coming from inside the shop.
Frowning, Aziraphale slowly releases the door handle without turning it, tilting his head at an angle and concentrating. Uncertainly, he wanders further down the street only to stop in front of the dimly lit alley that separates the bookshop from the nameless building next door.
Yes, it’s strongest down there.
Squinting, Aziraphale moves carefully down the alley, the ambient chatter of main Whickber Street fading into the distance behind him. At first, he sees nothing but dirt, trash, and the unfortunate scurrying rat. But then his eyes finally adjust to the lack of light and he spies -
An achingly familiar black snakeskin boot.
Aziraphale stifles a gasp.
Laying tangled in dirty blankets, looking as filthy as the alley around him, with an empty bottle of cheap wine on its side nearby…is Crowley.
Hell must have refused to give him his flat back, Aziraphale thinks deliriously, a horrible chill overtaking him from head to toe. But where on Earth is the Bentley -
Laying on his back with his long limbs splayed in every direction, Crowley still has his glasses on, but Aziraphale can tell despite their irritating interference that the demon is more or less asleep.
(And something about the realization that his absence has done this to Crowley gives Aziraphale the twin urges to wrap his wings around the demon and to get his hands on any part of him he can reach and dig his nails in -)
Crowley’s foot twitches restlessly.
Aghast and guilt-ridden as Aziraphale feels at seeing Crowley like this - knowing as sure as anything that it’s entirely his fault, him and his stupid, thoughtless words - Aziraphale can’t help but be filled with a steadfast determination to fix it.
(Because the sight of Crowley laying on filthy pavement, with dirt on his face and in his limp, unwashed hair, physically pains Aziraphale, because Crowley should sleep only in a sinfully soft bed with clean sheets and his loving angel there to take care of him -)
“Crowley.”
The demon’s head snaps up in an instant.
(And some nasty, bitter, distinctly unangelic part of him is extremely pleased with the way Crowley comes to instantly at the sound of his voice.)
“What on Earth are you doing sleeping in an alleyway?”
Crowley jerks fully upright before leaning back on his elbows, apparently trying and failing spectacularly at looking carefree, before giving up and flopping back down onto the unforgiving pavement.
“What’s it to you?” he spits nastily.
Aziraphale is momentarily taken back at the pure venom in his voice before he remembers who exactly he’s talking to.
Ah, yes.
Crowley has always turned snarly and defensive when upset or injured, behaving like a wounded animal, shying away from any sort of assistance like it’s a cruel trap, but right now?
Well, that simply won’t do.
Resolving to mask all his pain and distress at the sheer parlor of Crowley’s skin and the singular, nearly dead potted plant nearby, Aziraphale ignores Crowley’s predictable snapping and snarling, and instead turns business-like and efficient.
“Right,” he says tersely, already heading back up the alleyway. “Come along, then. Inside. I need to talk to you.”
“What?” barks Crowley after him rudely. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Aziraphale barely slows enough to throw an irritated glance and a bitchily raised eyebrow over his shoulder.
“As I said,” he snipes. “I need to talk to you.”
He doesn’t wait for him, instead heading back around the corner to the door of the bookshop, barely listening to the fading sound of Crowley’s curses.
He knows the demon will follow him eventually.
(Because the only place to which he hasn’t followed him yet is Heaven.)
Sure enough, by the time Aziraphale gets the fiddly door of the bookshop unlocked, he can hear Crowley’s angry shuffle-stomping gait round the corner behind him.
Aziraphale enters the bookshop without a glance over his shoulder.
He listens to Crowley follow as slowly as possible and slam the door pointedly behind him. Aziraphale takes a moment to try and gather himself, attempting to rein in the incessant fluttering sensation in his chest - at being back here, in the bookshop, with Crowley - while pretending to admire his books.
When he finally turns around, it’s to find the demon leaning against the pillar nearest the door, glasses still firmly in place and gazing apathetically - as far as Aziraphale can tell - at the floor.
“So…” Aziraphale begins with a forced lightness to his voice.
“…So?” Crowley echoes after a long moment of waiting for a follow-up, his tone bored and disinterested. “Whaddya want?”
“I’ve come to help you,” Aziraphale informs him brightly.
“Have you?” Crowley mumbles rhetorically.
The pure apathy in his voice makes Aziraphale’s palms itch with worry far more than his clear sarcasm does.
“That’d be a first.”
That hurts, however true it may be, and Aziraphale struggles to swallow past his dry throat before responding.
(Because it would take more time than they currently have left before the Second Coming to tally all the instances in their six thousand years when Aziraphale wanted to help Crowley, whether it was with a temptation, a good bottle of wine, or laying him down and wrapping him up and making him see stars -)
“Do you want an apology from me?”
Perhaps it would be best to cut to the chase.
To Aziraphale’s intense surprise, Crowley shrugs noncommittally. “Dunno,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t change anything, would it?”
Aziraphale shifts his weight uncomfortably where he’s standing, the worn floorboards of the bookshop creaking slightly in familiar tones, and tries to muscle down the panic creeping up his throat. It’s the first occasion in his long memory in which Crowley has not loudly and gleefully demanded the apology dance and a complimentary evening of alcoholic revelries in compensation for one of the angel’s many mistakes.
It feels wrong.
“Crowley,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere, and trying not to cry as the demon continues to stare - uncaring - at the floor. “This is bigger than you and me. This is the Second Coming we’re talking about -”
“Well, that’s the difference between us, then!” Crowley suddenly snaps, his attitude clearly trying for unaffected and missing by several miles. “You say this is bigger than us…and I say fuck everything…except us.”
Aziraphale’s throat spasms as he looks at Crowley’s defeated posture and he’s swiftly attacked by memories of the last speech he heard in this very room, the one he’ll never forget for as long as he lives.
We need to get away from them and just be…an us!
Desperation tingles in Aziraphale’s fingertips and he wishes that Crowley’s glasses were gone, so he could really see him -
“I was trying to do the right thing.”
(But deep down, he’s starting to worry that he never actually has -)
“And did you?”
The frank question stops him short in every way, his very heart feeling as though it’s screeched to a halt to hear the answer, and Crowley’s posture is so lifeless and defeated, like he knows what the answer will be before Aziraphale has even contemplated the question, and he feels very abruptly that he can’t do this right now -
(Because the very idea that this version of Crowley, a direct result of Aziraphale’s most difficult choices, can be the right thing, is utterly laughable, his listlessness and clear sense of giving up is grating Aziraphale’s heart and turning it to shreds -)
But the most he can do right now is try to help Crowley, so that’s what he’s going to do, and maybe - somewhere along the way - he can start to make amends for the damage he’s done.
If he’s lucky.
So, with a snap, a tug from above, and a celestial tinkle, Crowley’s clothes are suddenly freshly laundered.
“Oi!” he protests, surprise bringing some life and volume back to his voice, and Aziraphale feels a mild sense of victory.
“Just because you’ve evidently committed to acting homeless doesn’t necessitate you looking the part,” Aziraphale informs him primly, feeling a little more in control of himself as he kickstarts their bickering. “Or smelling it,” he adds in an undertone just this side of too loud.
“What - you - oh, fuck off!”
But Aziraphale is already moving, leaving the main room of the shop to rustle through a backroom for some linens he knows are stored there. Finding a small wash cloth in short order, he grabs a bar of soap from the suddenly fully stocked (and previously unused) powder room, and then stops by the kitchen for a deep bowl which he fills with hot water. Plopping the bar of soap in, he swings the wash cloth over his shoulder and bustles back to the main room to find Crowley still fuming at him.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re -”
“Come to the backroom,” he interrupts smoothly, gesturing with his head as he carries the small bowl of hot, soapy water. “To the sofa.”
“Why in Someone’s name would I -”
“Now,” Aziraphale demands, letting a little newfound ethereal command slip into his voice, before adding a more polite afterthought. “…if you please.”
He pretends not to notice the way Crowley shivers all over at the sound of his voice, deep and imperious, and he waits for the demon to reluctantly start stomping toward the backroom before he enters ahead of him.
“Take a seat.”
Crowley slumps onto the well-worn cushions with as much attitude as possible, intentionally knocking over some stacked books in the process, clearly in an effort to irritate Aziraphale.
He leaves them on the floor.
“Budge up,” Aziraphale murmurs, snapping to bring an empty side table zooming within reach, and placing the bowl onto it before sitting down very close to Crowley.
Trying not to notice the way their thighs are now pressing together, Aziraphale dunks the washcloth in the soapy water until it’s saturated, before squeezing the excess out and - steeling himself - turning to bring it up to Crowley’s face.
A long-fingered hand instantly seizes his wrist.
“What are you doing?” Crowley hisses through his teeth.
“Cleaning you up,” snaps Aziraphale impatiently, trying to ignore the electricity he feels zipping through their touching skin. “If you’ll allow me, that is.”
(And a long moment passes during which Aziraphale maintains eye contact with Crowley’s lenses, closer than he thought they would be to his own face, and wishes desperately to be allowed, because that’s all he’s ever really wanted -)
Crowley’s fingers loosen gradually from around his wrist and his hand floats back down to land in his lap.
“Thank you…” murmurs Aziraphale, trying not to sigh too obviously in relief, before he brings his free hand to hold Crowley’s chin still and wipe at the dirt on his cheeks with the cloth in the other.
The grandfather clock across the room ticks out the seconds as Aziraphale focuses on his goal of removing the filth and unearthing Crowley’s pale skin with as much gentleness as he can, while Crowley emits obligatory grumbles…when he remembers to.
Because Aziraphale can see how much Crowley is absolutely loving the attention, behaving like a muddy kitten being bathed, a hissing animal wanting to resent the warmth of the water and lovely feeling of being pampered, but not able to convince anyone, no matter how hard they try. Aziraphale watches the way Crowley leans into the feather-light press of his fingertips to his face, guiding his head this way and that to find all the dirt. Aziraphale sticks to his routine, dunking the cloth and squeezing it out again and again until the water in the bowl is lukewarm and grey, and no visible trace of dirt remains on Crowley’s face and his half-hearted protests have transformed into low growls of resignation deep in his chest.
(And this sheer act, the poignant meaning and inescapable newness behind this most simple favor, is giving Aziraphale new breath in his lungs, making him feel slightly dizzy from finally being able to do what he’s been aching to since he saw Crowley so unacceptably curled up on himself in that dirty alleyway, an image that still threatens to rend his heart in two and haunt him forever -)
Once he’s finished, Aziraphale reluctantly deposits the cloth in the water and studies Crowley once more, using the excuse to admire his features closely as he pretends to double check his handiwork.
“There now,” Aziraphale says softly, tenderly, daring to break the silence. “Isn’t that better?”
And before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale brings a damp hand up to card gently through his hair, starting with the limp curl on his forehead and working his way back. The sound Crowley releases in response sends shivers through Aziraphale’s whole body, and he can’t resist scratching his nails lightly over the demon’s scalp to see if he does it again.
He does.
(And Aziraphale suddenly wishes he wasn’t sitting sideways on the couch and therefore unable to cross his legs, feeling a distinct tightening in his trousers and forbidding his eyes from flickering to the relaxed lines of Crowley’s thighs, aching to see if he’s in a similar state.)
Hoping that the demon is too numb with bliss to notice, Aziraphale lets little tingles of angelic energy release from his fingertips to clean Crowley’s hair, the tiny miracles acting like a shampoo and conditioner all in one, transforming the dirty red locks into soft waves as he works -
“You gonna give me a shave, too?”
Crowley’s drawl is husky and sarcastic and Aziraphale finishes with his hair and leans back just enough to survey him, eyes still covered, but body relaxed nearly horizontally into the couch cushions. He’s half sitting and half laying sideways, facing Aziraphale with one leg bent at the knee and hitched up on the cushion, and the other boot planted on the floor. Aziraphale lets his eyes rove over the lower half of Crowley’s face, taking in the unfamiliar but tantalizing sight of the dark stubble covering his jaw and chin, and can’t stop himself from imagining the sweet burn it would leave on his sensitive inner thighs.
“No,” he murmurs, his voice warm and viscous like treacle. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Crowley tenses again and works his jaw like he knows exactly what Aziraphale is imagining and - quite without warning - Aziraphale feels he can’t go another minute without seeing his beautiful eyes.
Lifting his hands slowly back up to Crowley’s face, Aziraphale reaches carefully for the arms of his glasses tucked firmly behind his ears -
Only to have his hands smacked away by one of Crowley’s.
Aziraphale freezes, hurt and frustrated, until he looks a little closer at the demon, who suddenly has the tense posture of a dog looking to play tug-o-war.
He’s itching for a fight.
(Aziraphale’s mouth floods with want.)
All right, then.
Aziraphale reaches for the glasses again and, lightning quick, Crowley bats his hands away once more. Grabbing the offending hand in one of his own, Aziraphale holds it hostage by the wrist and reaches with his other hand, only for Crowley to smack it with his free hand. Aziraphale grabs that one as well, as Crowley wrestles his first hand free of Aziraphale’s light grip. Growling in frustration, Aziraphale re-doubles his efforts, grasping both wrists firmly and planting them on either side of Crowley’s head to leave Aziraphale half looming overtop of him, both of them laying more or less sideways on the couch.
Immediately, Crowley’s torso and legs start writhing as if he intends to wriggle out from underneath Aziraphale and the angel drops his weight onto the demon without thinking, using the pressure of his soft belly to pin Crowley in place on the couch, and not stopping to think until it’s too late that Crowley will probably abhor being pinned like a caged animal -
(You asked for my love, Aziraphale thinks desperately, grappling with the writhing demon, and you know you’ve always had it, so why won't you let me give it to you -)
Suddenly, Crowley lets out an unexpected groan, an indulgent, sensual sound that Aziraphale has never heard before, and stretches out underneath his body, pressing his flat stomach back against the heft of the angel pinning him down with something like relief, spreading his legs wide to accommodate Aziraphale’s form, baring the long tempting length of his neck in submission -
And allowing Aziraphale to feel the hard, unmistakable line of Crowley’s cock through both of their trousers.
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, I see…” he purrs, his very cells vibrating with promise.
Staring right at the solid black lenses of Crowley’s glasses, Aziraphale rubs his answering erection deliberately against Crowley’s, their bellies dragging together as well and adding to the friction that sends sparks up Aziraphale’s spine, hoping fervently that Crowley feels the same -
The demon beneath him whines.
“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale growls, feeling Crowley’s legs cinch in a vice grip around his hips with something like ecstacy, before the angel squeezes Crowley’s wrists in warning and cautiously releases them -
To gently, reverently, finally remove his glasses.
The beloved yellow eyes he reveals can barely be seen around the demon’s black, blown pupils, and Aziraphale’s blood hums at the sight of them.
“Now,” he murmurs, depositing Crowley’s glasses on the side table without looking. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”
And he lowers his mouth to Crowley’s.
This kiss eclipses their only previous one, with their lips eager and pliant this time, falling into a rhythm of giving and taking like they’ve been doing it for centuries. Crowley opens his mouth willingly almost immediately, allowing Aziraphale to tilt his head and slot their mouths together more firmly, and both of them moan unabashedly when Aziraphale gets his first taste of Crowley, something spicy and ashy and warmly, perfectly familiar. The ever-present heat between them grows like wildfire with every slide of their lips and Aziraphale finds it getting beautifully messy, loving the feeling of their mixed saliva smearing around their mouths in their eagerness. Crowley is the one who introduces teeth, nipping tentatively at Aziraphale’s lower lip and sending shockwaves straight to his cock.
Detaching himself from the delectable mouth underneath him with difficulty, Aziraphale shifts his wet mouth to drag over Crowley’s stubbly jaw and down his long neck, licking sloppily and leaving love bites on the thin skin that make Crowley arch his neck and gasp. Feeling possessed, Aziraphale moves down to the base of Crowley’s throat, just barely visible through the part of his black button-down shirt, and Aziraphale impatiently grabs handfuls of the material on either side, pulling until the buttons either give way or tear through the fabric. Shifting down the couch slightly, Aziraphale pays no mind to the desecrated clothing, only hearing Crowley’s deep groan, one distinctly recognizable word.
“Angel…”
Aziraphale’s heart soars.
Met with dusky nipples, sparse chest hair, and a pale, flat belly, Aziraphale does the only thing he can think of and licks a long stripe up the beautifully trembling skin - from navel to nipple - to the sound of Crowley’s high-pitched keen.
It’s only after that that Aziraphale becomes aware of Crowley’s incessantly rocking hips, evidently garnering enough friction within his tight jeans to be of some relief and Aziraphale shoves his hands underneath Crowley, sliding them between the couch cushions and his restless hips to grab two handfuls of pert arse and encourage a rhythm. Crowley’s groin falls into place slightly above Aziraphale’s own, and the noise Crowley makes as Aziraphale guides him into grinding against his belly has the angel tucking himself around the thin thigh nearest his throbbing cock, helping himself to some delicious friction of his own.
In this impossibly perfect configuration, instinct takes over, and Aziraphale stares unblinking into wide, awe-filled, devastatingly pretty yellow eyes until he feels Crowley shake apart underneath him, and those serpentine slits fight to stay open long enough to watch as Aziraphale follows.
(And it feels like everything he’s ever wanted and more, a veritable kaleidoscope of joy and pleasure and warmth and love and happiness, and the moment it’s over, he just wants more with Crowley, visions of books and gardens and quaint cottages flashing in his mind’s eye, always with Crowley…)
When he regains awareness, Aziraphale finds himself laying completely overtop the demon, his nose tucked comfortably into his now good-smelling neck and feeling utterly welcomed by the long arms wrapped around his shoulders, a rhythmic breathing ruffling his disarray of white curls at intervals.
“Well, that was something,” comes the quiet huff from above him.
(And even though he can’t see his face yet, the fact that Crowley’s voice sounds lighter than he’s heard him in ages sends warmth flooding through Aziraphale’s chest.)
“It certainly was,” mumbles Aziraphale into Crowley’s neck before reluctantly levering himself up and off the demon. “I’m, uh…sorry about your shirt.”
Crowley snorts, still laying there bare-chested, bonelessly spread out like a debauched supermodel and looking entirely too tempting, despite what they just did.
“Don’t be.”
Feeling slightly guilty anyway, Aziraphale snaps, vanishing their respective messes and righting their clothing all in one, privately lamenting the disappearance of Crowley’s glorious bare skin.
Unexpectedly, the demon’s satisfied grin falters.
“Angel,” he murmurs, apparently unaware of just how close to happy tears the nickname brings Aziraphale. “Are we…did you…why -”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, the sudden uncertainty in his voice managing to slice his heart in two, but Crowley gathers himself before Aziraphale can speak.
“That’s us, angel,” Crowley whispers. “That’s what we could be. All the time. So…why did you leave me?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, tears now gathering in his eyes. “You must know: I only left you to stop the Second Coming. How could we have been happy knowing we were leaving all these people to goodness knows what awfulness?”
Crowley works his mouth in response, something sour beginning to pull at the edges again, before Aziraphale hurries to clarify.
“Besides, where would we be together if not…Earth? I know you’ve always wanted to see Alpha Centauri, and visit would be lovely, but…Earth is our home. It has been since the beginning, wouldn’t you agree?”
Crowley stares into his earnest eyes unguarded, and somehow Aziraphale knows he’s remembering standing on the wall together at the start of it all, just like he is, with the wind tickling his bare feet and feeling a brand new sense of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
And with exactly the right being at his side.
Crowley slowly nods in acquiescence.
“I know you said that’s the difference between us, Crowley, and it’s true that I want to save humanity,” Aziraphale murmurs, tentatively taking the hand resting near his knee. “And deep down, I know you do too…but the truth is, I’m doing it all for us.”
(And Aziraphale can see the moment Crowley understands, his use of that previously taboo word - us - quickly becoming code for the vast array of feelings between them that could power a supernova, and Aziraphale feels the truth of his words rack through the slight frame of his precious demon, and just like that, he knows they’re on their way to healing.)
“And let me guess,” Crowley drawls, suddenly sounding like himself again, as he tangles their fingers together. “You need my help?”
Aziraphale smiles good-naturedly, looking down at their linked hands in awe and wonder. “Don’t I always?”
“Pretty much,” Crowley grins back, before sucking in a bracing breath and pushing himself to standing, tugging Aziraphale with him by the hand, making a beeline for the door of the bookshop. “All right, then. C’mon, angel. The Bentley’s parked a few streets over.”
(Because to Crowley? Well, actions have always spoken louder than words.)
“How fast did you say this goes?” Aziraphale asks breathlessly, as they clamber onto the familiar leather bench seat of the Bentley, with considerably less space between them than ever before.
Somehow, he finds he’s rather ready to speed.
(It feels…right.)
The Bentley cranks up some bebop in enthusiastic welcome…and off they go.