Chapter Text
Tuesday, June 30th, 2026
“I love you.” Aziraphale states it casually across the little dining table in the back room of the bookshop while Crowley makes a mess of a warm pain au chocolat.
Crowley doesn’t stop chewing but he grins around a mouthful, white teeth shining and his lips flecked with crumbs. His nose scrunches in pleasure as he rolls his eyes and chocolate smears from between the pastry layers to drip down the back of his hand.
Aziraphale smiles back at him before taking a sip of his tea. He watches Crowley cram more of his breakfast into his mouth and then lick his fingers, all without pausing to swallow. Crowley grunts some sort of unintelligible response that definitely isn’t an attempt to say it back, nor is it resistance to hearing it, before finally washing the pasty down with large gulps of his morning coffee.
It’s been forty-eight days since the whole world almost ended on a wet Wednesday afternoon in May. Forty-eight days since Aziraphale and Crowley suddenly found themselves human and mortal and completely free to do whatever they wanted.
Within the laws of physics, of course. And with only thirty or forty years of life left.
So, it has been forty-eight days since they shared their first proper kiss and then quickly their second, then third; forty-eight days since Crowley accidentally came in his treacherously tight jeans; and forty-eight days since Aziraphale convinced him that they were okay in spite of the mortifying realities of being forced to experience real human bodies.
“I love that you still care about the ducks.” They’re back at St James’s Park, a place they continue to find themselves wandering through on most days of most weeks. They’re feeding the ducks and informing visiting tourists of the dangers of bread. Well, Aziraphale is informing them, quite politely, and often in the aftermath of a scathing rebuke from Crowley.
“What do you mean still?” Crowley asks, sounding aggrieved. “I’ll always care about the ducks.” The protest in his voice seems to be at the idea that his affection for ducks might somehow be conditional or changeable.
“Yes, well,” Aziraphale beams at him and slides a hand into his, enjoying the tingling cold from the recently emptied and discarded bag of defrosted frozen peas. “Just saying I love you. For that. For loving the ducks.”
“I don’t love the ducks,” Crowley corrects. “Just don’t want to see them fed rubbish. They end up so malnourished and fat they can’t fly! Completely fucked. And the young ones don’t grow properly, end up deformed.” He turns thoughtful, their meandering stroll in the mid-morning sunshine stalling for a moment. “They call it angel wing, actually.”
“Really?” Aziraphale has never heard that and wonders how they could have been visiting the ducks for almost two centuries and not discussed it. “Why?”
Crowley seems to think for a moment and then tugs Aziraphale along by the hand, locking their arms together at the elbow now that his fingers have defrosted against Aziraphale’s palm. “Haven’t a clue,” he admits and they continue on their way back towards the bookshop.
It’s been forty-seven days since they first managed to have good sex, as they’ve come to regard it. They’ve had quite a decent amount since, although admittedly also a handful of embarrassing and unsatisfying encounters, plus the one downright disastrous incident that they still don’t speak about.
The good disproportionately outweighs the bad, at least, and Aziraphale has absolutely no plans for slowing down. Sex, it turns out, is marvelous. Especially once he started figuring out how to get over all the awkwardness and uncertainty and shame. During the sex, they’re getting very good at that, however afterwards, once they’re out of the moment, those feelings somehow tend to creep back in. Aziraphale has started reading non-fiction books about it. And some fiction that might also be helping.
It’s also been forty-seven days since Aziraphale’s first bowel movement and their first ever proper picnic. Not that those two things had anything to do with each other. Crowley had tried very hard to ignore the whole necessity of bowel evacuation and had managed to make it until forty-six days ago, but at least by then they had a working loo.
Forty-six days since they got a mattress and forty-four days since they got a lovely antique rosewood bed frame. Thirty-four days since they got a (relatively) clean bill of health and twenty-eight days since Crowley announced he was going to spend the money and time necessary to look after the Bentley in the absence of miracles. Twenty-two days since they almost got kicked out of their local Waitrose and eighteen days since Aziraphale finally pulled the trigger and put in the order to stock the shop with commercially-viable paperbacks. It’s only been eight days since they finally re-opened the bookshop and settled in for their first normal human work-week.
This is now their second week of trying to succeed at being professional booksellers. For tax purposes, at least.
“Say it again, what are you looking for?” Crowley is trying to make himself look scary by leaning deliberately nonchalantly up against a bookshop pillar, stretched to full height, with his shoulders hunched up in an attempt to make his slim frame look bigger.
The twenty-something year-old blonde woman, who is easily a foot and a half shorter than Crowley and dressed in a pretty green sun dress, does not seem the least bit intimidated, otherwise Aziraphale would swoop in for the rescue. “Ar. Coat. Ar.” she sounds it out, chin raised as though she needs to speak it directly into Crowley’s face to be understood.
He grimaces at the perceived assault and shakes his head dramatically. “And I am telling you we don’t have anything called A Coater. What the devil even is a coater? Does he make coats? Or sell them? Doesn’t matter, don’t care.”
“It’s romantasy,” she snaps back at him.
“That’s not a word.”
She sighs a heavy, incredulous sigh and Crowley pulls a wildly unprofessional face at her, finally forcing Aziraphale to intercede.
“I think this is the book the young lady is looking for?” he says, presenting the most recent softcover edition of A Court of Thorns and Roses. “I apologise for my associate, he’s still learning the lingo.”
Crowley turns his unimpressed disgust in Aziraphale’s direction.
“This is mainstream literature,” the woman accuses, taking the book. “What kind of a bookseller doesn’t know A Coater?”
“Is Ay Coater the author?” Crowley interrupts, voice pitched high and frustrated but Aziraphale thinks he must be being purposefully obtuse at this point. “And I am not a bookseller!”
The woman raises a pointed eyebrow and gestures around the room of books for sale and then back to the nametag pinned crookedly to Crowley’s lapel, the one emblazoned with “Anthony” in bold gold type.
“Come along,” Aziraphale interrupts before his new shop associate can really start fighting with another customer.
He steers the woman over to their newly acquired modern cash register and successfully checks her out, wrangling the electronic funds transfer device with minimal fluster and presenting her with her new purchase and receipt. He escorts her to the bookshop door, steering clear of where Crowley’s still glaring from his position against the pillar, and waves her a cheery good bye. “Thank you for your patronage!”
When he turns back to face Crowley, he does his best to school his expression into disappointment even as he sees Crowley is already sporting the expected mix of contrition and contempt.
“Really, Crowley, that is the third person I’ve heard you tell ‘romantasy’ isn’t a word. It very obviously is.”
“Not in the dictionary,” he retorts and he makes to cross to Aziraphale’s desk where a thirty-year old dictionary is waiting to prove him right.
Aziraphale doesn’t have the patience to explain to him that the newer dictionaries, especially the ones online, are very much on board with this new portmanteau.
“When we decided to try opening the bookshop I never would have guessed you’d be the one struggling to sell books.”
“I don’t like customers,” Crowley snaps, crossing his arms defensively. “They move things around and ask stupid questions and buy stupid books.”
Aziraphale fights the smile tugging at his lips. This is Crowley’s off-kilter brand of protectiveness and he has to appreciate it even if it is a little mad and rather counter-productive. “Yes, except we want them to buy the stupid books, for the sake of legitimacy, not to mention paying taxes which is the number one way to be recognised as real people who have led normal human lives. That was the whole reason we ordered in a whole library of pulp fiction that I actually don’t mind parting with. And a lot of those books are romantasy.”
“Still don’t like it.”
“You’re just helping me out until we feel like we’re ready to employ a real assistant.”
Crowley looks like even that idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Then what are you gonna do? Spend all day hanging out with some other bloke, who won’t know the difference between the books you want to sell and the ones you don’t?”
“I’m rather confident a qualified book seller would be able to recognise the difference between the latest fairy smut and all my treasured first editions.”
Crowley mouths the term ‘fairy smut’ but chooses not to interrogate that further. Instead, he changes tact. “And what am I meant to do while you and him are selling books?”
“Something that makes you happy? Or at least happier than discussing the latest romance novels with young female customers.”
Crowley sighs and Aziraphale knows he’s talked him back from whatever edge he was stalking towards. Another panic that might have devolved into proper bickering and a few hours of trying to be angry at each other.
“You’re still enjoying working on the Bentley,” Aziraphale says, knowing bringing it up could do more damage than good. “You could find a way to do more of that.”
Crowley predictably goes still and tense at the mention of the garage.They still haven’t talked about Aziraphale’s one ill-fated visit, nor the consequential aftermath which had also been a significant misstep in their relationship’s progress. What complicates their ongoing dance — or at least Aziraphale’s attempts to get the steps right — is that since the garage, and the very wrong thing being said, Aziraphale has also managed to say the right thing.
Every one of the last seven days since has been good and today, Aziraphale is making an effort to make things even better. He is also testing the limits on just how much Crowley can hear, and watching him revel in something that still seems to make him illogically uncomfortable.
“I don’t want to be a mechanic,” Crowley grumbles.
“You don’t have to be anything,” Aziraphale stresses, once again silently thankful for their (Crowley’s) stash of money. “You just have to be happy.”
Crowley grumbles incoherently under his breath, something that sounds like, “Not a happy person,” and, for the sake of wanting this to be a very good day, Aziraphale calls his bluff. “Are you not happy, Crowley?”
Crowley’s eyes widen a little and the put-upon sneer disappears as it’s replaced by a flash of panic and then guilt. “Shit, no!” he hurries to say. “I mean yes, obviously extremely happy.” He realises he’s overcommitted: “Happily grumpy.” He pulls a face as his cheeks heat up and he grimaces, at least acknowledging his own ridiculousness as he rolls his eyes and Aziraphale enjoys the show.
It’s not really ridiculous, though, the way Crowley is. It’s a little bit heartbreaking sometimes when Aziraphale thinks about it for too long. At least, Aziraphale thinks, he’s slowly getting better. At least, Aziraphale hopes, he’s helping.
“Easier being angry,” Crowley explains. “Old habits and all that.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees. “It does matter, though, that you’re happy. It’s all that matters and you should know by now that I’d do anything–“
“Yeah, yeah, don’t need to get too sappy about it,” Crowley waves him off.
“I do love that you still hate selling books, though,” Aziraphale continues with the line that he set out to reach at the very top of the conversation. “I can only conclude that it’s because of me since I’ve seen you physically handle them and it’s abundantly apparent you don’t actually care one whit for even my very best books.”
Crowley grins at him, his shoulders lifting a subtle few millimeters and a shiver seeming to run through the muscles. “Or maybe I just really enjoy fucking with customers.”
Aziraphale doesn’t even entertain the idea but he’ll happily entertain Crowley. “Of course. Anyone so prurient as to enjoy romantasy definitely deserves your wrath.”
“Exactly.”
“I still love that you’re inadvertently protecting my books, though.”
Crowley’s lips purse as he fails to fight back another smile.
It’s only been a week since Aziraphale successfully cornered Crowley in public wearing his best new waistcoat and jacket and most of the way through a scrumptious dinner and told him, for the first time, in no uncertain terms, that he loves him.
It had taken quite a bit of planning and much dithering, several phone calls and excessive flattery of the girl at the restaurant in charge of bookings. Aziraphale had ensured Crowley was calm and comfortable, and then subjected him to a very careful, very earnest speech that ended with his declaration of love. If anything, it had been surprising how graciously — at least by his standards — Crowley had accepted it.
And then Crowley had not said it back.
Which was completely fine, truly. Their relationship was nothing if not complicated and Aziraphale didn’t completely understand Crowley’s reluctance to say certain things nor his desperation to confess to all manner of others, but he was aware of it and he respected it. And he loved him. Either in spite of it or because of it, depending on the day.
But then it was also shocking that it had taken over a month for the ‘L’ word to make an appearance. Given their eons of history and the glaringly obvious fact that they were, very much, in love, at least for the last several years.
That they were suddenly living with each other, going to bed together, and building a life, certainly presupposed a love story, and yet saying it had proven extraordinarily difficult. Not on Aziraphale’s end, the words came easily to him, he was sure, but to get Crowley to hear it had been a challenge.
He had been rather worried Crowley wouldn’t appreciate his declaration over dinner, not because Crowley didn’t already know — of course he did — and not because Crowley didn’t feel precisely the same way — of course, this was true, as well. But because he didn’t want Crowley to think he was asking for anything different. And he also didn’t know how he expected Crowley to act. But Aziraphale simply wanted to say it, he had for quite some time, and so he orchestrated a moment and did.
Under the best possible circumstances.
Crowley had finally listened, then turned his sights on his dessert, and asked Aziraphale to say it again. Aziraphale had not stopped saying it since. But he still felt the need to be careful, to use it sparingly, to try to catch Crowley in the right mood, lest their one enormous step forward be countered by a sudden, inexplicable stumble backwards.
The second time Aziraphale had said it had been easier, and then the third and fourth time had felt almost trivial. Crowley wasn’t resisting the way Aziraphale had half expected him to — and Crowley still fought him on lots of things.
Over a few short days, Aziraphale realised Crowley was actively seeking it out. This was thrilling, because Aziraphale quite enjoyed saying it, and it seemed to indicate some sort of progress. Indeed, rather quickly, Aziraphale was beginning to relax enough that he could also take quite a bit of pleasure in Crowley’s reactions to hearing it.
There was so much pleasure in their lives now, he had never imagined mortality allowed for so much goodness.
And so today he had set out to test the upper limit for how much goodness and niceness and adoration Crowley could weather. Systematically, of course, with a plan he’d been concocting since friday.
A day of all Crowley’s secret favorite things and at least a dozen ‘I love you’s. He’s already up to seven.
“Oh gosh, Oh — Oh Crowley, yes, yes — I love you!” it’s louder than he intends but still incredibly true and the potency of being allowed to voice it, even here — especially here — pushes Aziraphale’s orgasm higher and longer. The pleasure burns white hot and bright under his skin as everything pulses wonderfully and he feels his whole body thrum as he spills right across Crowley’s devilishly brilliant tongue.
Aziraphale is never ever going to get sick of this feeling, not with the many infinite variations he is increasingly aware exist.
As the last frissons finally start to calm, he remembers his plan and the way he’d been able to declare his love right as he peaked. It’s not the first time it’s been said during the throes of intimacy, but it is the first time it’s been loud, and it’s the first time he’s done it deliberately.
He forces his eyes open from where he’s still sitting propped up against the headboard, to look and see the state of Crowley. He’s flat on his belly, down between Aziraphale’s bent knees, on their bed. His red silk pajama bottoms barely cover the curve of his arse and his back is marked with a handful of faint lines that will fade away in the coming minutes; his hair’s a riotous mess, and his face is obscured where it’s pressed into the naked sweaty crease between Aziraphale’s groin and his thigh.
“Sweetheart?” Aziraphale calls to him, slipping fingers, well-practiced, into his hair, down to the nape of his neck, to scratch. Crowley angles his face up in answer, looking at him with slick red lips curved into a grin only a few inches away from Aziraphale’s still spit-wet softening cock. He paints a gorgeous picture and, not for the first time, Aziraphale contemplates the merits of actually going to the trouble of capturing the obscene vision on his phone for posterity. “What do you need?” Aziraphale asks, still breathless and caught smiling too broadly.
He’ll give him whatever he likes, of course. Crowley’s spent the last fifteen minutes easily taking him apart, one lick and suck and tease at a time, graciously ignoring himself for the most part, and as much as their dynamic in the bedroom is sometimes lopsided, Aziraphale takes just as much delight, if not more, in Crowley’s pleasure as he finds in his own.
And Crowley hasn’t given any indication that this latest ‘I love you’ — the eleventh of the day — is any more unwelcome than the first. Which is fascinating, and invigorating, and just made Aziraphale come harder than he’d expected.
Crowley turns his face back into Aziraphale’s leg and chuckles, the vibration just the wrong side of unpleasant in the oversensitive aftermath. Aziraphale finds himself once again thinking that refractory periods might actually be the very worst thing about their sudden humanity.
Reaching for him, Aziraphale’s hands slip under Crowley’s arms and he hauls him up the mattress.
Crowley splays out over him like a very floppy starfish and laughs.
“Don’t need to do anything, angel,” he chuckles into his chest, and now Aziraphale recognises the tinge of delirium and the fluidity of his body that only appears after he’s climaxed. “Sorry, that was too hot for me to resist.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, nor should he.
He pushes up off Aziraphale’s belly only to collapse just as heavily onto his back off to the side. Beyond the gorgeous lines of his stomach, the angles of his hips, the dense hair peeking out from the waistband, Aziraphale can see the imprinted arch of his cock and the darkened silk fabric at the tip.
Crowley is a glorious mess, beautifully sated, and he hasn’t said a single bad thing about being vocally adored all through the day. In fact, Aziraphale thinks he just came in his trousers because of it, and he hasn’t lost that much control for over two weeks.
“Did you touch yourself?” Aziraphale asks, slipping his own cotton boxers back up over his hips and contemplating the necessity of a shower; Crowley did a pretty good job cleaning him up with his mouth.
“Nuh,” Crowley responds, conveying an edge of pride as he reaches down to pluck the waistband away from his skin and crane his neck to try to see his own messed state.
Much worse than Aziraphale’s, he’s sure.
“Just came against the bed,” he admits. He fixes his gaze on Aziraphale, “You’ve got no idea how much I like having your cock in my mouth,” he says, clearly trying to get a new sort of rise out of him.
“I think I rather do,” Aziraphale tells him, feeling his cheeks growing hot despite how often they have these little back and forth exchanges in the afterglow. “And you are exceptionally good at it,” he adds.
Crowley’s grin only grows and he makes a show of licking across the top row of his teeth and then swallowing lewdly.
“And I do love you for that,” Aziraphale teases. Except it isn’t really a tease, it’s his twelfth ‘I love you’ of the day and they’re mostly naked and vulnerable.
Crowley wriggles and Aziraphale realises it’s in pleasure. Not sexual because Crowley’s just as miserably susceptible to refractory periods as Aziraphale, but something just as wonderfully affecting. Aziraphale realises Crowley is truly basking in it, in Aziraphale’s love, steeping himself in it and enjoying it. Whether he could admit to as much remains a question, whether he even really wants to is also uncertain. It’s all rather lovely but also troubling because—
“Enough of that, you’ve said it plenty of times today, you’ll wear out the words,” Crowley’s voice is teasing but there’s a type of fatigue beneath it, more than their long day of activity and conversation really warrants. Still, he laughs, lifts his legs high in the air and then rocks forward on their downward momentum, half-falling off the side of the bed before he finds his feet, sways, and then swaggers out of the room.
Aziraphale thinks that last bit was a deflection. He knows the words won’t wear out, it’s a ridiculous notion. They change and contort and renew every time he utters them and if anything, they’re growing in some unidentifiably, marvelously profound sort of way.
He’s still not upset that Crowley hasn’t said it back. But he’s worried that Crowley won’t quite admit out loud that he enjoys even hearing it. Physically, he can’t help it, turning pink or smiling or coming in his pyjama bottoms. But he rarely acknowledges any of it with words and when he does it’s never quite the deep way Aziraphale thinks he could. Or should.
Although to truly acknowledge it properly would have to mean saying it back, at least once, at least sometimes. At least he would have to be thinking about it.
Aziraphale doesn’t want that to be the problem, so it isn’t.
When Crowley returns, he’s changed into fresh silk bottoms and tied the longest lengths of his hair into a tiny little bun high on his head. It looks silly but his hair’s almost an inch longer than it used to be and he has complained about it tugging in his sleep.
Aziraphale is not, under any circumstances, about to tell him to get a haircut so instead he’d bought some little elastics the last time he went to the shops.
Crowley flicks the lights off but leaves the bedroom door open and slides beneath the duvet. He pulls around the covers until Aziraphale takes the hint and moves his limbs to and fro, to wiggle down beside him and settle, ensconced in just a little bit too much warmth for the late June night.
Crowley turns away from him, onto his side to face the door. He scooches back to shove his arse into Aziraphale’s crotch. The rest of their bodies fall easily into alignment so that they’re touching from shoulders to toes. Crowley reaches back and pulls Aziraphale’s arm around his waist, keeping hold of his hand against his soft, warm belly.
It isn’t as though Crowley couldn’t have simply asked for this, but taking it is half the fun, the reassertion of some sort of dominance in a space where he so readily gives it up. Aziraphale is happy to be manhandled and positioned as Crowley pleases if it helps make it clear what the dynamic of their relationship really is.
He waits until Crowley has wriggled and stretched himself into whatever position he likes best, one ankle shoved back between Aziraphale’s, and then leans forward to press a kiss to his shoulder.
He chooses to press his luck, nuzzling at Crowley’s skin and exhaling in a sigh. “I really am incredibly in love with you,” he says and then tilts his head in anticipation of another new clue.
“Shut up,” comes Crowley’s venomless, muffled response. “And go to sleep.”
Thirteen, then. No saying it back but also no real resistance, only these mild rebukes after basking in it all day. It’s a front, obviously, a lie Crowley is telling himself just as much as he’s telling Aziraphale.
There is no doubt in Aziraphale’s mind that Crowley loves him. And Crowley has thousands of years of trauma and rejection to explain why he can’t even acknowledge his desire to be loved, let alone the vulnerability to love in return. They’re slowly undoing all of that, Aziraphale knows, but he is troubled that Crowley seems intent on digging his heels in and not even acknowledging the problem.
The glee and relief and pleasure that Aziraphale has learned so quickly to derive from his own declarations, he realises that to not be able to say it out loud is entirely unfair to Crowley. And he continues to plot and plan and poke to try to fix things, little by little.