Only one more week left of the Exchange!
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go_exchangeHello, Good Omens friends! Voice of Mod here letting everyone know that there's only one more week of holiday delights! We'll be wrapping up on 6 January (Twelfth Night), followed by a matching game and a chance to read your favorites again (why not leave ANOTHER comment?!) and the Great Reveal will be on Tuesday, 8 January!
Please enjoy this fic written by a Secret Author with some favorite slash story elements!
Title: Dream A Little Dream of Me
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fic Summary: When Aziraphale embarrasses Crowley in a vulnerable moment, it takes wine, advice from Anathema, a confession of something from eleven years ago, and a trip to Kew Gardens to try and set it right.
Author’s note: I hope this fic brings joy and holiday delight! Thank you to my beta/cheering section, cactusrabbit and unwittingcatalyst for all their support and guidance. Thank you as always to the mods for their kindness in organizing this and their patience!
Rating: Explicit
Crowley leaned back in his seat. “So, the long and short of it is that I have feelings for you. I know, you’re probably thinking ‘oh, it’s that serpent up to his wiles again’, which I won’t rule out as something I’d like to try because I would in fact like to shag you silly,” Crowley gave a cheeky smile. “But I also want to do all the other things. I’m not sure what those are. I suppose if we were human it would be mattress shopping and arguing about what’s for dinner. Oh, and if we ever decided London wasn’t for us anymore, it would make sense to move in together. Very much up to you on that front.”
Aziraphale gave a small pleased smile and set his glass of wine down on the table. “Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been waiting years for you to admit it! I hardly thought it would be today, but I’m so glad. Relieved actually.”
Crowley’s face fell. “You were waiting for me to admit it? What do you mean admit it? How in the name of—How did you know?”
Aziraphale furrowed his brow, getting the sense that perhaps he hadn’t read the situation correctly. “I may have overhead you mentioning it.” Crowley looked supremely unconvinced. “While you were dreaming,” Aziraphale blurted.
“I beg your pardon?” Crowley said flatly.
Aziraphale looked around the back room of the bookshop trying to avoid eye contact with Crowley. “I was trying to wake you up. You had missed our meeting, and something felt horribly wrong. This was right before Adam’s birth and it was all very sturm und drang. So, I went to yours, but you were asleep and in the middle of a dream that seemed very ahem amorous in nature. I didn’t want to interrupt, naturally. As I was going to leave, you said my name—and some other things—that suggested you might have had feelings for me that were more than friendly.” Aziraphale tapped his hands anxiously in his lap.
“So to sum up: you heard me having a sex dream about you more than ten years ago, knew I had feelings for you, didn’t mention it, waited until I approached you, and then came out with all this. You know, of all the ways I expected this to go wrong, credit to upstairs or below, this has exceeded my worst expectations.” Crowley shook his head in disgust.
“But—Why? I feel the same—I have feelings for you too!” Aziraphale insisted.
Crowley shot him a scornful look. “Oh, well that’s lovely; you decided to wait and come out with it only after I made a fool of myself telling you something you already knew.”
“Well, what if it had been temptation, or I might have been wrong, misread the signs, or you didn’t want me to know?” Aziraphale tried to reason.
Crowley laughed bitterly. “You are a complete and utter bastard. I’ve spent more than a decade trying to decide if I’d ever even mention this to you, even bother trying something as insane as fumbling through whatever this is between us, and you’ve been sitting primly on that secret the whole damn time. No, worse, you’ve been sitting on it because you didn’t want to take the risk and you’d rather I do it.” Crowley shook his head in frustration and grabbed a bottle of wine, downing the rest of it in a single go. “Thanks for the terrible evening. I’ll just be going.” Crowley grabbed his coat and headed for the front door of the bookshop.
“I - I- simply.”
Crowley didn’t look at him. “Yes, you always ‘simply’.”
“It-but-” Aziraphale sputtered.
“Stuff it. I’ve heard enough for one night. I can’t believe I was that much of an idiot to try and do this!”
Aziraphale finally got a sentence together. “But I care about you too!”
Crowley snorted. “Funny way of showing it. Goodnight, angel.” The door slammed behind him.
Aziraphale dedicated the rest of the evening to pacing and getting incalculably drunk. In-between the pleasant rush of alcohol, it felt like a weight was crushing down on his chest and cold sweat breaking out over his skin. Is this what humans felt like when they made mistakes? It was awful. Far worse than he’d thought it could be. Perhaps it was part of the ineffable plan…? If it was, Aziraphale wanted nothing to do with it. A blasphemous thought. For a second, he imagined he could feel the faintest singe of some previously untouchable part of himself as he brushed up against the will of the Almighty. Aziraphale shivered. Maybe not part of the ineffable plan, and he was simply imagining that. Although if it was part of the ineffable plan...would he go against it for Crowley?
Almost not a question worth asking. He would have faced the end of existence for Crowley. He would stand in front of Crowley and shield him with his own body if he had to. That was sorted then, maybe ill-advised, but sorted. He drank another glass and stewed on what had happened.
He wanted to call Crowley to tell him that he was sorry, that it was a mistake, that he didn’t ever intend to hurt him, but of course Crowley already knew all of that. Which left…what? What was one to do when you hurt someone and never intended to—more than that, hated having done it?
Forgiveness was quite a bit simpler and clearer up There. Asked truthfully, it was granted—but then up There it was generally understood that you didn’t ask for it unless you truly meant it, and everyone knew unequivocally that you did truly mean it. Crowley couldn’t know how truly Aziraphale meant it. He certainly didn’t have a reason to believe that Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt him again.
Oh, that stung. Being mistrusted tasted bitter. Angels were good and what they did was good. They didn’t make mistakes because they couldn’t. But what he had done to Crowley was a mistake. Perhaps a different perspective on the issue might prove enlightening. Who to ask? He could ask another angel, but that was quickly ruled out as a plan more likely to lead to disaster than forgiveness.
Aziraphale set out his rolodeck and flicked slowly through it, nursing another glass of wine. It was mostly a list of other book sellers, a few vintners, the number for Miss Tracy, Anathema, and the number for Adam’s parents. He’d never needed that number, but it had seemed like one he should have in order to say he had it.
The clock read close to 4am. Aziraphale finished the bottle of wine off, swirling it slowly in his glass, and waited for a reasonable hour to pick up the phone.
Anathema woke to the phone ringing as light was barely beginning to creep in through the curtains. Her heart stopped. Phone calls in the early morning and late night were invariably bad news. She clambered over Newt and nearly fell out of the bed trying to reach for the phone.
“Hello!? What’s wrong?” she demanded.
A loose slurring voice responded, “Nothing! Or yes, someth’n’. Crowley’s what’s wrong. Nooo, I’m wrong, but ‘m wrong about Crowley.”
Anathema’s mind tried to make sense of the mushy words. “Aziraphale? Is that...you? Why on earth are you calling me, it’s...” she looked at the clock, “...6:03.”
“I’m so sooorry,” was the pathetic reply.
“Why? What have you done?!”
“I made a mess of it. Crowley admitted he’s got feelings ‘n I said ‘course I know, because I saw him havin’adream ‘bout me and it was…” There was a long drunken silence in which Anathema expected to hear snoring or him falling over at any second, but he finally finished his thought “It was--pr’tty carnal if you see. Then he drank the rest of the good wine ‘n left. S’awful.”
“Do not, under any circumstances, tell me more. If Crowley didn’t want you to know about that, how do you think he’d feel about you telling me?”
There was a horrified pause and a soft “Fuck.”
Anathema sighed, snuggling up against Newt, who was still mostly dozing. “Aziraphale, please sober up. It’s too early for me to explain things in drunk terms.”
“M’not sober? Gracious, ‘d forgotten. I beg your pardon, I’ve been somewhat distraught.”
“Clearly.” Anathema yawned. “I’m going to guess you’ve never been in a relationship?”
“Not the sort that Crowley was talking about.”
“Rule one is don’t be a bastard to the person you love. Alright, I’m going to try and keep this simple: apologize and hope he forgives you. You’ve embarrassed him very badly. He shared something with you and you made him feel like an idiot. He probably didn’t like that. In a relationship, you can’t let someone else take all the risks. You can’t let him look like an idiot alone. You would do anything for him, right?”
“Of course! I’ve already gone against the powers of heaven and hell to keep us safe!”
“Would you take a chance of looking like an idiot for him?”
Aziraphale coughed, “I suppose yes, I would.”
“Good, because it sounds like he tried to do that for you. If Crowley took a risk to tell you how he felt and you made him feel worse, this is a good time to try your hand at a big dramatic gesture to show you can be vulnerable. He’s not going to trust you if you only protect yourself and never protect him.”
Aziraphale hmm’d thoughtfully. “What sort of dramatic gesture do you suggest? I’ve heard that flowers and chocolates or rides in a carriage are quite popular.”
Newt mumbled beside her, “What does he like? S’not gonna work if it’s not what he likes.”
Anathema rubbed Newt’s shoulder fondly. “Flowers are absolutely not a risk; Newt says to think of what Crowley likes and do something with that.”
“He likes all sorts of things. But he has most everything he wants I’m sure.”
Anathema pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not about what he has. You’re trying to show you’re not afraid to take a risk if it means it makes him happy.”
“I don’t know how!” Aziraphale said worriedly.
Newt groaned and rolled over. “Try!”
Anathema lay down beside him, cradling the phone to her ear. “Newt says 'Try' and I say, do something he wouldn’t think to get or do for himself. Something that no one else would think to do for him. I can’t help you more than that. You know him best.”
“I suppose I do.” Aziraphale felt unsure about that now.
“Give it a bit and think it over. And Aziraphale, try not to hurt him.”
“I’ve already bungled that, I’m afraid.”
“I suspect he might let you try again. He seems to like you enough the way you are. I’m going back to sleep. Good luck.” Anathema hung up and said a silent prayer to the universe hoping those two could get it together.
Aziraphale made a list of all the things he thought Crowley liked: Plants, expensive clothes, wiles?, the Bentley, James Bond films, wine, dolphins?, sleep, technology, me???
It ruled out the carriage ride and the chocolates. Flowers fell under plants, so it might still be on the table. Watching James Bond films seemed a little too low risk. Bringing him a dolphin was impractical in the extreme, and Aziraphale highly doubted that Crowley cared for dolphins enough to wish to meet one face to face. He couldn’t give him sleep. Wine wasn’t a special thing, nor were clothes. But perhaps the location could be special. Saville Row was not a place to take someone who preferred to create clothes out of nothing. Aziraphale wasn’t sure that there was a place that would satisfy the enjoyment of technology or sleep. Plants, though. Plants might be possible. A forest? A jungle? No, Crowley distinctly preferred the city when offered the choice. Aziraphale flicked through the phone book and found the number for Kew Gardens.
~*~
Aziraphale managed to get Crowley’s agreement to meet at the back gate to the gardens. It was fortunately unlocked, but of course it was more that it would have been inconvenient if it was locked, and Aziraphale didn’t want to be inconvenienced.
Crowley slouched along behind him up the walking path to the greenhouses. “What’s this meeting about, then?”
Aziraphale straightened his shoulders determinedly. “An attempt at fixing things.”
“Usually there’s less sneaking in involved,” Crowley mused, looking appraisingly at the shrubs along the path.
Aziraphale miracled the lock and smoothly swung open the door to the Palm House, inviting Crowley in. The burbling of water and the rich smell of green and soil washed over them. Crowley couldn’t hide a little shiver of enjoyment at the warmth as Aziraphale led them up a walkway and off into the foliage. He showed them behind a very enterprising bromeliad to a small clearing blanketed in moss and an actual blanket. Several bottles of wine were already arranged beside it, along with a small box.
Aziraphale knelt down. “I wanted to bring you somewhere to apologize. Somewhere you’d like.” He gestured to the plants around them. “I tried to think about what you’d enjoy and thought that you might like it. I know it always reminds me—well, it’s just very nice.”
Crowley plopped down on the blanket and stretched out, flicking his shoes off. “It’s the right temperature at least. February is a misery.” He shrugged out of his jacket and sighed in contentment.
Aziraphale opened one of the bottles, offering Crowley a glass.
Crowley looked over his sunglasses, “Are you going to explain what’s with the greenhouse particularly? And the wine, etcetera?”
“It’s meant to be a ‘dramatic gesture’ of romance, not just an apology. I’m ‘taking a risk’.”
“A risk, huh.” Crowley raised an eyebrow
Aziraphale drank down his own glass of wine before shuffling to face Crowley. “I mucked things up terribly by not telling you eleven years ago, and I made it worse the other day. I didn’t know how to bring it up and I didn’t want to admit that… that I felt something quite so well… lustful.”
“What’s this about ‘lustful’?”
Aziraphale made a pained expression. “Do we really have to discuss it?”
Crowley flicked his tongue out testily. “Turnabout’s fair play, angel. After the free show you got, the least I deserve is to know.”
~*~ Eleven Years Ago~*~
Aziraphale hadn’t precisely intended to engage in a light bit of B&E, but desperate times and all that. It certainly felt desperate enough. Crowley had promised that he’d be in touch by the week’s end and he was more than two days late. Not only that, he hadn’t answered his phone at all, or returned any of the messages that Aziraphale had left. Normally he mightn’t have worried, but something had felt increasingly off over the last several weeks, and in the past few days Aziraphale had begun to wonder if perhaps they were frogs in slowly heating water. As his panic had mounted, Aziraphale had felt more and more certain that he had to see Crowley for himself. It would have helped if Crowley would answer his door, but Aziraphale wasn’t above miracling his way into the flat.
Opening the door, he was met with a wave of heat. The flat felt like an early summer’s day, with the scent of greenery rolling off the plants tastefully arranged on every surface. It felt a little like a garden. It felt a little like the garden. Aziraphale twinged a bit, wondering if Crowley might miss it. It really had been lovely, thick mist rising off of it, pungent with the wet rich smell of growth. These plants seemed considerably more disciplined, which was a strange sense to get from a plant, but Aziraphale could rarely keep anything alive for more than a week so perhaps he wasn’t understanding them correctly.
The flat was silent but for the hum of an ostentatious American-style refrigerator. Aziraphale wandered through, pursing his lips at the showy kitchen appliances gleaming on the marble countertops, the angular furniture that looked exquisite and utterly uncomfortable, the bizarre paintings on the wall that were distressingly modern. Crowley was nowhere to be seen.
Aziraphale checked every room before walking up to the closed bedroom door. He’d checked the office with its panoply of technology, the spare bathroom with a mirror so clean Aziraphale startled when he saw himself. He looked a mess, like he’d not slept in days—but he never slept so it was unclear what exactly he looked like—clearly nothing good.
The bedroom door was heavy and thoroughly polished wood. Aziraphale shifted agitatedly in front of it. He really should have called Crowley’s name when he’d come in. He probably should have been calling Crowley’s name this whole time, and instead he’d padded around silently taking a good stare at how Crowley lived. If Crowley was in there, should he knock? Should he call his name? Should he whisper it? If he wasn’t in there, should he look around or just go?
A whisper of a thought asked, what if he is in there and he isn’t alone? A new and unconsidered image took root. An image of Crowley tangled in bed linens and wrapped around another person. The other person in Aziraphale’s imagination didn’t have a face or identity, they were simply there to emphasize how sated Crowley looked and to lazily twine their arms around him. Aziraphale blinked, trying to dislodge the thought and address the problem in front of him.
He knocked softly, as softly as he could and still call it a knock. Nothing.
“Crowley, are you here?” he whispered. He knocked louder this time and cleared his throat. “Crowley? It’s Aziraphale.”
Silence again.
He gave a forceful rap, but no answer came. Aziraphale let his hand touch the shining brass of the knob and felt it turn smoothly, the door swinging in on perfectly oiled hinges. Aziraphale hadn’t been ready for that, having never thought to oil a single door hinge in his entire existence, and he came along with the door as his weight shifted. He leaned on the knob to support himself and drove the door hard into the wall. He righted himself and froze, seeing a lump in the bed. The lump shifted and gave a groan, then went still.
Aziraphale shook himself. He’d come to find Crowley; he had no reason to freeze. But it did feel strange to walk further into Crowley’s bedroom. He coughed softly. “Crowley?”
The lump snorted quietly but didn’t move.
Aziraphale stepped closer and cleared his throat more loudly. Nothing. He chewed his lip before yelling “Crowley, wake up now! Please,” he added. Stillness.
Finally, he moved closer to the bed trying to decide if he should shake Crowley, or speak louder, or just give up and wait him out.
He could see a tuft of Crowley’s hair sticking up from the quilt. “Mmmph-ziraphale…” came from underneath.
“Yes, it’s me,” Aziraphale sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past several days, but you haven’t picked up once and I needed to ask if you can feel it. That heaviness, like something is settling over us.”
“Nnnrgh, mm,” was the reply
Aziraphale frowned. “Are you awake?”
“Ooh, s’good.”
“Crowley, are you awake?”
The lump under the blanket rolled, revealing part of Crowley’s back, almost to his bum as the sheet and duvet wrapped around him. A waft of sleep-scented body mixed with soap and the last remainders of expensive cologne hit Aziraphale. Crowley’s hips shifted, and he moaned softly. Aziraphale froze again. He should leave. He wasn’t sure if Crowley meant for him to see this, but regardless, he should go. He should go immediately and never mention it, or even think of it again.
Crowley’s head and neck were thrown back on the pillow. His eyes were closed, his lips parted in a little breathy pant. “Hm, -zrphle- please.”
Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, his own breath came in a gasp. The room felt too warm now, sweat starting to bead at his forehead. Crowley whimpered, the pulse at his neck ticking up. Aziraphale could see the muscles tightening as Crowley shifted. His skin was taking on a flush that reminded him of what Crowley looked like in the midst of a fight—gloriously alive. At the time, Aziraphale had simply chalked it up to the temptations of below, the seductiveness of Evil etc., but now it was just Crowley, purely as himself, not as an enemy or a friend.
Crowley’s mouth pulled into a slow smile as he bucked his hips invitingly. “More—c’mon,” he whimpered, then a breathy sigh and a sleep-heavy murmur he could barely hear “love you—need unh, please.” Crowley shuddered and drowsily burrowed against the bed, quieting deeper into sleep again.
Oh. Oh. It was less the sense of the rug being pulled from under him than it was the sense of the rug being torn to pieces, lit on fire, then feeling it disintegrate beneath him until there was no rug at all anymore. His chest was tight, and his face burned with embarrassment and something much sharper than embarrassment—desire. He backed away from the bed, stumbling slightly, still staring at Crowley’s sleeping curled shape until he finally shut the door. He collapsed against the wall, then letting go of the breath he rather forgot he’d been holding, Aziraphale moaned quietly in defeat.
He’d come here to wake up Crowley so he wouldn’t be alone waiting for whatever it was, and instead he was slumped shame-faced in Crowley’s house with the startlingly new discomfort of sporting an erection. So many eons of erections being purely theoretical—not even a theory worth exploring—and now this very sudden practical introduction to this heavy need that was gathering between his legs. His insides felt squirmy and every shift of his body felt like sparks of awareness were blooming. He’d never noticed how his clothes felt against his skin or how the hairs at his neck could stand on end for a reason other than fear. He certainly hadn’t noticed how the seam of his trousers pressed interestingly right there and along there.
Aziraphale’s breath grew shallower. He shifted to try and lessen the sensation, which only made new places light up. His mouth pinched in frustration. There was nothing for it but to go back to the shop immediately and hope this would resolve itself. He considered walking, but the perpetual thrill and discomfort of moving in his current state made that impractical. With a chagrined thought, he miracled himself into the back room of the shop and sat heavily at the small kitchen table.
A steadying mug of cocoa later and the contents of his trousers had returned to their usual blankness. Two hours later he was in the same state as before, only now the shock had worn off and it was just blessed irritating. With sufficiently boring reading material he could stop his body from making an effort, but the following afternoon when it happened for the fifth time, Aziraphale realized he was being outmatched. He couldn’t compete with whatever this body had gotten into it, and it was time to either institute regular cold showers or attempt to exorcise this particular problem. Aziraphale knew he should try the cold shower, but it would be, well, cold and uncomfortable. He looked at the small, damp shower cubicle, mouth pinched tight. No, that would be a step too far. The manual option it would be. Although the shower would still do. The least messy, the most sensible and simple approach to erm--getting to grips with this issue.
Aziraphale started the water and neatly removed each article of clothing, setting it in the hamper. He didn’t rush, letting the water heat up. After all, he wasn’t so desperate and aroused that he’d need to handle this immediately. He could be staid about this. The erection jutted out strangely as Aziraphale removed his pants. It was such an odd blunt protrusion. In the moment, every sensation seemed to either travel through it or emanate from it. He hovered a hand near it, but couldn’t quite figure out at what angle to approach it. Like the handle of a mug? Like a sword? Like patting an animal? Yes, certainly he’d seen masturbation before, but he’d hardly paid any attention. It had been something utterly apart from his experience, and vaguely distasteful in its crudeness. Now he wished he’d tried to notice how people managed to get the process started.
He stepped into the shower and shut the door, shuddering in the hot spray. Oh, the water was nice; enjoyable even. He leaned against the wall and let it course over him. What had Crowley been imagining they were up to? Maybe that would help. He’d been arching his back and rolling his hips slightly. Aziraphale imagined being on that bed with him and watching Crowley’s hungry little sighs with each move. He wanted to reach out and run his hand along Crowley’s shoulder and down his chest to his belly and feel all that warmth. He touched across his own chest and belly, hand settling above his cock. Had Crowley dreamt of Aziraphale touching him like this? He’d seemed to enjoy it a great deal.
Aziraphale let his hand brush the erection and nearly inhaled water with the force of his gasp. It was like lightning striking and arcing through his body. He did it again, dragging his hand down over it, forming a loose grip. Ah, that was certainly invigorating! The back of his throat felt tight, like he might laugh or cry out. He closed his eyes and tried to think about what Crowley might have imagined but somehow it was just Crowley. Crowley smiling at him. Crowley’s laugh. Crowley brushing up against him as they moved around the table. Crowley’s drunken sprawl across him on the couch. He looked so touchable in sleep; like Aziraphale might be able to hold him and see what Crowley’s skin felt up against his, or how Crowley’s arms might wrap around his neck and pull him down on top of him. Aziraphale’s breath was getting desperate and his hand was feverishly stroking. It felt so much better than it had any right to. It was just skin! Just an organ! But it felt like the light of the first day, the sun on his back, the scent of fruit heavy on the garden boughs, the sound of Crowley’s voice in his ear: “mmph--please?”
Aziraphale felt the climax trace through every vein in his body, drawing his muscles tight and then, like a string was cut, everything went slack with ripple after ripple of pleasure. Right up until his legs got a bit too relaxed, and he slid sideways down the wall in a lax heap, pulse pounding like mad and what he knew had to be a slack-jawed look on his face.
Well, that had certainly been better than a cold shower.
~*~
Aziraphale could feel his face burning as he finished the story. He looked nervously up from his hands which he’d busied with the fringe of the blanket, Crowley was staring at him with eyes blown wide, mouth hanging open. “You?”
“Yes, me. You don’t need to look quite so shocked, thank you, my dear.”
“But, but you did that?” Crowley did a rude hand gesture.
Aziraphale ruffled. “Oh, it’s all very well when you do it, but when I do it, it’s not acceptable?”
“Yes! Maybe? It’s fine, it’s just not what I expected.” Crowley drank his glass of wine, trying to look not at all interested in what he’d just heard.
“I’m sorry. It’s not something I wished to talk about, but I shouldn’t have intruded on your privacy as I did, and I should have told you. I hope you’ll accept my apology and allow me to try to prove I’m not quite as much of a bastard as I’ve been.”
Crowley gave him one of those long unblinking stares. “I cannot tell you how odd it is seeing you being like this.”
“Like what?” Aziraphale bristled.
Crowley shrugged. “Thoughtful, I suppose. Romantic, maybe?”
“I know what romance is!
“Romance is bringing me here to tell me you wanked off to my sex dream, is it?”
“No! Well, yes—I did hope you’d find Kew Gardens romantic, but not…” Aziraphale waved vaguely, “…the rest of it.”
“...Did you really do that though?”
Aziraphale gave him a withering look. “I wouldn’t lie to you about that. It certainly wasn’t my proudest moment.”
“Shame, it sounded quite good,” Crowley said nonchalantly, but a blush was rising on his cheeks.
“Well, yes, alright, it felt nice,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley looked skeptical. “Just nice?”
Aziraphale flinched and then admitted, “Exquisite.”
“Couldn’t stop yourself, huh?” Crowley asked, curiously.
Aziraphale looked away from Crowley, focusing on pouring another glass of wine. “You didn’t see what you looked like in that bed or hear the little noises you made. I’m an angel, I’m not the Almighty.”
Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s, murmuring “Angel...are you trying to tempt me?”
“Why? Is it working?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.
“You know, it is a bit.” Crowley drained his wine glass, put it aside, then grabbed Aziraphale and pulled him down onto the blanket. Aziraphale landed with an ‘oof’ but feeling Crowley’s leg swing up over his, pinning them together made it quite easy to ignore the landing.
Aziraphale leaned forward to brush his lips against Crowley’s, an electric feeling roiling in his chest. Crowley tilted his head to dip his tongue between Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale sighed, melting open to his touch. Crowley took the opening and stole in deeper, slipping his tongue against Aziraphale’s, then backing up to nip along his lips. Aziraphale groaned and pulled Crowley tighter against him, burying his hands in Crowley’s soft hair. Crowley’s head fell back, his mouth open in pleasure as Aziraphale clung to him.
Like an unending loop, each touch made Aziraphale want more, to touch Crowley everywhere he could, to get closer, for the two of them to lose themselves completely inside one another.
Aziraphale could feel the clothes between them sweat-sticky and rumpled. He didn’t want to let go and undress, but he didn’t want anything between them. Had he been thinking properly he might have miracled their clothes off or had Crowley get rid of them but the fizzing inside his head and the sound of Crowley panting above the sound of the overhead misters blanketing the Palm House in a new layer of wet warmth—all of it meant he couldn’t think of anything so clever.
He tossed a shoulder back and got his jacket caught at the elbow, struggling to get out of it while still staying pressed up against Crowley. Crowley fluttered his eyes open, noticing Aziraphale’s dilemma. “Good idea, angel,” he managed.
Crowley caught the jacket sleeve and pulled, freeing Aziraphale, then grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged at the buttons, popping a few of them free. Aziraphale moaned and the world tipped as Crowley rolled under him and positioned Aziraphale straddling his hips. Crowley kissed along Aziraphale’s neck while his hands worked rapidly to reveal more of the angel. Aziraphale managed to shuck the jacket off completely, tossing it somewhere.
Aziraphale, now free, pulled Crowley’s shirt up from his trousers and worked at the buttons as Crowley continued to move his mouth against Aziraphale’s neck, sucking gently and dragging his teeth against him, feeling each breath and pulse.
Crowley shivered when Aziraphale’s hand brushed low against his belly. He arched into the sensation and tore the rest of the buttons from Aziraphale’s shirt. All of that plush skin was just begging to be touched. Aziraphale paused in trying to get the middle button of Crowley’s shirt and flung off his own—now ruined—shirt onto a nearby fern. Aziraphale grabbed the bottom of Crowley’s shirt and just pulled it up and over Crowley’s head. Crowley thanked whoever might be paying attention that he preferred loose collars. His chest and arms were bare, but his hands were still caught in the cuffs. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, his face buried against Crowley’s shoulder, leaving hungry kisses along the bone and up his neck.
“You smell...perfect,” Aziraphale said in a dazed voice.
Crowley wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, but he didn’t have time to think of it as Aziraphale started working at the buttons of Crowley’s trousers. Crowley gasped and tore his hands free of the cuffs, moving to push his trousers down, shaking and kicking them off his legs as fast as he could.
He’d been making an effort this entire time, but the moment his cock brushed against Aziraphale’s belly, it felt new. A foreign and wild sensation that was like the very first day of creation, and like the oldest and most familiar feeling that had ever been. If he’d stopped to think about it, he might have had the urge to get very drunk and write some terrible poetry about how it felt, and then later burn that poetry in secret, because what precisely could he have said about it that humans hadn’t been trying to say about sex since they first invented words?
Instead, Crowley just said “Oh!” which captured it all, really.
Aziraphale scrabbled at his own trousers, both helped and stymied by Crowley’s hands pulling them down as best he could from beneath Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s pants were only to his knees when Crowley pressed his cock up against Aziraphale’s and any remaining clothes between them ceased to exist. Neither of them knew which of them had finally remembered that they could do that, or if it was some cosmic wish to be unencumbered that was so great their clothes simply gave up in the face of it. It hardly mattered.
Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed shut as sensation drowned him, which also meant that he wasn’t paying much attention, and tipped sideways off the blanket and onto the mossy ground. The lush scent of green decay and renewal puffed up and surrounded them. Crowley clambered over to Aziraphale and pulled him up to sit, crawling into his lap and wrapping his arms around him.
Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s, breaths panting together, and looked into Aziraphale’s eyes. He felt a wash of gratefulness that he didn’t need to blink. He could watch the wonder and sensations play across Aziraphale’s face without interruption. Although Crowley’s body very much thought this was an activity best sensed fully with eyes closed, Crowley told that part of him to piss right the hell off.
The Palm House felt like it breathed around them, enfolding them in its quiet embrace. Some insects chittered and a few birds that had taken up residence chirruped to one another. It wasn’t the garden. It would never be the garden, but the garden of Eden hadn’t ever been for them anyway. It had been for some other grand plan which played out above their heads. This was theirs alone. A garden they’d chosen, as they’d chosen one another—through unlikely circumstance and perhaps the subtle shove of the ineffable.
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley’s awestruck face and kissed his brow reverently, bringing his mouth to Crowley’s ear. “Please?”
Crowley shivered. “Please, what?” he asked reflexively, utterly unthinking.
“Everything,” Aziraphale said. Neither of them knew exactly what that meant as far as sex or love or relationships or this fumbling new awareness of whatever was between them, but they were very invested in finding out.
Crowley curled his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, cupping the back of Aziraphale’s head to kiss him. It was a wreck of a kiss, the most shamelessly open-mouthed guileless riot of tongue, teeth, lips, gasps, moans, and bumping noses. As if they were trying to find a way more deeply into one another using the messy, imperfect language of the body.
Aziraphale instinctively clutched at Crowley’s hips and pulled him close against him. They both grunted as their cocks rubbed against one another, pressed between Aziraphale’s plush belly and Crowley’s litheness.
Aziraphale didn’t bother trying to stay upright anymore. He let go and lay back on the moss, Crowley following him down, letting his legs splay and wrapping a hand around the both of them. Aziraphale’s hips pushed up into Crowley’s, a clumsy rhythm between them. The roll of Crowley’s hips, the flex of each muscle was beautiful in a way so far beyond any vague concept of beauty Aziraphale had understood. He wanted it to last forever, and never look at another thing for the rest of time lest he ever for a second forget how Crowley looked in this moment.
Crowley keened softly, watching Aziraphale, his eyes trying to flutter shut but determined to absorb every second of the way that Aziraphale panted beneath him. So terrified that, like everything else, it would be taken. Like heaven, like the garden, like the world almost was, like Aziraphale almost was.
Aziraphale glassily noticed the set of Crowley’s jaw and that focused attention that could burn anything to cinders if it stood in his way, the determination to not be left holding nothing. Aziraphale reached his hand between them and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s, working them together. “I’m here, my dear. We’re here.”
Crowley’s chest tightened into a knot as his body registered the new sensation of Aziraphale’s warm hand around his and the feeling of Aziraphale arching his hips up against Crowley’s. It felt like the sun exploded behind Crowley’s eyes as he watched Aziraphale’s every muscle and tendon pull tight. Aziraphale’s breathing hitched, then he jerked, then shuddered beneath him, wetting their hands and bellies.
Aziraphale gave Crowley a wondering beatific smile. Crowley wanted to come right then, to be with Aziraphale in this moment but the leap to get to wherever that place was felt terrifying and dreadfully precarious. To trust that Aziraphale would catch him; that he would stay.
Crowley shifted self-consciously, moving to hide his erection. It wasn’t a great time for any of those anxieties to surface. Where was the cool and level-headed demon that had been willing to tell Aziraphale he’d shag him silly? Had he been so naive to think that it could be so clean as ‘feelings’ or ‘love’ or ‘sex’ and that would be an end of it? Like a pit opening in his gut, he realized that not having Aziraphale would feel like the world really had ended. Crowley had somehow picked up how to love, but he loved only Aziraphale. He liked lots of things, delighted in lots of things; but there was only this one being he loved. Aziraphale could love everything and did love everything. But if he loved everything, then loving Crowley was nothing at all to him. Aziraphale loved everything and neglected things around him all the time.
Aziraphale stopped Crowley as he tried to move away, pulling him down beside him, looking as serious as a post-coital angel could. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
“You have no idea, and I’m almost never wrong.” Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale folded Crowley into his arms, “My dear boy, I hardly have the words for this, but you must know that I love you.”
Crowley didn’t look reassured in the least. Aziraphale tried again. “I mean love in the real sense. What I would do for you, what I would truly do for you? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Crowley tried to roll his eyes in what he hoped was a cool and disaffected way, “I’m sure. And would you Fall for me?”
Aziraphale held Crowley’s face in his hands and felt like exactly the sort of idiot that Anathema thought he was. The carelessly cruel kind that let Crowley be the villain so he never had to be. He looked at Crowley and, with every fraction of honesty and goodness he had in him, said, “If it came to that, Crowley, I wouldn’t just fall. For you, I would dive.”
Crowley wanted quite badly to say something irreverent and casual, but what he managed to come up with was, “Really?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Without question.”
Crowley leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale, trying to hide the giddiness rising in his chest. Was this how humans felt when someone said, ‘I love you’? No wonder they made foolish choices.
Aziraphale kissed him back, still getting the hang of where chins and noses went, but it was a kiss with such conviction and ‘rightness’ to it that Crowley privately thought it was probably the best kiss that the earth had yet witnessed. He followed along where Aziraphale wandered, slipping tongues against one another. Their hands stroked along one another’s bodies with devotional attention, feeling each curve and bone, learning each other’s shape.
Aziraphale pulled back and kissed down Crowley’s chest, circling a nipple with his tongue. Crowley dug his hands into Aziraphale’s hair, holding him there and feeling his lips close around him, teeth grazing gently.
“Ahh, mmphhukk,” Crowley managed to offer.
Aziraphale moved down towards Crowley’s cock which seemed invested in the proceedings again, then did a messy lick along Crowley’s length. Crowley very nearly closed his eyes in bliss, but Herculean force of will kept them open.
Aziraphale sucked lightly at the head of Crowley’s cock, fumbling it a bit and trying to work through how much fit.
Crowley found his voice again. “Angel?” He touched Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale popped off and Crowley nearly came just from seeing Aziraphale’s wet swollen lips.
Aziraphale looked up in concern. “Yes?”
“I’d rather see your face. Please.”
Aziraphale looked a little unsure. “Are you sure? It’s no trouble if I—you know.”
Crowley pulled Aziraphale up to him. “We’ll have ages to figure it all out, but what I want is for you to do to me what you did in the shower.”
Aziraphale blushed a deep red. “I—that is—it’s not something I—I don’t think I’m particularly—erm—good at it.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “It’s you doing it. That’s all it takes.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, well that’s very ahemhim feel. He felt bare and open too. It was a disquieting, squirming sensation, but the look on Crowley’s face of babbling arousal at each stroke left Aziraphale panting along with him.
Crowley bit down on his lip and bucked into Aziraphale’s hand, eyes open and watching. Aziraphale gulped and squeezed slightly as he stroked. Crowley nodded feverishly and Aziraphale sped up, seeing Crowley’s mouth open in a silent gasp. Aziraphale hardly knew what he was doing anymore, he was watching Crowley and aware of being watched but each look on Crowley’s face was so infinitely beautiful that Aziraphale felt greedy watching. Crowley caught that naked expression, that bare and unprotected look on Aziraphale’s face, and bowed, feeling release explode through him. He could hear his own voice babbling something, but he couldn’t at all think of what it was. The only thing he was aware of was Aziraphale wiping them both off with the blanket and laying down beside him in their verdant paradise.
When Crowley could finally figure out words again he said, “That was...incredible.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “You tried wanking more than the once, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale colored. “Yes, alright. I did a bit.”
“Maybe if I’m very good you’ll show me your technique.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened “Absolutely not!”
“I’ll show you mine.” Crowley gave him a seductive grin.
Aziraphale looked tempted but didn’t answer. That was alright. They had a long time to sort it all out. Crowley noticed the little box had fallen over and been slightly beaten up during all their rolling around. He handed it to Aziraphale. “I hope it’s nothing delicate.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, it’s just something I purchased for you. I think it should still be fine if you’d like to open it.”
Crowley popped it open and folded back the top to look inside. It was a nearly untouched James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen transfer.
His mouth fell open, “How on earth—Did you miracle this?”
“No, I got an email for a collector of James Bond memorabilia and convinced him to part with it. It just arrived in the mail today. I knew the Bentley didn’t come back with it intact and of course they aren’t around now, but I wanted you to have it.”
Crowley gawked at him. “You tracked this down for me?”
“I’ve done much more extreme things to get books I wanted. It was nothing,” Aziraphale deflected.
Crowley tucked it safely back in the box. “I’m putting it on the Bentley as soon as we leave.”
“Oh, you’re not ready to leave yet, are you? It’s nice here. I’m beginning to see the allure of plants.” He stroked one of the glossy leaves dangling above them.
Crowley spooned up beside him, tucking his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re not allowed to have any. You either kill them or spoil them. Besides, if you ever want to be around plants you can always come to the flat.”
Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his. “That would be nice. And your bed did seem very comfortable,” he said with a little too much neutrality to be believable.
Crowley grinned. “Oh angel, just wait until you see the shower.”
Please enjoy this fic written by a Secret Author with some favorite slash story elements!
Title: Dream A Little Dream of Me
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fic Summary: When Aziraphale embarrasses Crowley in a vulnerable moment, it takes wine, advice from Anathema, a confession of something from eleven years ago, and a trip to Kew Gardens to try and set it right.
Author’s note: I hope this fic brings joy and holiday delight! Thank you to my beta/cheering section, cactusrabbit and unwittingcatalyst for all their support and guidance. Thank you as always to the mods for their kindness in organizing this and their patience!
Rating: Explicit
Crowley leaned back in his seat. “So, the long and short of it is that I have feelings for you. I know, you’re probably thinking ‘oh, it’s that serpent up to his wiles again’, which I won’t rule out as something I’d like to try because I would in fact like to shag you silly,” Crowley gave a cheeky smile. “But I also want to do all the other things. I’m not sure what those are. I suppose if we were human it would be mattress shopping and arguing about what’s for dinner. Oh, and if we ever decided London wasn’t for us anymore, it would make sense to move in together. Very much up to you on that front.”
Aziraphale gave a small pleased smile and set his glass of wine down on the table. “Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been waiting years for you to admit it! I hardly thought it would be today, but I’m so glad. Relieved actually.”
Crowley’s face fell. “You were waiting for me to admit it? What do you mean admit it? How in the name of—How did you know?”
Aziraphale furrowed his brow, getting the sense that perhaps he hadn’t read the situation correctly. “I may have overhead you mentioning it.” Crowley looked supremely unconvinced. “While you were dreaming,” Aziraphale blurted.
“I beg your pardon?” Crowley said flatly.
Aziraphale looked around the back room of the bookshop trying to avoid eye contact with Crowley. “I was trying to wake you up. You had missed our meeting, and something felt horribly wrong. This was right before Adam’s birth and it was all very sturm und drang. So, I went to yours, but you were asleep and in the middle of a dream that seemed very ahem amorous in nature. I didn’t want to interrupt, naturally. As I was going to leave, you said my name—and some other things—that suggested you might have had feelings for me that were more than friendly.” Aziraphale tapped his hands anxiously in his lap.
“So to sum up: you heard me having a sex dream about you more than ten years ago, knew I had feelings for you, didn’t mention it, waited until I approached you, and then came out with all this. You know, of all the ways I expected this to go wrong, credit to upstairs or below, this has exceeded my worst expectations.” Crowley shook his head in disgust.
“But—Why? I feel the same—I have feelings for you too!” Aziraphale insisted.
Crowley shot him a scornful look. “Oh, well that’s lovely; you decided to wait and come out with it only after I made a fool of myself telling you something you already knew.”
“Well, what if it had been temptation, or I might have been wrong, misread the signs, or you didn’t want me to know?” Aziraphale tried to reason.
Crowley laughed bitterly. “You are a complete and utter bastard. I’ve spent more than a decade trying to decide if I’d ever even mention this to you, even bother trying something as insane as fumbling through whatever this is between us, and you’ve been sitting primly on that secret the whole damn time. No, worse, you’ve been sitting on it because you didn’t want to take the risk and you’d rather I do it.” Crowley shook his head in frustration and grabbed a bottle of wine, downing the rest of it in a single go. “Thanks for the terrible evening. I’ll just be going.” Crowley grabbed his coat and headed for the front door of the bookshop.
“I - I- simply.”
Crowley didn’t look at him. “Yes, you always ‘simply’.”
“It-but-” Aziraphale sputtered.
“Stuff it. I’ve heard enough for one night. I can’t believe I was that much of an idiot to try and do this!”
Aziraphale finally got a sentence together. “But I care about you too!”
Crowley snorted. “Funny way of showing it. Goodnight, angel.” The door slammed behind him.
Aziraphale dedicated the rest of the evening to pacing and getting incalculably drunk. In-between the pleasant rush of alcohol, it felt like a weight was crushing down on his chest and cold sweat breaking out over his skin. Is this what humans felt like when they made mistakes? It was awful. Far worse than he’d thought it could be. Perhaps it was part of the ineffable plan…? If it was, Aziraphale wanted nothing to do with it. A blasphemous thought. For a second, he imagined he could feel the faintest singe of some previously untouchable part of himself as he brushed up against the will of the Almighty. Aziraphale shivered. Maybe not part of the ineffable plan, and he was simply imagining that. Although if it was part of the ineffable plan...would he go against it for Crowley?
Almost not a question worth asking. He would have faced the end of existence for Crowley. He would stand in front of Crowley and shield him with his own body if he had to. That was sorted then, maybe ill-advised, but sorted. He drank another glass and stewed on what had happened.
He wanted to call Crowley to tell him that he was sorry, that it was a mistake, that he didn’t ever intend to hurt him, but of course Crowley already knew all of that. Which left…what? What was one to do when you hurt someone and never intended to—more than that, hated having done it?
Forgiveness was quite a bit simpler and clearer up There. Asked truthfully, it was granted—but then up There it was generally understood that you didn’t ask for it unless you truly meant it, and everyone knew unequivocally that you did truly mean it. Crowley couldn’t know how truly Aziraphale meant it. He certainly didn’t have a reason to believe that Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt him again.
Oh, that stung. Being mistrusted tasted bitter. Angels were good and what they did was good. They didn’t make mistakes because they couldn’t. But what he had done to Crowley was a mistake. Perhaps a different perspective on the issue might prove enlightening. Who to ask? He could ask another angel, but that was quickly ruled out as a plan more likely to lead to disaster than forgiveness.
Aziraphale set out his rolodeck and flicked slowly through it, nursing another glass of wine. It was mostly a list of other book sellers, a few vintners, the number for Miss Tracy, Anathema, and the number for Adam’s parents. He’d never needed that number, but it had seemed like one he should have in order to say he had it.
The clock read close to 4am. Aziraphale finished the bottle of wine off, swirling it slowly in his glass, and waited for a reasonable hour to pick up the phone.
Anathema woke to the phone ringing as light was barely beginning to creep in through the curtains. Her heart stopped. Phone calls in the early morning and late night were invariably bad news. She clambered over Newt and nearly fell out of the bed trying to reach for the phone.
“Hello!? What’s wrong?” she demanded.
A loose slurring voice responded, “Nothing! Or yes, someth’n’. Crowley’s what’s wrong. Nooo, I’m wrong, but ‘m wrong about Crowley.”
Anathema’s mind tried to make sense of the mushy words. “Aziraphale? Is that...you? Why on earth are you calling me, it’s...” she looked at the clock, “...6:03.”
“I’m so sooorry,” was the pathetic reply.
“Why? What have you done?!”
“I made a mess of it. Crowley admitted he’s got feelings ‘n I said ‘course I know, because I saw him havin’adream ‘bout me and it was…” There was a long drunken silence in which Anathema expected to hear snoring or him falling over at any second, but he finally finished his thought “It was--pr’tty carnal if you see. Then he drank the rest of the good wine ‘n left. S’awful.”
“Do not, under any circumstances, tell me more. If Crowley didn’t want you to know about that, how do you think he’d feel about you telling me?”
There was a horrified pause and a soft “Fuck.”
Anathema sighed, snuggling up against Newt, who was still mostly dozing. “Aziraphale, please sober up. It’s too early for me to explain things in drunk terms.”
“M’not sober? Gracious, ‘d forgotten. I beg your pardon, I’ve been somewhat distraught.”
“Clearly.” Anathema yawned. “I’m going to guess you’ve never been in a relationship?”
“Not the sort that Crowley was talking about.”
“Rule one is don’t be a bastard to the person you love. Alright, I’m going to try and keep this simple: apologize and hope he forgives you. You’ve embarrassed him very badly. He shared something with you and you made him feel like an idiot. He probably didn’t like that. In a relationship, you can’t let someone else take all the risks. You can’t let him look like an idiot alone. You would do anything for him, right?”
“Of course! I’ve already gone against the powers of heaven and hell to keep us safe!”
“Would you take a chance of looking like an idiot for him?”
Aziraphale coughed, “I suppose yes, I would.”
“Good, because it sounds like he tried to do that for you. If Crowley took a risk to tell you how he felt and you made him feel worse, this is a good time to try your hand at a big dramatic gesture to show you can be vulnerable. He’s not going to trust you if you only protect yourself and never protect him.”
Aziraphale hmm’d thoughtfully. “What sort of dramatic gesture do you suggest? I’ve heard that flowers and chocolates or rides in a carriage are quite popular.”
Newt mumbled beside her, “What does he like? S’not gonna work if it’s not what he likes.”
Anathema rubbed Newt’s shoulder fondly. “Flowers are absolutely not a risk; Newt says to think of what Crowley likes and do something with that.”
“He likes all sorts of things. But he has most everything he wants I’m sure.”
Anathema pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not about what he has. You’re trying to show you’re not afraid to take a risk if it means it makes him happy.”
“I don’t know how!” Aziraphale said worriedly.
Newt groaned and rolled over. “Try!”
Anathema lay down beside him, cradling the phone to her ear. “Newt says 'Try' and I say, do something he wouldn’t think to get or do for himself. Something that no one else would think to do for him. I can’t help you more than that. You know him best.”
“I suppose I do.” Aziraphale felt unsure about that now.
“Give it a bit and think it over. And Aziraphale, try not to hurt him.”
“I’ve already bungled that, I’m afraid.”
“I suspect he might let you try again. He seems to like you enough the way you are. I’m going back to sleep. Good luck.” Anathema hung up and said a silent prayer to the universe hoping those two could get it together.
Aziraphale made a list of all the things he thought Crowley liked: Plants, expensive clothes, wiles?, the Bentley, James Bond films, wine, dolphins?, sleep, technology, me???
It ruled out the carriage ride and the chocolates. Flowers fell under plants, so it might still be on the table. Watching James Bond films seemed a little too low risk. Bringing him a dolphin was impractical in the extreme, and Aziraphale highly doubted that Crowley cared for dolphins enough to wish to meet one face to face. He couldn’t give him sleep. Wine wasn’t a special thing, nor were clothes. But perhaps the location could be special. Saville Row was not a place to take someone who preferred to create clothes out of nothing. Aziraphale wasn’t sure that there was a place that would satisfy the enjoyment of technology or sleep. Plants, though. Plants might be possible. A forest? A jungle? No, Crowley distinctly preferred the city when offered the choice. Aziraphale flicked through the phone book and found the number for Kew Gardens.
~*~
Aziraphale managed to get Crowley’s agreement to meet at the back gate to the gardens. It was fortunately unlocked, but of course it was more that it would have been inconvenient if it was locked, and Aziraphale didn’t want to be inconvenienced.
Crowley slouched along behind him up the walking path to the greenhouses. “What’s this meeting about, then?”
Aziraphale straightened his shoulders determinedly. “An attempt at fixing things.”
“Usually there’s less sneaking in involved,” Crowley mused, looking appraisingly at the shrubs along the path.
Aziraphale miracled the lock and smoothly swung open the door to the Palm House, inviting Crowley in. The burbling of water and the rich smell of green and soil washed over them. Crowley couldn’t hide a little shiver of enjoyment at the warmth as Aziraphale led them up a walkway and off into the foliage. He showed them behind a very enterprising bromeliad to a small clearing blanketed in moss and an actual blanket. Several bottles of wine were already arranged beside it, along with a small box.
Aziraphale knelt down. “I wanted to bring you somewhere to apologize. Somewhere you’d like.” He gestured to the plants around them. “I tried to think about what you’d enjoy and thought that you might like it. I know it always reminds me—well, it’s just very nice.”
Crowley plopped down on the blanket and stretched out, flicking his shoes off. “It’s the right temperature at least. February is a misery.” He shrugged out of his jacket and sighed in contentment.
Aziraphale opened one of the bottles, offering Crowley a glass.
Crowley looked over his sunglasses, “Are you going to explain what’s with the greenhouse particularly? And the wine, etcetera?”
“It’s meant to be a ‘dramatic gesture’ of romance, not just an apology. I’m ‘taking a risk’.”
“A risk, huh.” Crowley raised an eyebrow
Aziraphale drank down his own glass of wine before shuffling to face Crowley. “I mucked things up terribly by not telling you eleven years ago, and I made it worse the other day. I didn’t know how to bring it up and I didn’t want to admit that… that I felt something quite so well… lustful.”
“What’s this about ‘lustful’?”
Aziraphale made a pained expression. “Do we really have to discuss it?”
Crowley flicked his tongue out testily. “Turnabout’s fair play, angel. After the free show you got, the least I deserve is to know.”
~*~ Eleven Years Ago~*~
Aziraphale hadn’t precisely intended to engage in a light bit of B&E, but desperate times and all that. It certainly felt desperate enough. Crowley had promised that he’d be in touch by the week’s end and he was more than two days late. Not only that, he hadn’t answered his phone at all, or returned any of the messages that Aziraphale had left. Normally he mightn’t have worried, but something had felt increasingly off over the last several weeks, and in the past few days Aziraphale had begun to wonder if perhaps they were frogs in slowly heating water. As his panic had mounted, Aziraphale had felt more and more certain that he had to see Crowley for himself. It would have helped if Crowley would answer his door, but Aziraphale wasn’t above miracling his way into the flat.
Opening the door, he was met with a wave of heat. The flat felt like an early summer’s day, with the scent of greenery rolling off the plants tastefully arranged on every surface. It felt a little like a garden. It felt a little like the garden. Aziraphale twinged a bit, wondering if Crowley might miss it. It really had been lovely, thick mist rising off of it, pungent with the wet rich smell of growth. These plants seemed considerably more disciplined, which was a strange sense to get from a plant, but Aziraphale could rarely keep anything alive for more than a week so perhaps he wasn’t understanding them correctly.
The flat was silent but for the hum of an ostentatious American-style refrigerator. Aziraphale wandered through, pursing his lips at the showy kitchen appliances gleaming on the marble countertops, the angular furniture that looked exquisite and utterly uncomfortable, the bizarre paintings on the wall that were distressingly modern. Crowley was nowhere to be seen.
Aziraphale checked every room before walking up to the closed bedroom door. He’d checked the office with its panoply of technology, the spare bathroom with a mirror so clean Aziraphale startled when he saw himself. He looked a mess, like he’d not slept in days—but he never slept so it was unclear what exactly he looked like—clearly nothing good.
The bedroom door was heavy and thoroughly polished wood. Aziraphale shifted agitatedly in front of it. He really should have called Crowley’s name when he’d come in. He probably should have been calling Crowley’s name this whole time, and instead he’d padded around silently taking a good stare at how Crowley lived. If Crowley was in there, should he knock? Should he call his name? Should he whisper it? If he wasn’t in there, should he look around or just go?
A whisper of a thought asked, what if he is in there and he isn’t alone? A new and unconsidered image took root. An image of Crowley tangled in bed linens and wrapped around another person. The other person in Aziraphale’s imagination didn’t have a face or identity, they were simply there to emphasize how sated Crowley looked and to lazily twine their arms around him. Aziraphale blinked, trying to dislodge the thought and address the problem in front of him.
He knocked softly, as softly as he could and still call it a knock. Nothing.
“Crowley, are you here?” he whispered. He knocked louder this time and cleared his throat. “Crowley? It’s Aziraphale.”
Silence again.
He gave a forceful rap, but no answer came. Aziraphale let his hand touch the shining brass of the knob and felt it turn smoothly, the door swinging in on perfectly oiled hinges. Aziraphale hadn’t been ready for that, having never thought to oil a single door hinge in his entire existence, and he came along with the door as his weight shifted. He leaned on the knob to support himself and drove the door hard into the wall. He righted himself and froze, seeing a lump in the bed. The lump shifted and gave a groan, then went still.
Aziraphale shook himself. He’d come to find Crowley; he had no reason to freeze. But it did feel strange to walk further into Crowley’s bedroom. He coughed softly. “Crowley?”
The lump snorted quietly but didn’t move.
Aziraphale stepped closer and cleared his throat more loudly. Nothing. He chewed his lip before yelling “Crowley, wake up now! Please,” he added. Stillness.
Finally, he moved closer to the bed trying to decide if he should shake Crowley, or speak louder, or just give up and wait him out.
He could see a tuft of Crowley’s hair sticking up from the quilt. “Mmmph-ziraphale…” came from underneath.
“Yes, it’s me,” Aziraphale sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past several days, but you haven’t picked up once and I needed to ask if you can feel it. That heaviness, like something is settling over us.”
“Nnnrgh, mm,” was the reply
Aziraphale frowned. “Are you awake?”
“Ooh, s’good.”
“Crowley, are you awake?”
The lump under the blanket rolled, revealing part of Crowley’s back, almost to his bum as the sheet and duvet wrapped around him. A waft of sleep-scented body mixed with soap and the last remainders of expensive cologne hit Aziraphale. Crowley’s hips shifted, and he moaned softly. Aziraphale froze again. He should leave. He wasn’t sure if Crowley meant for him to see this, but regardless, he should go. He should go immediately and never mention it, or even think of it again.
Crowley’s head and neck were thrown back on the pillow. His eyes were closed, his lips parted in a little breathy pant. “Hm, -zrphle- please.”
Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, his own breath came in a gasp. The room felt too warm now, sweat starting to bead at his forehead. Crowley whimpered, the pulse at his neck ticking up. Aziraphale could see the muscles tightening as Crowley shifted. His skin was taking on a flush that reminded him of what Crowley looked like in the midst of a fight—gloriously alive. At the time, Aziraphale had simply chalked it up to the temptations of below, the seductiveness of Evil etc., but now it was just Crowley, purely as himself, not as an enemy or a friend.
Crowley’s mouth pulled into a slow smile as he bucked his hips invitingly. “More—c’mon,” he whimpered, then a breathy sigh and a sleep-heavy murmur he could barely hear “love you—need unh, please.” Crowley shuddered and drowsily burrowed against the bed, quieting deeper into sleep again.
Oh. Oh. It was less the sense of the rug being pulled from under him than it was the sense of the rug being torn to pieces, lit on fire, then feeling it disintegrate beneath him until there was no rug at all anymore. His chest was tight, and his face burned with embarrassment and something much sharper than embarrassment—desire. He backed away from the bed, stumbling slightly, still staring at Crowley’s sleeping curled shape until he finally shut the door. He collapsed against the wall, then letting go of the breath he rather forgot he’d been holding, Aziraphale moaned quietly in defeat.
He’d come here to wake up Crowley so he wouldn’t be alone waiting for whatever it was, and instead he was slumped shame-faced in Crowley’s house with the startlingly new discomfort of sporting an erection. So many eons of erections being purely theoretical—not even a theory worth exploring—and now this very sudden practical introduction to this heavy need that was gathering between his legs. His insides felt squirmy and every shift of his body felt like sparks of awareness were blooming. He’d never noticed how his clothes felt against his skin or how the hairs at his neck could stand on end for a reason other than fear. He certainly hadn’t noticed how the seam of his trousers pressed interestingly right there and along there.
Aziraphale’s breath grew shallower. He shifted to try and lessen the sensation, which only made new places light up. His mouth pinched in frustration. There was nothing for it but to go back to the shop immediately and hope this would resolve itself. He considered walking, but the perpetual thrill and discomfort of moving in his current state made that impractical. With a chagrined thought, he miracled himself into the back room of the shop and sat heavily at the small kitchen table.
A steadying mug of cocoa later and the contents of his trousers had returned to their usual blankness. Two hours later he was in the same state as before, only now the shock had worn off and it was just blessed irritating. With sufficiently boring reading material he could stop his body from making an effort, but the following afternoon when it happened for the fifth time, Aziraphale realized he was being outmatched. He couldn’t compete with whatever this body had gotten into it, and it was time to either institute regular cold showers or attempt to exorcise this particular problem. Aziraphale knew he should try the cold shower, but it would be, well, cold and uncomfortable. He looked at the small, damp shower cubicle, mouth pinched tight. No, that would be a step too far. The manual option it would be. Although the shower would still do. The least messy, the most sensible and simple approach to erm--getting to grips with this issue.
Aziraphale started the water and neatly removed each article of clothing, setting it in the hamper. He didn’t rush, letting the water heat up. After all, he wasn’t so desperate and aroused that he’d need to handle this immediately. He could be staid about this. The erection jutted out strangely as Aziraphale removed his pants. It was such an odd blunt protrusion. In the moment, every sensation seemed to either travel through it or emanate from it. He hovered a hand near it, but couldn’t quite figure out at what angle to approach it. Like the handle of a mug? Like a sword? Like patting an animal? Yes, certainly he’d seen masturbation before, but he’d hardly paid any attention. It had been something utterly apart from his experience, and vaguely distasteful in its crudeness. Now he wished he’d tried to notice how people managed to get the process started.
He stepped into the shower and shut the door, shuddering in the hot spray. Oh, the water was nice; enjoyable even. He leaned against the wall and let it course over him. What had Crowley been imagining they were up to? Maybe that would help. He’d been arching his back and rolling his hips slightly. Aziraphale imagined being on that bed with him and watching Crowley’s hungry little sighs with each move. He wanted to reach out and run his hand along Crowley’s shoulder and down his chest to his belly and feel all that warmth. He touched across his own chest and belly, hand settling above his cock. Had Crowley dreamt of Aziraphale touching him like this? He’d seemed to enjoy it a great deal.
Aziraphale let his hand brush the erection and nearly inhaled water with the force of his gasp. It was like lightning striking and arcing through his body. He did it again, dragging his hand down over it, forming a loose grip. Ah, that was certainly invigorating! The back of his throat felt tight, like he might laugh or cry out. He closed his eyes and tried to think about what Crowley might have imagined but somehow it was just Crowley. Crowley smiling at him. Crowley’s laugh. Crowley brushing up against him as they moved around the table. Crowley’s drunken sprawl across him on the couch. He looked so touchable in sleep; like Aziraphale might be able to hold him and see what Crowley’s skin felt up against his, or how Crowley’s arms might wrap around his neck and pull him down on top of him. Aziraphale’s breath was getting desperate and his hand was feverishly stroking. It felt so much better than it had any right to. It was just skin! Just an organ! But it felt like the light of the first day, the sun on his back, the scent of fruit heavy on the garden boughs, the sound of Crowley’s voice in his ear: “mmph--please?”
Aziraphale felt the climax trace through every vein in his body, drawing his muscles tight and then, like a string was cut, everything went slack with ripple after ripple of pleasure. Right up until his legs got a bit too relaxed, and he slid sideways down the wall in a lax heap, pulse pounding like mad and what he knew had to be a slack-jawed look on his face.
Well, that had certainly been better than a cold shower.
~*~
Aziraphale could feel his face burning as he finished the story. He looked nervously up from his hands which he’d busied with the fringe of the blanket, Crowley was staring at him with eyes blown wide, mouth hanging open. “You?”
“Yes, me. You don’t need to look quite so shocked, thank you, my dear.”
“But, but you did that?” Crowley did a rude hand gesture.
Aziraphale ruffled. “Oh, it’s all very well when you do it, but when I do it, it’s not acceptable?”
“Yes! Maybe? It’s fine, it’s just not what I expected.” Crowley drank his glass of wine, trying to look not at all interested in what he’d just heard.
“I’m sorry. It’s not something I wished to talk about, but I shouldn’t have intruded on your privacy as I did, and I should have told you. I hope you’ll accept my apology and allow me to try to prove I’m not quite as much of a bastard as I’ve been.”
Crowley gave him one of those long unblinking stares. “I cannot tell you how odd it is seeing you being like this.”
“Like what?” Aziraphale bristled.
Crowley shrugged. “Thoughtful, I suppose. Romantic, maybe?”
“I know what romance is!
“Romance is bringing me here to tell me you wanked off to my sex dream, is it?”
“No! Well, yes—I did hope you’d find Kew Gardens romantic, but not…” Aziraphale waved vaguely, “…the rest of it.”
“...Did you really do that though?”
Aziraphale gave him a withering look. “I wouldn’t lie to you about that. It certainly wasn’t my proudest moment.”
“Shame, it sounded quite good,” Crowley said nonchalantly, but a blush was rising on his cheeks.
“Well, yes, alright, it felt nice,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley looked skeptical. “Just nice?”
Aziraphale flinched and then admitted, “Exquisite.”
“Couldn’t stop yourself, huh?” Crowley asked, curiously.
Aziraphale looked away from Crowley, focusing on pouring another glass of wine. “You didn’t see what you looked like in that bed or hear the little noises you made. I’m an angel, I’m not the Almighty.”
Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s, murmuring “Angel...are you trying to tempt me?”
“Why? Is it working?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.
“You know, it is a bit.” Crowley drained his wine glass, put it aside, then grabbed Aziraphale and pulled him down onto the blanket. Aziraphale landed with an ‘oof’ but feeling Crowley’s leg swing up over his, pinning them together made it quite easy to ignore the landing.
Aziraphale leaned forward to brush his lips against Crowley’s, an electric feeling roiling in his chest. Crowley tilted his head to dip his tongue between Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale sighed, melting open to his touch. Crowley took the opening and stole in deeper, slipping his tongue against Aziraphale’s, then backing up to nip along his lips. Aziraphale groaned and pulled Crowley tighter against him, burying his hands in Crowley’s soft hair. Crowley’s head fell back, his mouth open in pleasure as Aziraphale clung to him.
Like an unending loop, each touch made Aziraphale want more, to touch Crowley everywhere he could, to get closer, for the two of them to lose themselves completely inside one another.
Aziraphale could feel the clothes between them sweat-sticky and rumpled. He didn’t want to let go and undress, but he didn’t want anything between them. Had he been thinking properly he might have miracled their clothes off or had Crowley get rid of them but the fizzing inside his head and the sound of Crowley panting above the sound of the overhead misters blanketing the Palm House in a new layer of wet warmth—all of it meant he couldn’t think of anything so clever.
He tossed a shoulder back and got his jacket caught at the elbow, struggling to get out of it while still staying pressed up against Crowley. Crowley fluttered his eyes open, noticing Aziraphale’s dilemma. “Good idea, angel,” he managed.
Crowley caught the jacket sleeve and pulled, freeing Aziraphale, then grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged at the buttons, popping a few of them free. Aziraphale moaned and the world tipped as Crowley rolled under him and positioned Aziraphale straddling his hips. Crowley kissed along Aziraphale’s neck while his hands worked rapidly to reveal more of the angel. Aziraphale managed to shuck the jacket off completely, tossing it somewhere.
Aziraphale, now free, pulled Crowley’s shirt up from his trousers and worked at the buttons as Crowley continued to move his mouth against Aziraphale’s neck, sucking gently and dragging his teeth against him, feeling each breath and pulse.
Crowley shivered when Aziraphale’s hand brushed low against his belly. He arched into the sensation and tore the rest of the buttons from Aziraphale’s shirt. All of that plush skin was just begging to be touched. Aziraphale paused in trying to get the middle button of Crowley’s shirt and flung off his own—now ruined—shirt onto a nearby fern. Aziraphale grabbed the bottom of Crowley’s shirt and just pulled it up and over Crowley’s head. Crowley thanked whoever might be paying attention that he preferred loose collars. His chest and arms were bare, but his hands were still caught in the cuffs. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, his face buried against Crowley’s shoulder, leaving hungry kisses along the bone and up his neck.
“You smell...perfect,” Aziraphale said in a dazed voice.
Crowley wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, but he didn’t have time to think of it as Aziraphale started working at the buttons of Crowley’s trousers. Crowley gasped and tore his hands free of the cuffs, moving to push his trousers down, shaking and kicking them off his legs as fast as he could.
He’d been making an effort this entire time, but the moment his cock brushed against Aziraphale’s belly, it felt new. A foreign and wild sensation that was like the very first day of creation, and like the oldest and most familiar feeling that had ever been. If he’d stopped to think about it, he might have had the urge to get very drunk and write some terrible poetry about how it felt, and then later burn that poetry in secret, because what precisely could he have said about it that humans hadn’t been trying to say about sex since they first invented words?
Instead, Crowley just said “Oh!” which captured it all, really.
Aziraphale scrabbled at his own trousers, both helped and stymied by Crowley’s hands pulling them down as best he could from beneath Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s pants were only to his knees when Crowley pressed his cock up against Aziraphale’s and any remaining clothes between them ceased to exist. Neither of them knew which of them had finally remembered that they could do that, or if it was some cosmic wish to be unencumbered that was so great their clothes simply gave up in the face of it. It hardly mattered.
Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed shut as sensation drowned him, which also meant that he wasn’t paying much attention, and tipped sideways off the blanket and onto the mossy ground. The lush scent of green decay and renewal puffed up and surrounded them. Crowley clambered over to Aziraphale and pulled him up to sit, crawling into his lap and wrapping his arms around him.
Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s, breaths panting together, and looked into Aziraphale’s eyes. He felt a wash of gratefulness that he didn’t need to blink. He could watch the wonder and sensations play across Aziraphale’s face without interruption. Although Crowley’s body very much thought this was an activity best sensed fully with eyes closed, Crowley told that part of him to piss right the hell off.
The Palm House felt like it breathed around them, enfolding them in its quiet embrace. Some insects chittered and a few birds that had taken up residence chirruped to one another. It wasn’t the garden. It would never be the garden, but the garden of Eden hadn’t ever been for them anyway. It had been for some other grand plan which played out above their heads. This was theirs alone. A garden they’d chosen, as they’d chosen one another—through unlikely circumstance and perhaps the subtle shove of the ineffable.
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley’s awestruck face and kissed his brow reverently, bringing his mouth to Crowley’s ear. “Please?”
Crowley shivered. “Please, what?” he asked reflexively, utterly unthinking.
“Everything,” Aziraphale said. Neither of them knew exactly what that meant as far as sex or love or relationships or this fumbling new awareness of whatever was between them, but they were very invested in finding out.
Crowley curled his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, cupping the back of Aziraphale’s head to kiss him. It was a wreck of a kiss, the most shamelessly open-mouthed guileless riot of tongue, teeth, lips, gasps, moans, and bumping noses. As if they were trying to find a way more deeply into one another using the messy, imperfect language of the body.
Aziraphale instinctively clutched at Crowley’s hips and pulled him close against him. They both grunted as their cocks rubbed against one another, pressed between Aziraphale’s plush belly and Crowley’s litheness.
Aziraphale didn’t bother trying to stay upright anymore. He let go and lay back on the moss, Crowley following him down, letting his legs splay and wrapping a hand around the both of them. Aziraphale’s hips pushed up into Crowley’s, a clumsy rhythm between them. The roll of Crowley’s hips, the flex of each muscle was beautiful in a way so far beyond any vague concept of beauty Aziraphale had understood. He wanted it to last forever, and never look at another thing for the rest of time lest he ever for a second forget how Crowley looked in this moment.
Crowley keened softly, watching Aziraphale, his eyes trying to flutter shut but determined to absorb every second of the way that Aziraphale panted beneath him. So terrified that, like everything else, it would be taken. Like heaven, like the garden, like the world almost was, like Aziraphale almost was.
Aziraphale glassily noticed the set of Crowley’s jaw and that focused attention that could burn anything to cinders if it stood in his way, the determination to not be left holding nothing. Aziraphale reached his hand between them and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s, working them together. “I’m here, my dear. We’re here.”
Crowley’s chest tightened into a knot as his body registered the new sensation of Aziraphale’s warm hand around his and the feeling of Aziraphale arching his hips up against Crowley’s. It felt like the sun exploded behind Crowley’s eyes as he watched Aziraphale’s every muscle and tendon pull tight. Aziraphale’s breathing hitched, then he jerked, then shuddered beneath him, wetting their hands and bellies.
Aziraphale gave Crowley a wondering beatific smile. Crowley wanted to come right then, to be with Aziraphale in this moment but the leap to get to wherever that place was felt terrifying and dreadfully precarious. To trust that Aziraphale would catch him; that he would stay.
Crowley shifted self-consciously, moving to hide his erection. It wasn’t a great time for any of those anxieties to surface. Where was the cool and level-headed demon that had been willing to tell Aziraphale he’d shag him silly? Had he been so naive to think that it could be so clean as ‘feelings’ or ‘love’ or ‘sex’ and that would be an end of it? Like a pit opening in his gut, he realized that not having Aziraphale would feel like the world really had ended. Crowley had somehow picked up how to love, but he loved only Aziraphale. He liked lots of things, delighted in lots of things; but there was only this one being he loved. Aziraphale could love everything and did love everything. But if he loved everything, then loving Crowley was nothing at all to him. Aziraphale loved everything and neglected things around him all the time.
Aziraphale stopped Crowley as he tried to move away, pulling him down beside him, looking as serious as a post-coital angel could. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
“You have no idea, and I’m almost never wrong.” Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale folded Crowley into his arms, “My dear boy, I hardly have the words for this, but you must know that I love you.”
Crowley didn’t look reassured in the least. Aziraphale tried again. “I mean love in the real sense. What I would do for you, what I would truly do for you? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Crowley tried to roll his eyes in what he hoped was a cool and disaffected way, “I’m sure. And would you Fall for me?”
Aziraphale held Crowley’s face in his hands and felt like exactly the sort of idiot that Anathema thought he was. The carelessly cruel kind that let Crowley be the villain so he never had to be. He looked at Crowley and, with every fraction of honesty and goodness he had in him, said, “If it came to that, Crowley, I wouldn’t just fall. For you, I would dive.”
Crowley wanted quite badly to say something irreverent and casual, but what he managed to come up with was, “Really?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Without question.”
Crowley leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale, trying to hide the giddiness rising in his chest. Was this how humans felt when someone said, ‘I love you’? No wonder they made foolish choices.
Aziraphale kissed him back, still getting the hang of where chins and noses went, but it was a kiss with such conviction and ‘rightness’ to it that Crowley privately thought it was probably the best kiss that the earth had yet witnessed. He followed along where Aziraphale wandered, slipping tongues against one another. Their hands stroked along one another’s bodies with devotional attention, feeling each curve and bone, learning each other’s shape.
Aziraphale pulled back and kissed down Crowley’s chest, circling a nipple with his tongue. Crowley dug his hands into Aziraphale’s hair, holding him there and feeling his lips close around him, teeth grazing gently.
“Ahh, mmphhukk,” Crowley managed to offer.
Aziraphale moved down towards Crowley’s cock which seemed invested in the proceedings again, then did a messy lick along Crowley’s length. Crowley very nearly closed his eyes in bliss, but Herculean force of will kept them open.
Aziraphale sucked lightly at the head of Crowley’s cock, fumbling it a bit and trying to work through how much fit.
Crowley found his voice again. “Angel?” He touched Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale popped off and Crowley nearly came just from seeing Aziraphale’s wet swollen lips.
Aziraphale looked up in concern. “Yes?”
“I’d rather see your face. Please.”
Aziraphale looked a little unsure. “Are you sure? It’s no trouble if I—you know.”
Crowley pulled Aziraphale up to him. “We’ll have ages to figure it all out, but what I want is for you to do to me what you did in the shower.”
Aziraphale blushed a deep red. “I—that is—it’s not something I—I don’t think I’m particularly—erm—good at it.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “It’s you doing it. That’s all it takes.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, well that’s very ahemhim feel. He felt bare and open too. It was a disquieting, squirming sensation, but the look on Crowley’s face of babbling arousal at each stroke left Aziraphale panting along with him.
Crowley bit down on his lip and bucked into Aziraphale’s hand, eyes open and watching. Aziraphale gulped and squeezed slightly as he stroked. Crowley nodded feverishly and Aziraphale sped up, seeing Crowley’s mouth open in a silent gasp. Aziraphale hardly knew what he was doing anymore, he was watching Crowley and aware of being watched but each look on Crowley’s face was so infinitely beautiful that Aziraphale felt greedy watching. Crowley caught that naked expression, that bare and unprotected look on Aziraphale’s face, and bowed, feeling release explode through him. He could hear his own voice babbling something, but he couldn’t at all think of what it was. The only thing he was aware of was Aziraphale wiping them both off with the blanket and laying down beside him in their verdant paradise.
When Crowley could finally figure out words again he said, “That was...incredible.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “You tried wanking more than the once, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale colored. “Yes, alright. I did a bit.”
“Maybe if I’m very good you’ll show me your technique.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened “Absolutely not!”
“I’ll show you mine.” Crowley gave him a seductive grin.
Aziraphale looked tempted but didn’t answer. That was alright. They had a long time to sort it all out. Crowley noticed the little box had fallen over and been slightly beaten up during all their rolling around. He handed it to Aziraphale. “I hope it’s nothing delicate.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, it’s just something I purchased for you. I think it should still be fine if you’d like to open it.”
Crowley popped it open and folded back the top to look inside. It was a nearly untouched James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen transfer.
His mouth fell open, “How on earth—Did you miracle this?”
“No, I got an email for a collector of James Bond memorabilia and convinced him to part with it. It just arrived in the mail today. I knew the Bentley didn’t come back with it intact and of course they aren’t around now, but I wanted you to have it.”
Crowley gawked at him. “You tracked this down for me?”
“I’ve done much more extreme things to get books I wanted. It was nothing,” Aziraphale deflected.
Crowley tucked it safely back in the box. “I’m putting it on the Bentley as soon as we leave.”
“Oh, you’re not ready to leave yet, are you? It’s nice here. I’m beginning to see the allure of plants.” He stroked one of the glossy leaves dangling above them.
Crowley spooned up beside him, tucking his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re not allowed to have any. You either kill them or spoil them. Besides, if you ever want to be around plants you can always come to the flat.”
Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his. “That would be nice. And your bed did seem very comfortable,” he said with a little too much neutrality to be believable.
Crowley grinned. “Oh angel, just wait until you see the shower.”
