goe_mod: (Crowley by Bravinto)
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Clementine

I love you madly,

Let my imagination run away with you gladly.

Prompt - Seaside Neighbours: Aziraphale and Crowley move into their own individual cottages on the seaside. The cottages aren't super close to each other, but close enough that they could walk to each other's houses. They meet one day on the beach and begin a friendship, steadily falling for each other. Can either be a human!AU or they can still be an angel and a demon.

Rating: Explicit

Spotify playlist here.

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Falling

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Crowley’s ears were ringing. Pain flared along his spine, his body jarred by landing so suddenly on his back. He might have bitten his tongue judging by the coppery taste in his mouth. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding sun, glanced around at the sand that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Not an ideal start to his Tuesday.

He lay on the sand, hand over his face, listening to the gentle lap of the ocean, coming to terms with the fact that he, a grown man, had just tripped over his own feet on a perfectly flat surface. He wasn’t twenty anymore, his joints would punish him for this like a jilted lover, taking their time to forgive and be kind to him again.

At least there weren’t any witnesses.

“Are you alright?”

Crowley groaned. Of course. The voice was nearby but he refused to move his hand from his face to see. “M’fine.”

“Are you sure? That was quite a tumble.” The Voice was more polite than worried. Maybe a little amused but Crowley couldn’t fault him that. He imagined he had looked like a baby giraffe unsure how to use its feet and ending up on its face.

“Meant to do that,” Crowley said. “New sunbathing technique.”

“Very inventive.”

Crowley peered through the crack in his fingers and didn’t see anyone, just a haze of sunlight glancing off the sand. The sunlight took its time but eventually coalesced into a person. A sunlight type person. White hair, white skin, white jacket. He looked like he was modelling for the 1950s McCalls gentleman’s summer fashion. And he was gorgeous. Not gorgeous like a model flexing his abs on a billboard in tasteful black and white. Gorgeous like his skin would taste like milk and his hair like candy floss and he probably smelled like cinnamon or five spice.

“I don’t mean to make a point of it,” said the man whose hair caught the light like a sugar-spun halo, “But are you able to get up or do I need to send for some help?”

“M’fine,” Crowley insisted, preparing himself to make good on his bravado although he’d happily wallow here in his humiliation and lower back pain for another hour or two.

Biting back an old man’s groan behind his teeth, he sat up and cast around for where his sunglasses had fallen. He had well and truly lost his chance to make a cool first impression but maybe he could take a shot at a second or third. He found the expensive, flash, definitely-cool-guy-and-not-a-baby-giraffe shades and slid them back on.

The cliffs behind them dulled the wind, giving him a chance to collect himself without getting a mouthful of sand blown into his face. It could have been much worse. The monolithic slabs of rock and the rock pools between them dotted the beach, and any one of which would have cracked his head open or sliced him to pieces. Or left him at the mercy of the crabs. The briney sand had cushioned his fall well enough even if he was going to be finding sand in weird places for a week going forward.

The man offered a hand and Crowley glanced at it a moment before accepting. He took the stranger’s hand in his and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. The man’s hand was very, very soft. Expensive hand lotion soft. Weekly manicure soft.

“Ah, there we are,” he said with a bright smile, bordering on amused but too polite to outright laugh.

“I’ll try to stay upright this time.” Crowley should have scowled and stomped away from the only living witness to his clumsiness, but it was an impossible task when warm blue eyes crinkled with the first promise of laughter.

“Do you live nearby?” the stranger asked, then blushed. “That is to say, will you be alright to get home, Mr..?”

“Crowley. Just Crowley. And yeah, just up…” He pointed vaguely over his shoulder.

“Ah, we must be neighbours then. I just moved in at the end of Rose Road.”

Crowley used both hands to shake the sand out of his hair. This man lived next door to him. At the end of Rose Road! Ten minutes walk, tops. They wouldn’t be able to avoid running into each other and that made him feel some kind of feeling.

It wasn’t… he wasn’t… This was just an upgrade from the sour-faced old couple who hadn’t liked him for a multitude of reasons from his sunglasses to his garden design to his taste in music. If either of them had seen him fall arse over tit on a clear beach he’d be getting snide looks and unsubtle reminders of it for months to come.

So he wasn’t going to complain that they’d been replaced by soft-hands, here. If his brain would stop rattling around in his head he might even remember how to flirt. Any second now.

He tried to tame his hair into something less like a clown wig and more like the sleek copper locks he was so very proud of. Moderate success.

“Right, yeah,” Crowley said. “Saw it was for sale. You from London?”

“Is it so obvious?”

It was. “Nah. You’ll fit right in.”

Not a lie. Having one gay man in the village made the local busybodies feel very cosmopolitan. Having two would thrill them. Especially since soft-hands looked like the type who would join the knitting circle and help out at bake sales.

“Oh, that’s a relief, if you think so,” said the man with a little flutter of his hands. Adorable. “It’s a bit daunting after Soho. There’s a certain anonymity in the city.”

“Yeah,” Crowley shrugged. He’d lived in London for forty years and wouldn’t have recognised his neighbours if he passed them on the street. Really he tried his best to keep to himself here, too, but there was only so much one man could do. No one escaped the neighbourhood watch, especially not ne’er-do-wells like him. He was pretty sure his wisteria arches were the only reason he hadn’t been run out of town with torches and pitchforks.

Crowley gave up on his hair and tugged at his t-shirt, trying to get the sand out. It was a losing battle. This was a full shower-and-change situation. He could only imagine what he looked like to his new neighbour – clothes askew, hair wild, leaning heavily to one side as his ribs cramped in protest of all this excitement. He looked like a drifter who had come to the beach to get stoned in peace and here he was, standing next to Mr. Seaside 1953 who looked like he should be wearing a boater and carrying a giant striped umbrella. Not Crowley’s style but he could admit when someone was put together.

No, this wasn’t going to do at all. It had to be remedied.

“So, I should…” Crowley gestured toward his house.

“Oh yes, I shouldn’t keep you. Jolly nice to meet you.”

Jolly nice. Was he actually a time traveller? Was that a possibility? Or was he just the most unironic person in the South Downs? “Yeah. I’ll try not to make a habit of the… uh…”

Soft-hands stifled a smile, glancing to the sky. “More for your sake than mine, I’m sure.”

“Right.”

“Well, if you need anything, I’m just down the road. Do borrow a cup of sugar now and then.” The stranger smiled. It was a real, genuine thing, as milk white and warm and sweet as the rest of him. It had been a time since someone had smiled at Crowley like that and he found himself sort of swaying into it, his face returning a goofy smile before the rest of him entirely caught up.

“I… right… sure, I’ll just…” Crowley wrestled his face back into a neutral expression and tried to remember how to talk. This saint of a man, this angel, clearly radiated this kindness even for beach bums and giraffes and local hooligans. He didn’t need Crowley slobbering all over him his first week in town.

“Of course. Until next time, Mr Crowley.” Soft-hands inclined his head and started on his way down the beach toward Rose Road, giving Crowley the twin emotions of finally having the privacy to recollect his dignity and suddenly no longer seeing that smile.

“Just Crowley,” Crowley muttered to himself, although the man was out of earshot. Wait. He yelled after him, “Hey, wait! I didn’t catch your name.”

Soft-hands turned back to him. He had to call out as the breeze tried to take the words from him. “Aziraphale!”

Crowley paused. “Really?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, instead smiling brilliantly and letting the wind sweep away his laughter as he continued down the beach.

Crowley watched him go, feet sinking into the sand, the taste of salt and seaweed at the back of his throat that slowly leached the milk and cinnamon from his thoughts. This was definitely an upgrade from the last neighbours.

He’d do better next meeting. He’d wear something flattering, Aziraphale didn’t look like he appreciated faded band t-shirts from 2003 rock shows. He wouldn’t stutter next time, he’d be suave, smooth, offer to show him the sights, help him settle into town. He’d tie his hair back and be in control of his own face.

Aziraphale started to fade into the sunlit glare of the sand as Crowley watched, but the light caught his hair again, a gloriole to suit him.

The taste of sand and salt against his tongue clued him into the fact that his mouth was open. He came back to reality and realised that instead of going to his house, cleaning himself up and getting an ice pack he was frozen in place on the beach, lips parted, watching Aziraphale walk away and fantasising about their next meeting.

Ah, he thought to himself. I’m fucked.

-----

Invitation

-----

Borrowing a cup of sugar wasn’t really Crowley’s style. Maybe one day he’d need sugar but he couldn’t imagine what for.

“What do you know about the new guy?” Crowley asked Anathema, lounging about in her shop. He liked to bother her. She was the only one in the village worth bothering, really.

She shrugged, looking at him through her eccentric round spectacles. “Just gossip. He hasn’t come in here.”

He’d tried to make up decent excuses once or twice to go down and take another swing at an introduction, but every scenario came out weird.

He was being weird.

So Aziraphale was nice to him instead of distant and judgey like most people. So he hadn’t managed to offend or irritate Crowley on meeting one. So what? Being nice one time wasn’t some Myers-Briggs personality thing. INFJ – actually nice, good conversationalist, pretty smile. Get real.

And so the cottage at the end of Rose Road remained unvisited. He’d driven past a few times in the intervening week, going about his business. He could almost see the house from his own. They technically shared a fence but it was buried deep in some sort of brackeny forest that he hadn’t bothered chopping down. He hadn’t run into Aziraphale on the beach or at the store.

So he put it out of his mind, and his mind was as cooperative as it ever was with that sort of thing. He needed a distraction and that was where Anathema came in.

She had rich parents and had decided since she didn’t need a job she’d call herself a witch, dress like a Victorian school marm and go round with divining rods and crystals on strings (and sometimes a giant bread knife). Crowley found her decision-making skills flawless and so hung about her touristy new age shop whenever possible.

“What’s the gossip?” he asked, flipping a smooth green stone between his fingers.

“Antiquarian of some sort, very wealthy. No family. Gay, Deirdre was very clear on that. Your name might have come up.”

“What?”

She smiled in her secret way. “You weren’t going to avoid the matchmakers forever. They try to put me on blind dates once a month.”

“They don’t even like me.”

“That’s really not the point.”

Well, that was something. He had to make impression number two before Deirdre Young made it for him; that was a sure thing. Alternatively he could dodge this bullet now and not risk being drawn into village life. Paraded around as one of the prized eligible moneyed men like they were in a Jane Austen novel. God, they might start doing things like inviting him to brunches.

Anathema stopped shelving the books in her hands, titles like Opening Your Third Eye and Positive Energies. She looked at him. “You’re being weird about this, aren’t you?”

He glared at her. “Me? You’re wearing a protection amulet and calling me weird. What’s it protecting you from in this town? Sunburn?”

“Among other things,” she sniffed. “And my question stands.”

He was being weird. “I’m not being weird.”

“Have you met him?”

Oh, he was not telling the story. Not a chance. Anathema’s needling wasn’t ever too pointed but this might have been a bit of a tender spot. “We… brushed past each other. Talked. Wasn’t a thing, really.”

“And you didn’t ask about his job or his family?”

No, I was busy trying to shake off the concussion. “W… It wasn’t a… a long chat. Bit of nothing.”

“You’re being so weird about this, aren’t you?”

And so what if he was? He was allowed. That was his thing, people thought he was off beat. It had been a while since someone had thought he was funny, since someone had smiled at him like that. Perfectly normal for him to get abnormal about it.

He usually kept a pretty strict ‘no people’ policy. Last relationship had been years ago, last friendship a fair while before that. Family barely rated a mention. That thing with the town planning committee about him having the wrong colour of fence had been ages ago, but he supposed it counted as human contact. Anathema didn’t mind him sitting around her shop snarking at her and that was as much face time as he needed with other people. So if he was being weird it was only because it was weird to have this standing invitation to just walk into someone else’s space. And more, that he wanted to.

In London he’d occasionally gone on the pull, dress up flash and go hang around in a bar looking tall, find someone good for a night or a few hours at least. He didn’t know what to do about making a friend. He was prickly and irreverent, and people either found him obnoxious (see: most of the town) or clownishly entertaining (Anathema edged close to this). If he just wanted to go and talk to Aziraphale and make a good impression that was a whole other thing, a skill so rusty it had holes worn through it.

This sort of thing was probably better talked out with a therapist than an American occultist but that would be bringing another person into the mix.

“Yeah, pretty weird,” he admitted.

“So you met him, you liked him, and now you’re being yourself about it.”

“Fine, yes, maybe.”

“Good,” she said primly, pursing her lips. “If he doesn’t like you for who you are then you’re better off not being friends with him.”

Crowley groaned and slouched more deliberately against the counter. Of course that was her advice. He didn’t have a great history with being himself but he knew better than to say that out loud. He’d summon a herd of amateur psychologists out of thin air to analyse his low self esteem.

“You sound like a daytime movie,” he said.

“I’d rather sound like a bad movie than a fifty-year-old man freaking out because he’s experiencing a human emotion for the first time.”

Crowley gave a disgusted click of his tongue. “I’m not fifty. Do you really think I’m fifty?”

“Yes, that’s what should concern you about what I just said. Given the state of your social life I’d guess closer to eighty.”

“At least I don’t dress like the ghost of Emily Dickinson.”

“Maybe you should,” Anathema shot back defiantly. “So are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to draw conclusions?”

Crowley twisted the green rock between his fingers. “Nothing. Met him on the beach, he asked me to drop round. Nice guy. Nice.”

Really nice would be giving too much away.

“Have you considered maybe doing that, then, rather than lounging around here scaring off my customers?”

“No.”

He’d considered it. Just walking right up there. Even thinking about it made him feel ridiculous, too tall and too clumsy with a bad tongue that had never entirely learned how to behave. Hi, Aziraphale, I liked meeting you the other day, thought I’d come and meet you again.

Ah, Aziraphale would say, the acrobat.

Freeze frame, canned laughter.

Anathema perked up, her smile turning sickly sweet and smug. She was looking at something over his shoulder and he just knew without looking what it was going to be.

“Heads up,” she said, nodding out the plate glass window behind him.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder, thanking anyone who was listening that this time he at least looked like he took a shower once in a while.

Aziraphale was leaving the village shop, offering a friendly smile to someone Crowley couldn’t see. It was a bit of a relief to know he hadn’t just dreamed the man up on the beach, cream-coloured everything and soft eyes. He was real, in the flesh, looking even more like a time traveller in his waistcoat and bow tie.

The sun filtering through the overhanging oak tree struck his hair just so, bringing Crowley back to the beach where he’d materialised over him like they were reenacting The Little Mermaid.

Aziraphale looked both ways as he prepared to cross the street and in that cast about he somehow found Crowley, their eyes meeting through Crowley’s thick sunglasses. He paused at the side of the street a moment, then there was recognition and a small, humorous smile that sort of suggested a shared joke between them. The blond raised a hand, offering a short wave. Crowley responded in kind, the corner of his lip jumping upwards without his consent.

Just a moment, two people who knew each other on the street, then Aziraphale was gone. Crowley watched the street where he’d been, fingers hovering in the air.

Anathema cleared her throat, startling him.

He looked up at her raised eyebrow, her incredibly smug smirk. “You should go and visit him.”

“Shut up,” he growled.

“I’m going to give you some rose quartz, you should -”

“Device, you know the rules.” Crowley skirted away from her. “No witchy stuff.”

“It’s occult,” she called after him.

“You’ve had enough fun for one day. It’s got you all excited.” He made for the door. This. This was why he didn’t seek out company. Take one look too long at a bloke across a street and it turns into a circus of rose quartz and teasing. “Call me when your tizzy is over.”

“Visit him!” The words followed him through the door as it closed, bunches of windchimes heralding his exit.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and huffed his way toward his car, the prized 1926 Bentley that held up traffic but looked amazing. He’d go. He would go. He would find a reason and he would go and he would stop being the biggest wimp in the universe. Aziraphale had invited him, he wanted to go, he would go.

He hadn’t come up with a convenient excuse yet but there was no problem so complex that he wasn’t sure he could solve it after three glasses of scotch. This week, he promised himself. By Saturday he’d go.

-----

Fences

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Crowley had it figured out. He’d thought about it, then not thought about it, then thought about it some more and he was going to go with the TV canned laughter approach. Just walk up and say hi. Everyone else in the village was happy to rock up to your house with an apple pie and zero notice and expect you to clear your schedule for the afternoon, he could as well. Minus the pie.

It was Saturday, he’d almost run out his self-imposed timer, but it wasn’t even midday yet. Aziraphale was probably out, doing things, or something. That was Crowley’s reasoning anyway and it wasn’t just him putting it off to do something safe like wander down to the beach and get some sun.

He walked down past his gardens and the brackish forest where the shrubs and scrub tried to catch his jeans as he walked past. He jumped the west fence just as the solid ground was giving way to sand proper. There was an established path that ran down but his property didn’t border it, so a little trespassing had been his habit for years.

So, of course, the moment his feet hit the ground on the wrong side of the fence he saw Aziraphale.

“Mr Crowley!” the other man called, a hundred meters or so down the path. He had a blanket slung over one arm and a basket hanging from the crook of his elbow. He raised his free hand to wave and a delighted smile lit him up.

Crowley had only a second to react. His first thought was to burn with embarrassment at being caught fence hopping like a teenager but if he made a thing of it then it really would be a thing. Other than that, he looked like a grown man who shaves and showers and ties up his hair this time round, so maybe this was for the best. He sauntered up the path toward Aziraphale.

“It’s just Crowley,” he said.

“Alright, then. Good morning, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiled like white sunshine. Crowley had to be missing something because he surely couldn’t be this pleased to see him.

“Morning. Headed to the beach?”

“I was, I thought I’d take my lunch down and do some reading.” He gestured with his burdened arm. “Will you join me? I’m afraid I got carried away with the packing.”

Crowley’s stomach did a weird little flip. Seemed like it was for the best that he kept wimping out, Aziraphale was much better at this. He was polite, that was the thing of it. Knew all those weird rules for getting people to like him. So polite he’d offer charming smiles and lunch invitations to people he caught jumping into his yard.

Crowley should say no. He was asking for trouble. His weird flippy stomach and a man too polite to tell him no were a bad combination. But Aziraphale’s big pleading eyes looked so sincere. Like he’d been waiting all week to invite Crowley to lunch.

“Sure,” Crowley said. “Nothing else on.”

“Oh, wonderful. You can give me your take on the village.” Aziraphale was already moving, walking toward the beach with Crowley helplessly pulled along behind him. “The ladies from the church have been most welcoming but I expect you have a different take on things.”

“You go to church?”

“With a name like Aziraphale, does that surprise you?”

He smiled a conspiratorial smile and heaven help him, Crowley was going to get all fucked up over that smile, he just knew it. He was returning it, his traitorous face pulled into the moment no matter how he fought it. This was ridiculous. The man probably had a boyfriend back in London or something. Crowley had known him for all of ten minutes, he shouldn’t this susceptible to nice smiles.

“Guess not,” Crowley said.

“I take it you’re into something more modern, given you patronise Miss Device’s store?” There was no judgement in the question which made it all the more embarrassing.

“Nah,” Crowley mumbled, trying to come up with a way to explain that didn’t make him sound like a lunatic. I’m not religious, I’m just terminally ironic. “Anathema’s a mate. Don’t go in for any of it, really. Used to be C of E but you know how they were in the ‘90s.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Even on the beaten path the slope over the sand dunes was steep and Aziraphale became redfaced and out of breath as they made their way. Crowley had taken the path enough to be used to the way the sandy soil slipped out from under his feet. Nothing like a beach walk to give you nice legs. He knew enough about manners to say nothing and keep his eyes fixed on the path ahead. It wasn’t cute that Aziraphale was out of shape. That wasn’t cute. Why was that cute?

It was cute because it just begged him to slow down, offer an arm, a gentle ribbing.

When the ground flattened out Crowley paused to take off his shoes, preferring to feel the damp sand between his toes and giving Aziraphale a discreet moment to recover. It wasn’t too hot but he was glad he’d worn sunscreen. He should be taking bets on how long before his lily white companion would be covered in freckles.

“What brought you out here?” Crowley asked. “You don’t seem like you’re a beach kind of guy.”

Aziraphale huffed out a little laugh, still panting. “What gave it away? I used to have a bookshop but I prefer to be a collector. My business restoring and conserving brought in more money than sales anyway and I suppose I reasoned I could do it from somewhere with a nice view.”

He stopped at a sunny spot far enough from the waves and set down the basket. Crowley reached for the blanket automatically and flapped it out between long arms. He let the wind catch the weight of it and spread it flat for him, leaving a picturesque scene on the sand. Tartan. The bow tie from the other day had been tartan as well.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said. Together they sat stiffly, cross-legged on the blanket. Aziraphale unpacked a variety of sandwiches and pastries from the basket. “What about you? Have you lived here for long?”

“Uh…” I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be stressed all the time, working for people who hated me, who I hated. I needed to be among green things, things that made me happy, something to love when people didn’t fit the bill. I was desperate for flowers. “Came out here a few years back. Needed the space. I sell plants to some stores around here.”

Aziraphale held up a bottle of rosé. “Do you partake?”

Crowley grinned. “Enthusiastically.”

Aziraphale twisted off the top, took a swig in an almost ungentlemanly manner then handed Crowley the bottle with one hand and a sandwich with the other. The wine was still cold, the last of the condensation from a refrigerator dissipating in the sun as he held the bottle.

The waves lapped at the shore, the ocean huge and cold and only reaching them as whispers of soothing sounds. The salt in the air was just enough that nibbling at the egg salad sandwich was a relief from it, a stark contrast. It was… How had he ended up here? From a bit of sneaky short-cutting to sitting at an idyllic picnic with sweet wine and Aziraphale? He had been ambushed in the best possible way. Anathema would be crowing like a rooster if she could see him now. So would Deirdre Young.

Aziraphale chattered on about Soho in a way that might have been annoying if it was coming from another person but here, now, Crowley found himself watching each expression intently. The purse of the lips, the tilt of the eyebrow, body drawing in tighter as he talked more about London, getting further away from the brilliant, relaxed smiles of the beach. He had a nervous habit about his hands, Crowley guessed, from the way he traded his sandwich back and forth. Maybe their reasons for being here in this town, on this beach, on this blanket weren’t so different.

As Aziraphale looked out over the sea, reminiscing about the customers who hadn’t really loved his books, Crowley peered inside the basket and found the book that had been today’s planned activity before he showed up.

“Neruda?” he asked. Of course Aziraphale read poetry recreationally. Of course.

Aziraphale looked at him, unwinding a little. “You know his work?”

I do not love you as if you were salt rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.” Crowley quoted his favourite passage. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and he very nearly became offended. “Yes, I read. You don’t have to look so surprised.”

The angel, and Crowley had decided he was an angel here with his sugar-white hair and his rosé and his bare ability to walk on two feet when he should be flying overhead, the angel gave him an amused, challenging glare. “Everyone knows the love poems. His works on war are far more poignant.”

“And why would I read about war when I could read about love?” Alright, maybe the wine was going to his head a little. He’d skipped breakfast. But really, Aziraphale looked about as suited to war as Crowley himself. Which was to say, not even a little.

“Why read about love when you could read about war?” Aziraphale countered.

Crowley grinned. He held the book out, ancient leather cover against sea-salt air. “Prove your point.”

Aziraphale took the book and Crowley slumped backwards, lying out on the blanket under the sun, just enough alcohol in his blood and letting Aziraphale’s voice swirl around him with the sea breeze.

It had been a very good thing his plan to visit had failed. Aziraphale was infinitely better at this.

-----

Mirror

-----

Crowley could see the future. Better than any clairvoyant, any charlatan on daytime TV, better than Anathema with her tarot cards. As he ran up the hill toward his house, wind catching his hair and making it flick about like the flame on a candle, he could see the next few months with startling clarity.

He burst through the back door, catching his own easy grin in the mirror as he hurried past.

Aziraphale was great, he had discovered as they drank wine and developed sunburn together on the beach all afternoon. Really, really great. Better than he could have hoped for in a neighbour, acquaintance, friend (boyfriend?). Smart, well-travelled, pithy, and such a gentle soul. Crowley shouldn’t have been worried for a second that he would make things awkward, Aziraphale made him charming. The lovely man laughed at his jokes, even the mean ones. He listened politely when Crowley’s stories turned into rambling. He didn’t give him that side-eye of ‘oh no, this guy’s weird’, not even once.

It would have made him suspicious, thrown him off balance, and it had for a while. Right up until the wine had gotten the better of him and he’d let slip about Aziraphale’s lovely soft hands. If he could have physically retrieved the words from the air he would have, instead he suppressed a cringe and waited for the gentle let-down. To his surprise Aziraphale had done no such thing, instead giggling and blushing and giving him a half-scandalised oh, you.

Crowley threw open the fridge and crouched to inspect the labels on the bottles. No rosé, but he had a few decent whites.

The thing was, and it was a thing that calmed Crowley in every possible way, that Aziraphale made no effort to return the compliment. Or any of the others as Crowley tested his luck a few more times, referring to his lunch companion as pretty, as funny, throwing a lascivious wink his way. All met with pleased smiles and encouraging words and zero reciprocation. In the whole rainbow of human bullshit, enjoying attention even when the feeling wasn’t mutual was a very minor sin.

He’d played this game before. It had been devastating the first time, not understanding why someone would encourage his affection only to then pretend they’d never had any interest. But this wasn’t the first time.

Hence his newfound divination abilities.

Four to six months of flirting, late night phone calls and lunches on the beach. A few moments of eyes meeting or hands brushing where Crowley might convince himself that yes, this thing was real. Then Aziraphale would start to lose interest, Crowley’s overtures would wear thin. He’d stick around just long enough to get his feelings properly hurt and then spend two weeks getting drunk with Anathema in her little witchy cottage and complaining about men being scum. He could mark out the timeline on his calendar if he felt like it.

Aziraphale was waiting for him back at the beach, their lunch turned into just lying about on the sand until they ran out of wine and oh, he liked this part of the dance so much. Aziraphale had protested sending Crowley on an errand but Crowley had winked at him, Just sit there and look pretty, I’ll be back in five.

He grabbed two bottles of wine, just in case. Nothing too flash, didn’t want to show off yet.

This was going to be fun, living in that in-between, pre-relationship space of flirting and anticipation. He could keep it going for a good while, he guessed, given exactly how flattered Aziraphale seemed to be by his attention. As long as he didn’t do something stupid like kiss him or confess his feelings then he’d never have to bear that horrible, hypocritical speech he’d heard more than once. You’ve got the wrong idea, I never said I was interested, you misinterpreted that time I stuck my hand down your pants.

And, well, if he had to hear it one more time he might as well make the most of what came before.

On his way out the door he paused in front of the mirror, checking out the damage of a few hours in the sand. His hair had pulled free of its bun on one side so he set down the wine and quickly redid it. Not too neat. Casual. There was the first hint of a grey streak winding its way from his temple. Crowley was good looking enough, he thought, for people who were into his sort of thing. But he didn’t need to be vain. That wasn’t the point of this.

See something you like, angel? He thought. Is it yourself, reflected back funnier and smarter and more handsome in the eyes of someone crushing on you?

Wine back in hand he jogged toward the beach again, brash and breathless in anticipation. He passed by the sprawling gardens of his sun-soaked plants, the flowers that loved the salt air, the bushes he had been supposed to prune this afternoon. They’d live, he had something better on. He couldn’t have asked for more than this.

He found Aziraphale as he had left him, the shadow of the overhanging cliff creeping toward their picnic blanket. The sun wasn’t as harsh as when they had sat down but Aziraphale had still gone pleasantly pink in the heat. He’d be wanting aloe vera before the week was done.

Crowley folded himself back down to the blanket and buried one bottle in the sand beside them, then offered the other out. Aziraphale looked so happy to see him back, setting his book aside to take the bottle.

“That was quick.”

“It’s not far,” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale took a sip of the wine and passed it back. They had both gone from their stiff cross-legged postures to lounging further and further back on the blanket. “I wasn’t sure what I’d make of the beach,” he mused, “No one has ever described me as an outdoorsman. But it’s very pleasant with company.”

“Glad I rate as company then,” Crowley said.

The wine was cold and sweet, a complement to the sunshine overhead. Aziraphale didn’t look surprised or hesitant about sharing three bottles in an afternoon and Crowley liked the idea of seeing him a bit soused, a few rumples in his pressed cream shirt.

“What else does one do by the sea? What keeps your evenings busy?”

Well, Crowley almost answered, I watch Golden Girls on Netflix and drink too much.

“Asking the wrong person,” he said instead. “There’s nothing for it, you’ve befriended the village outcast.”

“Something makes me suspect that you cast yourself in that role.”

“Me? Never. I’m the picture of courtesy.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Of course, how could I suggest otherwise? Perhaps you’ll show me what you learned at finishing school.”

Crowley glared but there was no heat behind it. Soft, smiley Aziraphale was good but snarky tease Aziraphale was even better. But he’s not the only one who can tease. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

A blush, a smile, a glance upwards to heaven then down at his hands. Adorable. If he returned the sentiment Crowley was fairly certain he’d burst into flames. As it was he couldn’t stop the sudden squeeze of his heart in his chest. No, if this attraction was mutual it would be a health hazard, send him to an early grave.

“Perhaps we could…” Aziraphale’s voice wasn’t breathy. He was imagining that. “That is, it might be a little easier to tackle the local social scene together. Broaden our horizons.”

“Oh, yes, the local pub is really pushing the boundaries.”

“Dinner, then? For our first excursion?”

Aziraphale looked so hopeful that there was never any chance of Crowley saying no. But this was deeper than he’d meant to get so quickly. He wanted the dinner to be a date. Saying that out loud would be too hopeful. It didn’t help anyone to look forward too far, not to the end of things, but after spending only a few hours with this man he knew he was toast. The first hint of Oh, dear, I seem to have given you the wrong impression would be unbearable. He needed to schedule way more bitch-about-men-with-Anathema time into his projected timeline because this was going to suck.

“Yeah, dinner,” he agreed. “Pick a night.”

By the time they had finished the first bottle of wine and were onto the second Crowley had forgotten to be afraid. It was too easy to flatter Aziraphale, too easy to forget himself when he was belly-laughing at some anecdote, too easy to watch the sun sink and the wine disappear and care about nothing but making this handsome stranger flush with affection. By the time manners dictated they had to break and return to their respective houses for dinner Crowley had to bite his tongue to keep from suggesting they could eat together right now.

No, it wasn’t going to be hard at all to fall for Aziraphale and take and take and take whatever he was willing to give. Muzzy and light from the drinking he forgot to be afraid. Dinner was Thursday night, the date and time seared into his brain. A beacon, a chance to try again, to see how far he could push his luck He had gone as hard as he dared and found that he hadn’t even brushed against the boundaries yet.

He walked Aziraphale back to his house, citing the gentlemanly thing to do.

“Learned that in finishing school,” he said as he leaned against the porch railing.

Aziraphale’s laugh was loud and shocked, a bark that escaped him. He scrubbed a hand down his face and schooled his expression into something more becoming. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then?”

Crowley gave his most charming smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He whistled as he walked home, hands in his pockets, a gentle burn all over his skin from the sun and the sea air and probably something else. The stars were just beginning to appear in the sky over the ocean.

This was going to hurt, but bloody hell it was going to be fun before that.

-----

Knots

-----

Thursday took its time coming, the days seemed to count themselves out by hours. Things that usually made time blur and disappear were all of a sudden done with a mechanical efficiency. The flowers practically pruned themselves, food cooked in no time, movies that took three hours made a point of finishing in two and Thursday was always so far away.

Crowley spent the time winding and unwinding himself. He was being ridiculous, he knew it. It jumped into stark relief as clothes were pulled out and examined and discarded for trivial reasons when he tried to dress himself for their dinner. Trying too hard, not trying hard enough, unflattering, old, sparkling new from the shop like he’d visited a personal stylist to prepare for an overcooked steak and a pint at the pub. He was pretty sure unless he picked the cocktail dress Aziraphale wouldn’t notice anyway. And so what if he did? Crowley hadn’t agreed to this to have his fashion sense judged by a time traveller from the 1950s.

He had managed to get out of the house eventually, throwing on some comfortable staples with a fuck it. He’d agreed to this for fun, he told himself. It was going to be fun. Because a dinner outing between new acquaintances had never been awkward.

It had been a while. Not just with the flirting and this fun little game they’d decided to play, although, yeah, it’d been an embarrassingly long time since that, too. But just deciding to go somewhere with someone and actually doing it? Way too long. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to act, what to say, how to split bills and call it a night and all that business.

And when he saw Aziraphale sitting at a table with a bow tie and a glass of wine, all the knots he’d tied himself into just… fell apart. Something in his chest unclenched and time picked back up its normal pace, then started running faster.

Before he knew it the table was littered with empty glasses, words spilled from his mouth too quickly to be fretted about, dinner came and went and he couldn’t quite have said how the details went down. Aziraphale was restoring a bible for some rich bastard who didn’t appreciate it. Crowley was expecting his allium to bloom any day. Aziraphale was volunteering for the church bake sale but didn’t know how to bake.

Before he knew it he was leaning over the pool table, one too many beers in his system, in the middle of a rant he would identify as ill-advised as soon as he sobered up. “The problem with the bible is the language.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale asked, leaning against his pool cue, amused smile playing on his face.

“It is.” Crowley whiffed his shot completely. It was the gentlemanly thing to let him win, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with his athletic prowess. “You look at the Aramaic, the Greek, there’s no real translation. There’s an academic interpretation. It’s not the word of God, it’s the word of a 16th century racist.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And even, even, even if,” he paused to watch Aziraphale perfectly sink one ball and line up the next. “Even if we could get an accurate translation, no one agrees on what it means. Spend twenty minutes on JK Rowling’s Twitter and talk to me about authorial intent.”

Crowley couldn’t seem to stop his stupid mouth. Even in his pleasant boozy haze he knew that drunkenly trash talking someone's religion wasn’t the best way to endear himself.

Aziraphale’s fond smile turned into a little chuckle against his pool cue as he took his next shot, his face bright with amusement and wine and the time slipping by around them. Crowley let his jaw unclench.

The ball bounced close to the pocket but didn’t sink. Aziraphale stepped back. “Are you suggesting that an ideology ought to be flawless and universally agreed upon to have value? Is there no room for discussion, for growth?”

Crowley shrugged. “M’just saying in a religion that encourages obedience you’re more likely to be following some pervert with a book and a pulpit than God’s holy instruction.”

He started lining up his next shot, steadying his hands, trying not to make a complete drunken mess of this. He needed to shut up.

“Isn’t it a good Christian’s duty, then, to try to bring a positive influence to the community, a more generous understanding of Christ’s teachings?”

Crowley took his shot. The balls clacked harmlessly to one side, didn’t come anywhere near anything. “You really are too good to be true, aren’t you, angel?”

“And you’re terrible at pool, aren’t you?” Aziraphale teased back, even as the compliment made him demure happily away. That wasn’t going to get old anytime soon.

“M’excellent at pool,” said Crowley with the confidence of three glasses of wine and three beers. “Just thought you could use a win.”

The look of devilish delight that crossed Aziraphale’s face made Crowley’s heart jump about in this chest, his stomach wind itself into some complicated arrangement that had nothing to do with anxiety. Damn, he wanted this to be a date, wanted Aziraphale’s interest to be more than flattered receptiveness. Wanted to walk him home and snog him senseless on his doorstep.

“Care for a wager, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“You’re already ahead!”

“Oh, now, that shouldn’t be a problem. I have it reliably that you’re excellent at pool.”

Bastard. “Yeah, ‘course I am.”

“And what should be the terms?”

“You have to order all your drinks with cocktail umbrellas,” Crowley said without thinking about it. He had enough experience with pranks to have an entire back catalogue, mostly from mates he had stopped talking to after uni. He could have been much, much more cruel.

Aziraphale set him with a judging, unnerving eye for a moment, then nodded in decision. “You have to take off your sunglasses.”

“What if I need them for medical reasons?”

“You don’t.”

Fair. “What if I have terrible self esteem issues about my eyes and you’re being very cruel?”

“Then you shouldn’t lie about being good at pool.”

Crowley grinned. Hard to argue with that. He stepped back and let Aziraphale take his next shot. He strongly suspected he knew where this was going and he didn’t mind overmuch. The night was warm and he’d had too much to drink and it wasn’t like he could keep his eyes hidden forever anyway. It was sometimes fun to show them off anyway, like a gentle trick to play on someone new.

When the match was done he went to the bar and ordered them two glasses of light cider with cocktail umbrellas. The publican didn’t look like he approved of this kind of tomfoolery but didn’t argue beyond a few pointed looks which Crowley returned with a polite smile and a raised eyebrow. Aziraphale thought it was funny, anyway. He was as sloshed as Crowley, though, so he probably would have thought anything was funny.

As soon as they were nestled back at their table Aziraphale looked at him expectantly. “Well? Pay up.”

Crowley poised himself for the dramatic reveal, leaning in a little, away from the light behind him so his face was shadowed and grinning so his canines showed. He eased the sunglasses off just slowly enough to be a tease.

The reaction was everything he’d hoped for, Aziraphale’s brilliantly expressive, tipsily open face going through the full spectrum. Surprise, alarm, straight into fascination and ending on remembering his primary school manners about not making any of those faces about other peoples’ appearance. He managed to arrange his face into a drunk man’s impression of polite interest and mumble out, “Oh.”

Crowley kept him pleased smirk for another moment before supplying, “Polycoria. The evil eye.

If anything Crowley liked the way his eyes looked, two small pupils in each eye, a luminous chestnut that bordered on yellow. It was distinctive. It was him. It scared small children and some adults.

“You do need them for medical reasons,” Aziraphale suddenly decided on an emotion. “And you let me goad you with that bet, you fiend!”

Crowley chuckled and slid the glasses back on. “Relax, I’m not going to blind myself over a game of pool. It’s worst by the beach, all that sand, but it’s dim enough in here. I just wear them to stop this lot putting me on trial for witchcraft and pressing me to death.” He gestured broadly to the pub, although ‘this lot’ was now about three other people, all of whom looked like they basically lived here.

Aziraphale was pouting at him and he leaned back against his seat with a happy sigh, teasingly returning the pout. It didn’t last, barely seconds before their chatter was back up again. If he thought too hard about kissing that look off Aziraphale’s face it was going to start hurting. For now it was a nice, tender ache that didn’t squeeze too tight, didn’t twist him up too badly. Just enough for him to feel it.

He drank the cider, cold and barely alcoholic enough to start bringing him back down. The sun had well and truly set even with these long summer days, the pub was empty, the whole night washed away in the loose, easy haze of Aziraphale’s company. It wouldn’t last, he knew, he’d go home, sleep off the alcohol and start twisting himself up again, that was just who he was. But there was something intoxicating in how easily Aziraphale’s smiles and teases and pouts seemed to dig strong fingers into the knots and release them as easily as anything, let him drift out to sea untethered.

And it turned out that the way they knew the night was over was when the bar closed and left them walking home side by side in the dark, eking out every last minute before their paths diverged and there were fences and closed doors between them again.

-----

Running

-----

Friday morning came, turned into Saturday and then Sunday after it, like days usually do, and Crowley replayed his dinner with Aziraphale on repeat. He cringed at the worst of his drunken silliness, let his heart skip over the fonder moments, played a game of push and pull with himself. Maybe if he asked Aziraphale out for real he’d say yes? Maybe Crowley was being a judgemental little shit and the interest was real and there and not some pretty bait to bring out his flirty side?

The thoughts hung around him as he worked. He explained to the aster that Aziraphale was single and out, there was no real reason for him to turn Crowley down. He told the wisteria about how funny he was in Aziraphale’s eyes – he laughed at all his jokes and even his mildly insulting ranting.

Nope, down that path lay madness. If Aziraphale wanted more than friendship he was going to have to say it out loud, unambiguously. And even then there would be extensive follow up questions and maybe a background check. Crowley was happy to play this game, but he wasn’t happy to lose.

Some inappropriate solo drinking helped with the repeating images in his head, the little trip and skip of his heart, but come Monday morning Crowley decided he had to take some action. He scraped himself off the walls and texted Anathema.

And that was how he ended up exercising. Running. On a beach. In the sun. If nothing else it definitely took his mind off Aziraphale.

“It’ll give you killer calves,” Anathema assured him.

“It’ll give me a heart attack,” he wheezed back.

“Good for your ass, too.” She pretended not to hear him, also ignoring the way he panted, red-faced, his legs nearly falling out from under him. It had better give him the nicest calves and arse in the history of mankind. He’d better end up looking like the Vitruvian man, getting sculpted like David, because this made every single inch of him ache. Maybe he needed special shoes or something. Or to travel back in time about twenty years. (Maybe thirty years).

Some people said exercise cleared their mind, gave them space to think. The trick to not doing that, Crowley had decided, was to try to keep up with a woman twenty-five years his junior doing an activity he was woefully unprepared for. He couldn’t get a thought in edgewise and he was going to sleep the sleep of the just tonight. It was perfect.

“So how did you date go?” Anathema asked breezily, barely breathing hard. “I assume that’s what this is about.”

“Not… date…” Crowley managed.

“Your very platonic evening out with the guy you’re crazy about.”

“Never said I was… m’not… “

Anathema smirked. “It was implied.”

He gave her a rude grimace instead of answering. He had agreed to this torture to get his mind off Aziraphale, not to gossip about him. An attempt to run ahead didn’t go particularly well for him when she easily kept pace. Damn her young little legs.

Crowley kept himself panting and flushed enough to not engage with her, ignoring the cramps climbing their way up his legs. Maybe this was good for him? Not just his brain but his body. If it hurt this much now it must have meant he wasn’t far off becoming one of those old men who couldn’t bend down to pick things up. Everyone nowadays was putting on something skintight and flailing about, there must be something to it.

After about fifteen minutes the aching wasn’t so bad and his mind went pleasantly blank, something zen creeping over him where all he could focus on was the pain in his calves and the sound of the waves and the way the cool air whipped his hair about behind him. He could see them coming up on Aziraphale’s property but the thought was nothing, flowing past him like running water. Yeah, definitely something to this.

His zen lasted right up until he spotted the tartan picnic blanket on the sand. It was getting close to lunchtime, Aziraphale must have decided to read on the beach again. Was he disappointed not to find Crowley hopping his fence? Had he thought about calling since Thursday? Did it play on his mind the way it played on Crowley’s?

“Well now I have to ask,” Anathema said. “Do we have to turn back before this gets awkward?”

Crowley shook his head and they kept pace. Aziraphale was reclined on a pillow on his blanket but looked up as they approached and offered a friendly wave. Anathema mercifully slowed to a stop and Crowley doubled over, hands on his knees.

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” Anathema said. “Enjoying the sunshine?”

“Ever so much. How are you two this morning? Making the most of the summer?”

Crowley tried to catch his breath, lungs burning. He could make a better showing than this. He focused on his knees while the other two chatted, took one deep breath, then two, then pulled himself up straight and pushed his hair back from his face.

Aziraphale caught his gaze and smiled a little smile that bordered on cheeky. Like they shared a secret. Maybe they did. All the good the run had done was swiftly being unworked. He must have looked a bloody sight because Aziraphale reached into his picnic basket and offered a bottle of water.

“Hope you brought sunscreen as well, this time,” Crowley said, taking the offered bottle.

Anathema raised an eyebrow and mouthed to him: this time?

Crowley ignored her and poured the water down his throat gratefully. Once he was down to the last third he tipped his head back and sloshed the rest over his face and through his hair, and if this angle happened to make his shirt ride up a bit then so be it. He didn’t put on too much of a show, what with Anathema being right there, but when he righted himself and returned the empty bottle he noticed Aziraphale had stopped talking. The other man had gone three shades pinker, lips parted. Crowley gave him a smirk and he turned even pinker.

Right, now he remembered why he was putting himself through all this. It felt good to be wanted.

“I don’t suppose I could tempt you two to some lunch? It’s about that time.” Aziraphale asked, a little squeaky note finding its way into his voice.

“Actually this is where I turn back,” Anathema said. “I have to open the shop for the afternoon and I’m late as it is. But don’t let me stop you.”

Crowley nodded to her. “Better go lick my wounds. Tomorrow?”

“Bright and early!” she trilled, then leaned in to murmur to him, “You owe me one.”

“I know,” he whispered back.

She padded off down the beach and Aziraphale gave him a nonplussed look. “I didn’t know you ran.”

“Yeah, definitely do that. All the time.” He slumped and leaned over again, the delayed onset pains making themselves known. “Jesus Christ, she’s young.”

Crowley assessed him options from most ridiculous to least. Most ridiculous was to strip off his shirt and dive onto the blanket under some combined pretence of cooling off and sunbathing. It would be smelly. Middle ground was to take a quick dip into the waves and do something similar. Less smelly, more soggy. Actually sensible would be to excuse himself to go home, take a shower, find something to contribute to the picnic. God, Aziraphale was so handsome in his beach clothes, button down shirt open at the collar with sleeves rolled to the elbows.

He really didn’t think he needed to lay it on any thicker right now, Aziraphale’s eyes were already dark and hungry. That opened up option four, even more than most ridiculous: offer to take him up the hill and shag him senseless.

Crowley hesitated. Thursday had gone so well he didn’t want to push his luck, so rather than any of the sillier options, he stretched with his hands above his head.

“Let me grab a quick shower. Twenty minutes?”

Aziraphale’s eyes dropped to the hem of his shirt where the stretch revealed his skin. He looked back up to Crowley’s face in the firm, deliberate fashion of someone who didn’t want to be caught staring but definitely had been. “Of course. You know where I’ll be.”

Crowley limped as quickly as he could up the hill. He would probably be better off sinking into a bath for a few hours, it might mitigate whatever political protest his leg muscles were planning for tomorrow morning, but get real. He wasn’t missing a picnic on the beach with Aziraphale. Not after he’d looked at Crowley like that.

So, mixed results from the running experiment. On one hand it was awful and any moment it gave him peacefully free of his little crush could be undone with a single heated glance. On the other hand if he kept up with it he was more likely to get those glances. Also he might not turn into an arthritic skeleton by his 60s. Worth a shot, he supposed.

He lingered on that moment his brain had switched gears, from all his thoughts focused on the salt air chilling his sweat-slick scalp, the pain in his legs, then that tartan blanket. Fucking tartan. That was his undoing now. The epicentre of his hopes and insecurities. There was no exercise, no friend, nothing short of calling it off right now and never seeing Aziraphale again that would stop this.

And honestly? Fuck that. He hadn’t had this much fun in a decade and the burning wish that Aziraphale felt the same way wasn’t going to stop him enjoying this. He’d make a catalogue of his favourite foods, keep them in the fridge for picnic supplies. He’d run until he had the nicest arse in the South Downs. He’d lavish Aziraphale with every attention because it felt so good to do it.

He could worry about later when it came.

-----

Secret

-----

The weeks marched on and Crowley fell into a new routine. Up with the sunrise to run with Anathema, spend the morning gardening, free afternoons were for arguing with local florists, Thursdays were some painfully provincial outing with Aziraphale, Mondays were picnics on the beach which they always swore would just be lunch but somehow blurred into whole afternoons and sometimes staggering up the hill to Aziraphale’s kitchen to dig out something for dinner.

Aziraphale’s place was nice. Homey. Still crowded with boxes Crowley suspected would stay packed and sealed for a really silly amount of time, but already a lived-in space cluttered up with books and knick-knacks and abandoned tea cups. The aloe vera he’d gifted sat proudly on the kitchen bench, surrounded by the detritus of plenty of cooking and the bare minimum of cleaning. Whenever he hung around this kitchen he’d find himself absently picking things up and finding some place to put them but Aziraphale was a whirlwind of mess he could never keep up with.

A cute whirlwind, though, and cutest when he was in his Masterchef apron, nose dusted with flour. The summer was in full swing now and with the oven on they were both covered with a film of sweat.

The bench was covered with bowls of batter, patty pans and so much flour. Aziraphale was beating one batch with a wooden spoon and had been at it so long he was out of breath. Crowley perched on a bar stool, homemade lemonade in hand, and watched on.

“How is it still lumpy?” Aziraphale said, looking down at the bowl in despair. “I sifted the flour, that’s supposed to make it not lumpy.”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe it’ll come out in the oven?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“I don’t know anything about baking, angel.”

Aziraphale shot him an irritated glare. “Yes, you’ve made that very clear.”

Crowley gave him a rakish grin and raised his glass. This might actually be true love. He was sure nothing else could convince him to help out for a church bake sale, even if his form of help was to offer moral support while drinking all the lemonade. And maybe not so much moral support as snarky commentary.

He was used to this house now, in that comfy place where he could raid the fridge and use the chairs as footstools. The whole space was starting to form a bittersweet ache in his chest, this house where he was so welcome on the surface of it, could pluck and prod at it, but then the sun would set and he’d be gone, everything rearranged back to how it had been.

He hadn’t invited Aziraphale round to his. If Aziraphale was immune to Crowley’s physical presence in his space, Crowley wasn’t. He’d cultivated his gardens, his greenhouses, the wisteria arches and the Instagram-worthy compost and the twisted herb ecosystem for years. It had been his recovery, turning the barren spaces in his life into quiet, leafy, colourful places, turning the ball of sadness that lived in his chest into a bursting, blooming thing. To have Aziraphale there would carve a new pattern in it, something that would take years to grow over if (when) he needed to.

It was a fantasy, though. To show it off. The biggest bloom of the year had just passed by but there would be colour in all seasons. He could take Aziraphale by the hand and walk with him, quietly, letting him take it all in. Not everything was a commercial operation. Sure, the greenhouses looked a bit industrial at times, but outdoors there were the weeping, climbing plants, the little flowers that craved as much sunlight as he could give them. There was the little orchard he’d mostly planted for a lark, an impulse to grow fruit even if he didn’t eat it. He’d take Aziraphale through all of it, watching the enchanted gleam in his eye, knuckles brushing against his thigh, the dappled light through the leaves making him look all the softer and paler.

Just a fantasy, but a nice one.

Nothing wrong with what was happening right in front of him. Aziraphale wiped his brow with his forearm and had another go at the batter, trying to whip it into shape, tongue between his teeth in determination. Crowley made a note to get him an electric mixer for his birthday.

“I think it’s as mixed as it’s going to get,” Crowley said.

“Well it’s still lumpy so it’s not.”

“Yeah, but have you considered my genius solution?”

Aziraphale looked up. “What genius solution?”

Crowley picked the bag of chocolate chips that sat open on the bench and dumped half of it into the bowl. “There. Now you can’t tell it’s lumpy.”

“Ack!” Aziraphale let out the most endearing outraged cry. He blinked owlishly at the bowl. “These ones were supposed to be vanilla. That’s not even a real solution!”

“No one wants vanilla cupcakes. When was the last time you looked at a big thing of cupcakes and went ‘oh, I wonder if they’ve got any vanilla’?”

“I might.”

Crowley popped a few of the little compound chocolate nibs into his own mouth. “Don’t pout. You’ve got work to do.”

What was more fun: suavely romancing Aziraphale or annoying the bejeezus out of him? Impossible to say. Especially when his hair was all fluffed out of sorts and that smudge of flour was still on his nose and he was flapping his hands about trying to think how to remove chocolate chips from cupcake batter.

I fucking adore you.

Crowley started laying out rows of blue patty pans while Aziraphale came to terms with his vastly improved mixture. He stole another pinch of chocolate chips.

Aziraphale sighed in resignation and reached for the bag himself. “Well, don’t hog them.”

Crowley slapped his sticky hand away. “Oh no, batter-hands.”

Instead he grabbed his own pinch and held his fingers to Aziraphale’s lips. He wished he could say it was some unspeakably sexy moment of licked fingers and intense eye contact but it was more like when toddlers try to smoosh m&ms into each others’ faces. It left both of them giggling and most of the chocolate chips on the floor, and he’d be damned if he didn’t love how Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled when he laughed.

How did this not sear itself into this space for him? If this had happened in Crowley’s kitchen he would never be able to make a cup of coffee again without thinking of it.

It’s because I’m absolutely gone for him. Done for.

Aziraphale handed him a spoon and together they scooped out the batter. It wasn’t pretty. Crowley hoped that the secret ingredient of love was enough to make good cupcakes because skill wasn’t coming into this.

With the first batch safely in the oven Aziraphale started working on a bowl of bright blue icing with considerably more success, since it only had two ingredients and neither leant itself to clumping. Blue food dye stained his fingers right the way to the wrist even with his careful handling. Crowley watched, lemonade forgotten at his elbow. He lingered on the broad, flat nail beds, the perfect square fingernails, smooth, deliberate movements of someone used to precision instead of speed. The sort of hands that threaded book bindings and refreshed embossing in a thousand tiny, agonising movements. Soft hands now all stained blue like he’d broken a pen.

Crowley ached for how much he wanted this ghost in his gardens. If this could last forever, this sticky-sweet flirtation, it would fit in like the last piece of the puzzle. His acres and acres of tender care, of chickens and olive trees and the flowers used in every wedding bouquet for miles around. They were already his love, something that filled a hole where family might have fit. This was so different, so much sharper, laced with a different desperation and a different happiness.

It was almost as good to trail that ghost around the town, the beach, the paths, everywhere they took their cheesy Thursday outings slowly filling up with memories. If he needed to he could still wall himself off from those things, he’d hardly been a social butterfly before. As long as he had Anathema’s shop and his gardens he’d be fine.

“How many do you think we should make?” Aziraphale asked, already onto the next bowl of batter.

“Do I look like a man who knows his bake sales?”

“Hmm, you raise a good point. Let’s just keep at it until we run out of ingredients then, shall we?”

They did, and it didn’t go much better than the first round. They eventually figured out that the lumps were butter, not flour, and melted it appropriately before adding it to the mixture, but by that point egg shells had come into play. They used all the chocolate chips. Crowley was roped into helping with the mixing, begrudgingly accepting a blue and white striped apron to protect his clothes.

But when Aziraphale managed to get a full, smooth, eggshell-less bowl of chocolate batter that looked like it would come out alright he looked so pleased with himself that Crowley called the whole affair a success based on nothing else.

With their first batch of cooked, iced, bright blue cupcakes in front of them both men considered the sight.

“I think we were supposed to let them cool before icing,” Aziraphale said.

It was true, the whole affair had ended up a melted sea of blue icing and possibly the least appetising thing Crowley had ever seen. “At least they won’t ask for your help again next year?”

But by the time they were finished they had trays upon trays of brightly coloured monstrosities, oozing icing everywhere, pretty tasty while they were still warm at least, and Aziraphale was so proud. Crowley decided he’d go and buy out the whole damned sale before he let that expression slip from Aziraphale’s face.

-----

Rescue

-----

The rockpools down the beach weren’t some Discovery Channel treasure trove of wildlife, but Crowley liked them. The heat of the summer turned Mondays from lunch under the sun to sunset walks, trousers rolled up to their knees and shoes in hand as they strolled, Crowley occasionally dipping into the rockpools to bother crabs while Aziraphale made token objections from the sand.

Wet sand would squelch between his toes when they walked, the heat of the day gentled by the sea breeze, and Crowley’s eyes would dart to Aziraphale’s hand where it hung loose by his side. Their flirtation hadn’t lost any of its novelty, and he counted a day as wasted if he didn’t manage to make Aziraphale blush and demure and call him a flatterer.

Crowley was knee deep in one of the rockpools, wondering if he could capture a hermit crab and keep it in a tank at home while Aziraphale sat on one of the rock outcroppings and mused on the theological implications of shellfish. The sun was just touching down over the ocean, casting the sky brilliant red and orange as Crowley tried to snatch up one of the little creatures that scuttled along the bottom of the pool.

When had his life become like this? He pinpointed the moment in early June. Mondays on the Beach, Thursdays on the town. And other days, whenever he felt like, whenever they felt like. Aziraphale rarely cried off, was only busy when he was really busy, was never uninterested. Anathema was complaining that Crowley didn’t have time for her anymore.

He’d made a point of taking a night off for Anathema, spending quality time with the only sort of friend he’d had since moving here. And of course they’d gotten uproariously drunk and he’d made his argument: I’m in love, Device, there’s nothing for it.

And of course she’d giggled into her glass: Oh, this’ll end well.

Who cared if it ended well? It was starting well, it was going well. He just shoved and swallowed down his thousand fantasies of pulling Aziraphale close and kissing him.

He could pull him down into the rockpool, watch him sputter in dramatic outrage as the cuffs of his pants soaked through, and kiss him. Kiss him until he couldn’t speak anymore. His lips would be softer than his hands, his mouth hotter than the summer, the breathy moan sweeter than bad chocolate chip cupcakes.

Aziraphale was looking at something in the distance, listening intently but Crowley was lost, all his brain focused on what, exactly, Aziraphale would sound like when kissed. What he’d sound like after that, in bed, sheets clenched in his fists.

If he’d just give some indication, Crowley would take anything. Just the tiniest sign that he thought about Crowley the same way Crowley thought about him. But he didn’t. He smiled and laughed and took the compliments and never let on anything that might indicate it was more than friendship.

“Did you hear that?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley listened, nothing but the waves reaching him. “What?”

Aziraphale held up a hand to silence him and cocked his head. The lapping of the ocean against shore was all that disturbed the air for a long moment, until… meep.

They met eyes. No, that wasn’t just the wind.

Crowley looked around for something that might make a meep sound. It wasn’t a common sound on a beach. He climbed out onto the sand to watch Aziraphale search through the seaweed and the rocks, silently so as to listen for the sound again to guide him. Probably a seagull chick fallen from its nest and then they could argue over whether mothers would abandon baby birds touched by humans or if that was just a myth.

“If you go hunting through all that you’ll get seaweed on your trousers,” Crowley said. And it was true. Even if he managed to save a flock of orphaned seagulls Crowley would be hearing about the stains for weeks. Just the thought of salt-wet seaweed against that white linen made him want to do laundry.

“Stop being so ‘cool’ and come help me.”

Crowley did, sort of, putting his hands in his pockets and strolling about the crags, looking for any little corner some critter might try to hide in, following the occasional meep like a tiny SOS. Wonderful, now they were the wildlife rescue service on the beach. The things he did for this man. He sauntered about, not really expecting to find anything. Until he did.

Tiny, slitted, yellow eyes peered up at him from a corner of the rocks. A healthy kitten would have found a better hiding spot, but this one was so bedraggled, swaying on its tiny little paws, it seemed to think this was good enough.

It was so tiny. So tiny. A little, scruffy ball of black fur, its little mouth just opening enough for another meep.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed, trying not to make any loud noises or sudden movements.

“Oh, I can’t see anything, the poor thing…”

Aziraphale!”

The little fluffball huddled closer to the rock, blinking big yellow eyes. Crowley felt a sort of sympathy for the poor little thing, hiding out on the beach, trying to make itself disappear against the rocks when it clearly didn’t have the energy or know-how for it. Aziraphale’s hand came down on Crowley’s shoulder and he froze.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, hello there.”

The little kitten tried to shy away from Aziraphale’s hands but he scooped it up, brought it out of the wet and held it close to his chest. The little thing looked so confused by what was happening. It didn’t seem to know whether to leap away or snuggle closer to Aziraphale’s creamy shirt, its little paws padding against his palm uncertainly.

Aziraphale with a soggy kitten cuddled to his chest was almost unbearably cute. Crowley should have known he was an animal person. He would have looked better with a slobbering labrador at his side, but this would do just fine.

“I think he likes you,” Crowley said.

“He’s too worried to like anything, I would say.” Aziraphale cupped the kitten in both hands and held it up at the hollow of his throat like it brought the poor thing closer. “I think we’d better get him home.”

“We’re not getting a cat.”

“We’re not leaving him here. I’m sure there’ll be posters out tomorrow. Just a night in a dry house.”

Optimistic at best. Aziraphale was from the city, he didn’t know how many feral cats were out and about, or how many people decided not to spay their cats then ‘lost’ the kittens.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “If you take that thing home I promise you’ve got a cat.”

It was a hopeless protest. As if Aziraphale would ever let a kitten fend for itself on a lonely night. The little thing was already snuggled into him and purring. Couldn’t blame him, Crowley had taken about the same amount of time to want to bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck and never look up again.

Aziraphale led the way back up the beach toward his house, murmuring sweet nothings to the little kitten. He’d completely forgotten Crowley existed. Crowley sauntered behind, a little miffed at this turn of events. He’d been enjoying a perfectly nice evening with his not-boyfriend and hadn’t counted on this kitten interrupting so rudely. Certainly hadn’t counted on anyone or anything else so entirely stealing Aziraphale’s attention.

He glared at the kitten. The kitten eyed him smugly from Aziraphale’s chest.

It knew.

They made their way up to Aziraphale’s house before the sun set entirely. Crowley had visions in his eyes of Aziraphale discreetly ignoring any ‘missing’ posters displayed about the neighbourhood. He was smitten. The kitten was as well, by the way it squinted and purred.

There was no way in hell this thing was ever making it inside the Bentley. Crowley didn’t care what vet appointments it needed. He was already steeling himself for that argument in two month’s time.

“Get me a box, would you, dear?” Aziraphale said over his shoulder, already halfway to the kitchen.

Crowley frowned. This evening wasn’t going at all to plan. He picked one of the half unpacked boxes from the hallway and dumped three books and a coat onto the ground. He delivered the empty box to Aziraphale who filled it with fluffy towels and one cat, cooing over the little thing the whole time.

“What are you going to call it?” Crowley asked.

“Well I’m still hoping the owners will contact us,” Aziraphale lied, like a liar. “But I’m thinking Kraken.”

“Kraken?”

“Yes, as he rose from the sea.”

“You biblical wanker.”

Aziraphale only grinned, eyes still fixed firmly on Kraken, his new cat despite any protestations. Fucks sake. How was Crowley supposed to run a seduction when there was a kitten in the mix?

Crowley edged toward the door. This was too personal, Aziraphale restyling his home, reimagining himself as a pet owner. “I should… I should get going. You’re going to have a lot…”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Come on, watch some telly with me while he calms down, you know how to work the Netflix. Do you think kittens drink milk or is that just in cartoons?”

Crowley laughed, the knot in his chest loosening as he imagined their night, a movie on the TV while the kitten dozed in a box at their feet. He snagged his phone from his pocket and googled what human food they could feed to a kitten. He came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was about to be cooking scrambled eggs for a cat. Kraken peered up at him smugly, as if he knew. Much like his owner, he was lucky he was cute.

“I think it’s a kitchen job, yeah?” Crowley said. He tugged Aziraphale along by the waist, guiding him to the kitchen, Kraken’s box on the counter.

Ten minutes later the three of them were settled on the couch, the kitten noisily munching on the scrambled eggs, Aziraphale gazing adoringly at the kitten, Crowley pretending to watch the movie while gazing adoringly at Aziraphale. With the cat between their legs Crowley managed to snuggle close, the three of them making up a strange family, gathered on the couch for movie night.

Alright, the cat could stay. For now.

-----

Lightning

-----

Aziraphale had been right about his view. The porch on his house looked out over the ocean from the vantage of the hill, much closer to the water than Crowley’s. He had stuffed it with cushioned wicker furniture, Anathema had donated some hanging crystals and Crowley’s gifted plants were making themselves more known hanging in macrame slings.

It was mostly Aziraphale’s reading spot but when the storm rolled in over the ocean they had migrated outside to watch. A bottle of whisky between them, Kraken curled up on Aziraphale’s lap and purring. They sat on the huge loveseat, the light rain pattering on the roof overhead. Summer was still too full for the evening air to be uncomfortable.

Aziraphale looked different in the stormlights. There was something about him at nighttime, Crowley realised. As long as he had sunlight on his face, or the warm glow of indoors, he was all bright smiles and nervous ticks and outdated slang. But the calm of the night did more than gentle him. It let Crowley peek into something bigger, calmer, more profound. There was a side to him that was hidden, that Crowley didn’t think he’d been let in on.

Crowley felt too antsy in these moments. If anything, the lightning strikes on water, the thickness to the air made him more energetic, but Aziraphale looked so much bigger than the storm. The rock it would break upon.

The cat was out cold in his lap, sensing his safety, the perfect calm that Aziraphale exuded.

“What are you thinking about?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale blinked, his thousand yard stare dragged back to the porch, the cat, the glass in his hand. “Soho, actually. My old bookshop.”

“You miss it?”

“No,” Aziraphale answered immediately, the word a huffing laugh. “Strange, isn’t it? I spent the better part of my life there and now it just seems like a part I was playing. A role better left to another actor.”

“Must have been something you liked about it. No one does something they don’t like for thirty years.”

“On the contrary, I’ve done plenty of things I don’t like for thirty years.” He swirled the glass in his hand and took a sip, the movement languid like he was buying time for his thoughts to coalesce. Crowley tried to mimic him, his gravitas. “I loved the books, of course, although I preferred collecting to selling. I adored the restaurants and galleries and the theatre, pain au chocolat and jasmine tea on every block. Culture and convenience, I suppose. The vibrancy of city life.”

Crowley thought of him there, sometimes, with a pang of jealousy. He was so bright, in every way, Crowley could see him swanning through the city with every barista knowing him by name, customers thrilled to get to his store, church group reaching out with all hands, waves and waves of attention from all quarters.

Maybe that was Crowley’s charm. Just a little taste of what he used to have.

“But..?” Crowley prompted, suddenly uncomfortable, hoping there was some looming dark side he hadn’t thought about.

Aziraphale glanced down. “It was all a bit silly, really. All those people, none of them more than acquaintance. Rude customers, sex shops, aggressive commercial developers. I can’t think how I convinced myself to stay for so long.”

“Sex shops and chocolate pastries don’t sound so bad,” Crowley joked. He unwound a little but he sensed he was close to something. That big, steely, profound thing that the storm brought out. “What was the last straw?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer for a long moment. If anything he stilled further, staring into his drink. He considered the glass at length, patted the cat who responded with a little mmrn, then let out a long breath. “My family. We fell out.”

“Over what?” He couldn’t stop the incredulous question popping out.

The wind whipped up, sending a light mist of raindrops over them. Aziraphale looked so sad and Crowley couldn’t find any emotion beyond confusion. How could anyone fall out with this angel? He was occasionally rude, finicky and more than a little twee, but Crowley couldn’t imagine him in a proper argument over anything.

Aziraphale laughed, a spark of humour but a flame of sadness. “A big, traditional, religious family like mine, surely you can imagine.”

Oh, no. Oh, fuck no. Now he had to go to London and fistfight an entire family. Discreetly, because it would upset Aziraphale. He’d take Kraken, between the two of them they might cover the amount of protective rage required.

“Wait, they waited until you were fifty?”

“I’m forty-nine!” Aziraphale objected, a little flash of amusement finding its way back to him, the storm-sadness lifting for a breath before crashing back down. He sighed again. “Anyway, they weren’t the ones who were fed up. I was sick to my heart of pretending for them. I think they were prepared to ignore it as long as I didn’t, well, as they would say ‘shove it in their faces’. But I just couldn’t make one more offhand comment about not finding the right girl yet.”

“The right girl?” Crowley repeated incredulously. “I am trying to imagine you on a date with a woman.”

“I’ve dated women!”

Crowley snorted. “Like hell you have.”

“Even inner London isn’t immune to meddlesome personalities. Speaking of, Deirdre Young keeps asking me if we’re spending much time together and I’m afraid I’m going to be rude if she keeps up.”

“Tell her to go jump in a lake.”

“I’ll leave that to you, if it’s all the same.” Aziraphale looked out over the swelling ocean with a look of fond bemusement. “And I suppose you’re right, about the women. It seemed my family were the only ones capable of such willful ignorance. My dates always looked as befuddled as you look right now. You’re very rude, you know.”

Crowley scoffed. “No, angel, rude is sending some poor, unsuspecting woman on a date with the gayest man in London.”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale laughed.

It made more sense now, thinking about it, what Aziraphale would have looked like in London. Crowley was certain he was right about the amount of general adoration that was thrown at him but the Aziraphale of his imagination was also harried. Weighed down with expectations. A thousand Facebook friends (if he had figured out Facebook) and a family with their collective heads up their arses. A busy shop where he could never just sit down and read.

Aziraphale looked light here by the beach, unburdened. Crowley was so used to him in his loose shirts and cardigans, ambling by the water or curled up with books that the old image of him, every day in his waistcoat and bowtie, engaged and active at all times just seemed exhausting. He was better with a glass of good whisky, a fluffy black kitten and a thunderstorm raging over a distant ocean.

There was one part of the equation he hadn’t calculated yet and he had never had such a good opening to ask.

“And no… boyfriend?” Crowley hoped his question sounded more casual to Aziraphale than it had in his own ears.

To Crowley’s horror Aziraphale’s laughter died a gentle death and the shadow of bad memories took up its place again. Somehow the only thing worse than him confessing to having some bloke back in London was the possibility that it was complicated. Because Crowley just knew that the second Aziraphale started complaining about some tosser who wasn’t walking over water for him, Crowley would be transformed into the sorry creature who spent his nights comforting the man he was in love with over some other man. And what a pathetic sight that would be to see.

“Nothing serious. This may shock you, but most people don’t consider me much of a romantic prospect.”

Crowley nearly let out a whimper of relief, the worst future having just flashed before his eyes. “They’re mental, then. Bonkers. Just look at you.”

Aziraphale looked away. “Thank you, my dear.”

The relief was a blessing, but with it crept the sadness. Crowley would give his left arm to be able to lavish attention on Aziraphale, turn his gifts of potplants into flowers, toss him on that big fluffy bed and make him scream with pleasure. Every night as he lay in bed, room dark, he couldn’t stop fantasising about the sounds Aziraphale would make while Crowley sucked him off. It buzzed under his skin, set his blood sizzling like the air on a stormy night. And the people who had the chance just… hadn’t. Ungrateful bastards.

It wasn’t fair. His mantra, nowadays, his motto. Unfair that he meet this man now, after all these years. Unfair that he burned while Aziraphale remained pristine and fireproof.

Thunder rumbled overhead, solemn stormlight stealing away the laughter he’d managed to tease out and Crowley didn’t have it in him to be a jealous, bitter tit.

He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, heart jumping at the thought he might be rejected. Aziraphale stiffened and Crowley could almost see the words forming oh, dear boy, I’m afraid you misunderstood. But they didn’t come. Aziraphale relaxed and then they were holding hands.

Lightning struck the ocean, lighting them up brilliant white for just a heartbeat.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Crowley said, testing his luck to breaking point.

“As am I,” Aziraphale said, something Crowley couldn’t identify making his lip tremble. “I think I much prefer it here. I like it by the ocean, with my cottage, and Kraken,” he said the last in a kissy voice, raising another mneh from the cat. “And… and you, my dear. I’m so very glad to have met you.”

Crowley was sure Aziraphale could feel the way his skin burned, could see behind his glasses to where all his heart sat exposed. If he did, he said nothing, just squeezed Crowley’s fingers with his downy-soft hand and took another swig of his drink.

Crowley said nothing. If he opened his mouth it was all going to come tumbling out and he’d already gambled too much tonight.

So he counted his blessings, stopped his mouth with a drink and sat back. He kept his eyes on the horizon, pretending to watch the storm, pretending he could think of anything except Aziraphale’s hand in his.

-----

Library

-----

This was getting ridiculous. Hand holding and adopting kittens and the church group basically planning their wedding, it was all getting to Crowley. He could joke with Anathema about being in love, spit out the words as an excuse for anything and everything but it was actually starting to get to him.

He curled up in bed and thought of Tantalus, the water up to his chin, the fruit just above his head. How maddening, how sickening, and once his frustration had worn through like old shoes, how fucking sad. He’d signed up for this knowing he’d have these days. He just needed the space to feel sorry for himself, just for a bit.

He cancelled his plans with Aziraphale. “M’just not feeling well. Under the weather.”

He liked under the weather because it discouraged questions. Anathema knew him well enough to wish him a speedy recovery from his little bitch syndrome, but Aziraphale was new to the party. He offered to come over, to bring chicken soup, keep him company. Crowley begged off.

He just needed to lie in bed and feel sorry for himself. Give him two days, three or four at the most and he’d miss Aziraphale more than he wanted to strangle him. It was all a matter of balance. Until then he’d disappear with his fake flu and the complete series of Golden Girls and get it all back under control.

It felt bad. It felt bad behind his eyes and in his ribs and throbbed bad in his toes and curdled bad in his stomach.

Every day with Aziraphale he came to love him a bit more, whether it was finding out something new or just confirming all the other stuff was for real. Crowley’s flu had been brought on by a late night phone call, a client deciding to take his business to a cheaper and less proficient conservator. Aziraphale had been angry and Crowley had watched, waiting for the appearance of bad manners, a flare of temper, waited to see how it would turn on him. He’d been fully prepared to make his excuses and leave for the evening when Aziraphale had sighed, straightened his shoulders and turned a rueful smile on Crowley. Let’s not let it ruin our night.

It felt like a punch straight through his chest. This didn’t feel like playing anymore. When he’d prepared himself to be alright with unrequited love he couldn’t have counted on just how in love he was going to be. He thought he could lean on those old mainstays to justify why, really, he was better off with Aziraphale breaking his heart and leaving.

One of those was anger. Short tempers, mercurial moods, they reared their ugly heads sooner or later. Crowley’s own shitty moods that made him distant and caustic would clash with Aziraphale’s snits once they got down to it, he had been certain. He had been certain. It wasn’t like he needed it yet, but it had been like finding out his parachute didn’t have a ripcord ten seconds after jumping out of the plane. Not a problem yet but definitely something that needed sorting.

And it felt really bad.

Crowley curled in on himself in bed, hair loose over his face, covers up to his ears. Beside him his tablet asked if he was still watching. He wasn’t. His phone was switched off and face down on the nightstand.

He closed his eyes and sunk further into the bed, letting himself doze on and off until the sun was shining in his eyes through the slits of the blinds and he had to reposition. He heard the footsteps outside, the patter on his porch. Something slipped through the parcel slot on his door although the mailman wouldn’t bother coming this far.

Aziraphale. Crowley curled into himself further, but eventually his curiosity got the better of him. He padded out on bare feet, wood creaking under each muddled footfall.

A book lay behind his front door. It wasn’t one of the really ancient ones from Aziraphale’s collection, it was so modern it had a colour photo on the cover. Rare Orchids of the World. Crowley picked it up and turned it over in his hands.

He cracked it open and found the front page to be desecrated with writing. Aziraphale’s tight, loopy script, no less.

In case you get bored. Feel better soon. - A (2019)

“I have the internet, angel,” Crowley murmured into the dead air.

Aziraphale was thinking about him. Worried about him? Of course he was, they’d been seeing each other all the time, joined at the hip for at least a month and then Crowley disappears with a mysterious illness. Aziraphale probably thought he was at best some sort of mucus fountain and at worst laid up with the black plague.

Crowley clutched the book in both hands, staring at the inscription. He was allowed to need time. He was allowed to feel bad. If he pushed himself to act like things were normal he’d do something stupid, say something stupid and ruin everything. If he stood a chance (in his dreams) then he wasn’t improving it by showing off his needy, moody, damaged side. Better to be in bed reading an outdated book about orchids.

He took the book to bed with him, that and a bottle of wine. He set the book and the drink on his nightstand and paused. He’d feel better for a change of clothes, even if he wasn’t up to showering yet.

A fresh pair of pants and some clean pyjamas later he fluffed the pillows so he could sit up in bed, Aziraphale’s gift clenched tightly in hand. He drank in moderation and read up on what botanists of the 60s thought about orchids. He tried not to linger on the guilt of keeping Aziraphale away or the crisis compounding in his heart.

Most of the day disappeared into sleep, some of it disappeared to staring into the middle distance and feeling awful. A lot of it was spent on the book.

When the next morning broke Crowley dragged himself out of bed to water the plants. He had a big order due at the end of the week and planned to leave it to the last second. If he tried to do it in this state he’d end up losing a finger to clumsy secateurs.

Back at the house another book lay by the front door. Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat. Carnivorous Plants.

Thought you might find this interesting. Rest up. - A (2019)

Today he managed a shower. Greasy hair wasn’t helping his mood. He made a point of eating something with vegetables. Drank some water. Still felt horrible.

He wanted to turn on his phone, call Aziraphale and beg for company. Wanted to call him up and say all sorts of embarrassing things like I miss you and you’re devastating and please run away with me I’ll make you happy I promise. Instead he buried his face in his pillow and let out some undignified noises, clenching his fists to stop himself reaching for the phone.

He flicked through some carnivorous plants but the book hurt too much, he ended up back on his tablet with the first cartoon he could find blaring into the quiet room.

It was too much, he was convinced, like a car crash victim whose morphine hadn’t kicked in yet. This was just too much to live with. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale every day and never touch. He couldn’t be exposed to all that tenderness and kindness without wanting it for himself. He was only human. This wasn’t fair. He crushed the pillow to his chest and refused to reach for his phone and kept his eyes fixed on the tablet.

On the third day he knew he was borrowing trouble. It hadn’t even happened yet and he was living in the day after Aziraphale rejected him. He was dying in words that hadn’t been spoken. And they wouldn’t be, they wouldn’t ever be if he could just get himself under control. Maybe Aziraphale would be his friend for longer than he thought. Maybe forever. If he just shut up. He laughed to himself. He’d never once in his life been able to stop his mouth going.

Crowley got dressed. Just sweatpants and a t-shirt, but they were real clothes. He made himself fried eggs on toast with asparagus. Asparagus had… something in it, didn’t it? Iron or zinc? It was green.

Something clattered at the door while he was eating, a thump on the wooden floor. Crowley set his fork down and rose.

The History of the Giant Sequoias of North America. The photo on the front was brilliant, a tree as tall as a skyscraper with a tiny little man beside it for scale.

Buck up. I’ll see you soon. - A (2019)

And what was that supposed to mean? Crowley pressed the book to his forehead, breathing deep. Borrowing trouble. He still felt terrible, but if Aziraphale pulled away he’d feel much, much worse. It was time to shake it off.

He opened the door.

“Aziraphale,” he called out. The man was already a ways up the driveway, moseying along with his hands behind his back.

Aziraphale turned back to him and smiled warmly. He reversed course immediately, making his way back to Crowley’s door. “Oh, hello. How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Crowley said truthfully.

“May I come in? I could make you some tea?”

Crowley shook his head. He realised too late that he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. Weird eyes on a weird guy. “Come sit with me.”

Aziraphale followed him inside and took a seat on his couch. The three feet of space between them seemed to radiate, too empty, too big. Crowley felt bad, right down to the soles of his feet, but also strong enough for this.

With one eyebrow quirked, Aziraphale held out an arm. He glanced down at his knee, then back at Crowley. Too exhausted to argue or even wonder if it was a good decision, Crowley keeled over, his head in Aziraphale’s lap, short, strong fingers finding his hair.

He didn’t say anything, offer any explanation for his absence. He flung an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and tried not to think about anything. Aziraphale murmured comforting nothings, fingers digging into Crowley’s scalp, and in no time Crowley was drifting off again.


Next: Part 2!

(no subject)

Date: 2019-12-15 05:48 am (UTC)
emmagrant01: (Default)
From: [personal profile] emmagrant01
This is gorgeous and I’m enjoying it so much!

(no subject)

Date: 2019-12-16 04:00 pm (UTC)
From: [personal profile] commodorecliche
Oh my gosh, what an amazing gift. I've only just finished this part but I have so many things to say. Here's a few quick thoughts before I proceed to part 2:

- "the ghost of Emily Dickenson" had me ROLLING
- honestly the banter between every character is so lively and so natural, I just adore it.
- loved seeing Neruda mentioned! I'm quite a fan.
- JK Rowling's Twitter, I'm losing it.
- I absolutely love the focus on Crowley's fears. Because they are so realistic. It's not just fear of rejection. It's fear of rejection while the person was still receptive to his affections. That's so real and so visceral, it's a fear I've experienced myself on more than one occasion. You've really highlighted it so well here.
- POLYCORIA. What a wonderful human reason for Crowley to wear sunglasses.
- Crowley's garden and home sound like an absolute DREAM. I would kill for a house just sprawling with plants like you've described.
- a KITTEN TOO? I swear, just from my little prompt, it's like you looked into my soul and figured every tiny detail I'd lose my mind over. This is amazing.

Seriously, what a gift. What an amazing start. I can't wait to read the other parts. Thank you for all your hard work on this, it's an absolute delight!

(no subject)

Date: 2019-12-19 07:44 pm (UTC)
From: [personal profile] hiddenlacuna
I am reading this while I should be working and absolutely RIVETED

oh no there’s a part 2

Oh no

There goes my day

(no subject)

Date: 2019-12-19 10:27 pm (UTC)
sonnet23: (Default)
From: [personal profile] sonnet23
Aaaaaw!!! This fic is so beautiful! <3 <3 <3 It's delicious in every possible way.
I love the characterisations, I love Crowley being an outcast who "cast himself in that role", I love his endearing nervousness, his need for being in love even though he's sure it will break his heart eventually. I love how gorgeous, soft and perfect Aziraphale is in Crowley's eyes, how easily he starts calling him "angel". I love it that they are both in their late forties - you don't see that in fics very often, but it adds so much to the human nature of the story, it feels so real, and it also brings such delightful possibility of comic scenes like the one with Crowley and Anathema running together - it's fantastic!
And yes, I love the style, and especially the humour, and I like it that underneath, there's a seriousness to it, like there's a promise of a storm in a hot day.

I wonder how it will end (or go on?) for them.

Oh, and the end of this part is just so unbearably sweet! <3 Crowley needs hugs and lots and lots of love.
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