Happy Holidays, commodorecliche! Part 2

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Addict

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The annoying part about sort of dating your best friend, Crowley was finding, was that it meant he was a regular sight in the town now. He used to lurk like a bad smell in Anathema’s shop and that was the extent of his social life. That was how he liked it.

Now he had, of all things, a favourite cafe. The barista knew his name, but he’d made a point of not learning hers. Or, well, he’d tried, but of course Aziraphale wouldn’t let that stand.

“Kelly’s off to university next month,” Aziraphale said. “I hope the next one makes coffee how you like it.”

“As long as they make it caffeinated I don’t care.”

That was doubly untrue. He liked Kelly’s coffee, and she made sure no one was looking before adding a sneaky caramel shot. But it was also a lie in that if they were serving up straight dishwater he’d still have his arse in this chair, right here, and pay them three pounds fifty for the pleasure. He’d dress in his good jacket, a tamed man, and withstand the discreet stares from all Aziraphale’s friends. He’d do literally anything he needed to do to be the one on the other side of this table while Aziraphale ate cake.

There was something about cake. Aziraphale was an epicurean in all things, had dragged Crowley all about the countryside to weird restaurants that served reductions of things and foams of other things and really good wine, but get a slice of ordinary chocolate cake in front of him and things took a turn for the pornographic.

Aziraphale raised a tiny, civilised bite to his lips. Crowley leaned forward, coffee forgotten at his elbow. The fork passed Aziraphale’s lips, his eyes closed. Crowley held his breath. Then right there, the little exhale, the mmm, blissed out, filthy.

Is there any chance, angel, Crowley considered saying, that you would fuck me bow-legged while making that sound?

Crowley did not say this.

Instead he remembered his coffee existed while preparing himself for the next bite, trying not to look too obvious about his frankly ridiculous staring. Thursdays had their challenges and not falling off his chair was one of them. He always made sure there was cake. Even if wherever they visited wasn’t a food thing he’d suggest getting coffee afterwards, and somehow a slice of devil’s food or black forest would make its way to their table. It would be a lot easier to keep this bad habit in check if Aziraphale wasn’t just as weak for the ritual. For different reasons, but the result was the same.

“We should go to London,” Aziraphale said. “I’d like to show you some of my old haunts.”

“Thought this was about broadening our horizons. Being part of the community,” Crowley said this with as much sarcasm as he could muster. Given that they actually had become a bit of a fixture it wasn’t much.

“Our horizons could withstand a weekend away, I’m sure.”

Crowley had gone a little bit strange over the noises. Not just the cake noises, although those were very good noises. All the noises. Specifically, the noises he imagined Aziraphale would make when naked while Crowley did terrible things to him. The real Pornhub stuff. His brain would catch the thread of that thought and he’d be done for, totally useless until he’d played out all the hypothetical groans and cries and breathless gasps and that fucking cake moan. The sunglasses and a carefully chosen posture were all that stopped him making a spectacle of himself in public. At home, on his own, it was spectacle city.

“Try mine,” Crowley said, pushing his carefully chosen fudge slice toward Aziraphale, untouched.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, eyes crinkling with fondness. Totally guileless. Fork, lips, eyes closed, mmm. One fucked up gardener was all his.

He had to stop this, he was already so eccentric it bordered on actual hermitry. Walking about the town getting all weird about the fact that Aziraphale had a voice he used for things was a bridge too far.

“You know,” Aziraphale gestured with his fork, oblivious. “There’s an antique book auction at Sotheby’s in October. You ought to come with me.”

That might have been the first time Aziraphale had suggested an outing that Crowley was going to have to refuse. It had all sorts of possibilities, taking Aziraphale to the Ritz or the Savoy and seeing what the pâtissiers there could do to Aziraphale's palate and by extension Crowley’s imagination. Share a hotel room. All very nice if the very idea of London didn’t give him a compound headache.

“No can do, angel. You need me to take care of the cat. Try not to miss me too much in that hotel room.” Crowley managed to time it so he said the last while Anne Wensleydale walked past their table, making her eyes widen. Aziraphale turned bright pink and shot him a look. Crowley shrugged, all innocence.

“They don’t need more encouragement, thank you.”

“No, but you need more sweets.”

Aziraphale looked at the two empty plates in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’, you cake fiend.”

“I shouldn’t have more.”

Whatever little white lies Crowley told, he would never be as bad as Aziraphale, who said ‘shouldn’t’ only when he meant ‘definitely will’. He also used ‘oh, you’ for ‘go on’ and ‘how could you?’ for ‘that was pretty funny’. And on Thursdays he used ‘mmm’ in place of ‘please start spontaneously drooling, Crowley, there’s a good chap’.

“Let’s get some raspberry pie from Leo’s, take it back to your place,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled in that indulge-me way of his. “Or down to the water?”

The water sounded just fine. Ten minutes later Aziraphale was nursing a pie and Crowley was manoeuvring his prized Bentley down the narrow path that led to the tourist beach that had sand for days and colourful flags and a pier that stretched out across the water. Sunset by the water had been romantic the first few times and hadn’t entirely lost its charms.

Crowley slipped out of the car and folded his sunglasses into his pocket. He’d gotten into the habit, when it was dim enough. The eyes thing was a funny prank to pull on unsuspecting newcomers but it didn’t make him feel much like a Romeo and he needed any edge to cool down tonight.

Aziraphale spread out his jacket on the ground and settled on it, pie in his lap. Crowley folded himself into the sand next to him, both of them looking out over the water. Aziraphale was a calm, grounding presence. He ignored the unopened box in his lap, just watching, the sound of the sea washing over them. A few other people dotted the sand, two couples spaced out at appropriate intervals and a group of teenagers passing a joint back and forth between them.

It was nice. Relaxing.

“So,” Aziraphale said, cracking open the box and not looking at him. “Do you want to talk about London?”

“I thought we agreed. The cat.”

“That’s not what I meant, my dear. You looked like I’d proposed a six month expedition to the arctic circle.”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to give so much away. “Just… don’t like the city. Don’t have to like the city, it’s not required.”

“Can I ask what happened?” Aziraphale’s voice was so gentle, a tone Crowley had never heard from him before.

“Don’t treat me like an invalid, Aziraphale. I’m not your charity case.”

Aziraphale cracked open the box, unintimidated by Crowley’s tone. He picked up the plastic fork the shop had given them and started picking at the pie. He looked from the food to the sunset, saying nothing, apparently giving Crowley the time to get over his wounded pride at being so easily called out.

He shouldn’t be doing this. If he had to, and he did, he could hang around for little cakey moans and blue eyes and the lovely fluster he could raise with a ribald comment. It wasn’t allowed to feel like he should open up, not really, not beyond what he had to. He looked at Aziraphale and saw himself reflected back, his creepy eyes that he didn’t want Aziraphale to see. But here he was, sunglasses in his pocket. A moth to the flame.

“I just,” Crowley searched for some words, something that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane. “I just don’t like it there. Too many people. Stayed there too long and went strange, now if I go back…” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t go back.”

“Then don’t.” That beautiful, warm smile, understanding that sank bone deep. Aziraphale reached out and tucked his hair behind his ear, baby-soft fingertips grazing Crowley’s cheek. “I like you strange, my dear, but don’t if you don’t want to. I’m sorry to pry.”

Crowley stopped himself from physically leaning into Aziraphale, burying his face in his neck and hiding there for eight to ten hours. His cheeks were burning and his bare face had nowhere to hide. All he could do was look at Aziraphale, vulnerable and open and trying not to feel understood. This didn’t mean anything. A little brush to the cheek, a kind word, he wouldn’t back it up with anything.

The waves broke against the shore, seagulls started encroaching, realising there was food afoot, and Aziraphale let him go, his attention back on the pie. Like it hadn’t even happened.

Crowley fished his glasses out of his pocket and slid them back into place. He had to remember that Aziraphale was kind, and that kindness looked too much like reciprocation sometimes. He curled his hands into fists against the sand and closed his eyes. Aziraphale raised his first mouthful to his lips, Crowley could tell, could hear the little exhale. It was safer here, in dirty thoughts, and no matter how Aziraphale cracked him open those noises didn’t lose their appeal. So he let the little moan carry him back to safety and resolved to sit a bit further away next time.

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Bentley

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Crowley liked to get Aziraphale gifts. Plants, mostly, to give his house a bit more life. The house wasn’t new anymore, the unpacked boxes had dwindled to an unlucky few and Aziraphale’s roots were firmly in the ground. So there were the houseplants, sometimes flowers, endless pastries. And today something that was definitely going to irritate him.

Crowley parked on the driveway, picked up the little package and prepared to defend himself.

“Morning, angel!”

Aziraphale was already setting his book aside, ensconced on the love seat on his porch, dappled by the potato vine Crowley was growing for shade. It was starting to look pretty good. By next summer, it would keep the worst of the sun off and cover the area with white flowers.

“Good morning, my dear. Tea?”

“Yeah, but first: this.” Crowley tossed the box over the railing onto the seat beside Aziraphale, then jumped up the few steps to lean against the railing.

Aziraphale looked at the box, narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “No.”

“Hear me out –”

“No.”

“I went all the way to Brighton for that. I set it up for you and everything.”

Aziraphale pointedly opened his book again and began reading. “I don’t need a mobile telephone.”

“You do. I promise, I’ll keep dick pics to a bare minimum. Three, four a week at the most.”

Aziraphale let out a surprised snort of laughter, breaking his prim affect. He glared at Crowley, or tried to while still half laughing. “I don’t need one. I have a perfectly good landline.”

“Get with the millennium, angel,” Crowley goaded.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “You drive up here in a car from the 1920s and have the nerve to call me outdated.”

Oh. Oh, that was how he was going to play it. Crowley wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Much. “That car is a classic! It’s fashionable.”

“It bounces like a haycart on a cobbled road,” Aziraphale said. “It doesn’t even have a radio.”

“I can’t believe you’d test our love by having a go at the Bentley. How could you?”

Something in Aziraphale’s expression shifted, his laughter dying, the breath knocked out of him. Crowley saw the boundary too late, crashed head into it. It was fine to joke about sex, but not love. The earnest sympathy in Aziraphale’s eyes sucked all the fun out of their argument.

He did an about face, swaggering back down the stairs. He could at least save himself a little by pretending not to notice the shift in the air. “Ungrateful git. I’m leaving, I’ll make plans with you again when you text me.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale called after him, exasperated.

“With a dick pic,” Crowley insisted, not turning back. He made a point of tearing off down the driveway a bit too fast. Dumb. Didn’t do anything but scratch the paintwork with loose gravel. Aziraphale was right, it wasn’t exactly a practical car.

He had a practical car, a plain white van for moving orders around, but where was the style in that? The Bentley was gorgeous, chic, and there was just something about holding up traffic and watching the veins throb in peoples’ temples.

He drove home and paused at the door, studying his phone. He pulled up a blank text message and selected Aziraphale from his contacts. Had to leave some bait or the new smartphone (an older model, simpler, fewer functions) would get played with for thirty seconds and discarded, never to be touched again. He could almost see Aziraphale putting on his little disdainful act as if Kraken was a worthy audience, toying with the phone, learning the satisfying swiping motion to unlock it, then declaring it all very silly and putting it face down on the kitchen bench.

It’s rude to refuse a gift, angel :P

Crowley usually made a point of texting like a teenager, just to annoy people, but in this case he let autocorrect make the spelling and grammar bearable. No point scaring him off too quickly.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, made a cup of coffee and drank it in three swallows, then made his way to the gardens. Armed with gardening gloves and secateurs, his hair tied back in a ponytail, he decided to stop procrastinating with the azaleas and set to work taking the excess growth off.

It was rhythmic, hypnotic work, on his knees with the sound of the ocean at his back. An old, established weeping willow shaded the plants from the full sun of the summer, shielding Crowley from the ocean breeze as he worked. This whole area was flowers, azaleas and begonias and rhododendrons, the soil soaked acidic. In the spring it was all white and pink, but the bloom was gone, the colder weather threatening to move in, so he worked with a sea of almost indistinguishable green, finding the little buds tucked away amongst the leaves.

His pocket buzzed and pulled him from the plants. He pressed his lips together against the smile. The battle wasn’t won yet.

Is rude to change someone phone number without telling them.

Crowley grinned. He held up the phone and took a snap of the garden, managing to catch it at a flattering angle, sun catching the willow leaves.

Don’t be sour on such a pretty morning.

The message back was almost instant. How did you do that?

Crowley found himself texting instructions, telling Aziraphale to look for the little camera icon, the smiley face, tap on the words the phone predicted. The sun was straight overhead when he realised he wasn’t pruning, but sitting in his azalea beds with his gloves and secateurs to one side, tapping away at his phone like a naughty school child.

He shook himself and abandoned the gloves, keeping at his pruning but one hand always on his phone. He scored himself some bad pictures of the cat, the ocean, the book Aziraphale was pretending to read while taking to his new toy like a fish to water.

The afternoon wore on and the torrent of texts slowed to a trickle. Crowley made dinner, sent a picture, got one in return. Ate his dinner smiling.

Sometimes Crowley was too clingy. He knew that. People in the past had made it perfectly clear. Most of the time he didn’t care for people, but when he hit on someone he liked he had a bit of a habit of coming on too strong. Fine. Everyone had their foibles. People preferred him as a potential romance, it gave him leeway to be annoying and overly honest. It was the quiet, uncharged moments that grated on the people around him. He had a workaround with Aziraphale, tossing out compliments and ribald jokes, the flattery he couldn’t seem to get enough of. It wasn’t until his fifth snarky text about the bad horror movie he was watching that he realised he hadn’t blown any hot air in that direction since morning.

Oh, sure, it was easy to put on the show, just let all his painfully cheesy feelings spill out without a filter. But that wasn’t this. This was just chatter, spending the day with someone.

He’s my best friend. The thought hit Crowley like a brick to the head. Even without all the other stuff, they were friends. Aziraphale liked him.

Crowley stared at his phone, movie forgotten. It was like a door unlocked in his brain, presented him with a whole other option he hadn’t thought of. He’d just assumed this would fall apart, eventually his flirting would stop being entertaining and Aziraphale would find something better to do. But this… this changed things. It didn’t have to end. Or at least not nearly so soon.

A text lingered on the screen, waiting to be clicked.

I don’t know how you stand those horror shows.

And well, Crowley could say something back, something like how much better they were with company, something suggestive about cuddling under blankets and holding hands during the scary parts. How can I be scared when I have an angel to protect me?

He hovered. Thought. I just like them is all.

I think I’ll stick with bake off.

Just like that. Just saying what he’d say to Anathema, to anyone. Just talking. If Aziraphale liked that he wouldn’t get tired of it, not in a hurry, it was what people did.

Crowley turned the thought over in his mind as the rest of the night passed him by, looked at it from this way and that. If Aziraphale was really, actually interested in being his friend then what did he make of the flirting? Did he think that was just how Crowley was with everyone? Or did he think the thousand gentle refusals were a small enough price to pay for the company?

He thought, of all things, of the fucking car. How Aziraphale loved and hated it. Through his eyes it was an awful thing, prone to rust from the sea air, bouncy and uncomfortable, expensive to insure, as silly and outdated as a landline telephone. But worth it. Beautiful enough, just the right sort of joie de vivre that it was worth all the inconveniences. Swings and roundabouts. Aziraphale knew, but he still got in the car, let Crowley enjoy doing ninety on the highway, was always careful not to scratch or scuff.

And maybe it was enough to be a hundred year old car to be doted on and preened over even if they both knew it wasn’t able to keep up. There was no reason to crack the hood and see if they could wring another hundred horsepower out of it. That wasn’t the point, it never had been. And if Crowley loved it despite everything, it seemed like Aziraphale did, too.

He was still staring at his phone when he got into bed, piled blankets over himself and rearranged his lumpy pillows into some sort of arrangement. The room was black except for the glow of the screen. He curled into the nest he’d made for himself, not sure he’d be able to sleep.

Goodnight, dear.

Night, angel.

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Questions

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The windchimes jingled as Crowley entered Anathema’s shop. He could swear there were more there every week. There had to be some sort of upper windchime limit, even for her.

Anathema looked up from her book, eyes owlish behind her glasses. She raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth and Crowley already knew he was in for a bollocksing.

“I know,” he preempted her.

She raised her chin. “There’s nothing more tedious than a friend who forgets you exist when they get a boyfriend.”

“He’s not… I haven’t! You’ve got a phone too.”

“You left me on read eight days ago.”

Crowley checked his phone to verify. That did sound like him. A text from Aziraphale sat unread in his notifications but if Anathema caught him texting at this very moment his life would be forfeit.

She was right. He’d left her mid-conversation, he remembered it now. Aziraphale had called him over for a bottle of the best red wine he’d had in years and they’d spent the evening getting fancy with a plate of cheeses and dolmades. Aziraphale had shown him this silly aerating thing he did with his mouth which involved sucking air through a mouthful of wine and it was so ridiculous they’d done it a dozen times trying not to spit the wine out with laughter.

It all gave him the weird breathless feeling he was living with nowadays. A permanent case of indigestion.

“Give me a break, you know I’m pathetic.” Crowley slumped down into the stuffed green chair she kept for bored husbands to pout in while their wives shopped. Or, really, she kept it for Crowley even when he was being a bad friend, and allowed bored husbands to use it. He sighed into his hand. “A mess. I’m a bloody mess over him. It’s getting worse.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve mentioned this to him.”

Crowley glared at her. His phone pinged. A picture of Aziraphale’s morning tea and scones on his porcelain tea set, little blue flowers and vines in the paintwork. He really needed to show Aziraphale Instagram, the man had a knack for it.

Save some for me. Crowley fired off the text and went back to glaring, trying to ignore Anathema’s incredulous look.

“I can’t believe you got him a phone so you can ignore me in person as well.”

“Me either,” he shrugged. Gotta go, Anathemas going to kill me >:(

“This is unsustainable.”

“Don’t I know it.” He turned the phone to silent.

She was judging him. In her judgey way. It was the dress and the hair and the whole ensemble that made it so effective. Also that she was doing it so very deliberately, turning the full force of a young person’s know-it-all superiority on him like a lamp in an interrogation.

“It’s been four months,” she said.

Four months? Bloody hell. It had been. He’d fallen arse over teakettle when June was just setting in and now the weather was starting to turn. How long could a person live with a rose bramble growing in their chest, choking them?

“You’re the one talking about him. I came here to get some… shiny rocks or something. Get my tarot read.” He regretted saying that as soon as it left his lips. Anathema brightened, her posture straightening, eyes lighting up. He held up a hand, “No, Device, you know the rules!”

“You said it!” she perked, already reaching below the counter for her deck.

Crowley groaned. Now he’d done it. He was going to be witched at.

She slid the deck out of its pouch and shuffled the too-large cards in her little hands, trying not to let them slip and spill all over. They were worn around the corners from a few hundred gullible tourists getting told they needed to be at harmony with the world or whatever.

Anathema split the deck and dealt out three cards. Crowley tried his best to ignore her without looking at his phone, instead finding fascination with the unthinkably tacky crystal ball sitting beside him.

“Past, king of wands, reversed,” Anathema said. “Ruthlessness, selfishness and rashness. You’ve been overbearing and domineering.”

“Hey, steady on!” Mention tarot cards once and she goes straight for the throat.

Anathema ignored him. “You’ve also had high expectations that were frustrated and taken risks that haven’t worked out. You’ve been ambitious and self reliant, to the point where you’ve left yourself isolated.”

“Oh, thanks. Great insight there, O fortune teller. I hope you’re nicer than this with your customers.” That could be anyone. It was like horoscopes, saying stuff general enough that anyone could see themselves in it. And it didn’t hurt that Anathema definitely knew he was a little sensitive about some things.

“Of course I am. I don’t care about them.” She flipped the next card and a little smile tugged at her mouth. “Present, three of pentacles. Growth and community. You’ve started achieving your goals but you need the people around you to complete them. Other people have skills you don’t and you need to trust and depend on them.”

“I’m not doing that.”

Anathema looked so smug she almost had one of those auras she liked to go on about. “Oh, really? So you just spend all your time alone nowadays? Just you, by yourself, in your garden? And I misheard Deirdre when she said you were coming to her garden party next week?”

The phone in his pocket buzzed and it was so very tempting to pointedly, dramatically answer Aziraphale’s text and ignore the witch. She could pull ooh, Crowley, I’m so worried about your mental health all she wanted but she was enjoying this far too much. So much for him trying to be a good friend and coming to see her.

And what was Deirdre doing telling everyone he was going to the garden party? It was a favour. A favour for Aziraphale that he was only doing on the condition that he could drink too much and make a fool of himself.

Anathema flipped the last card. “Future.”

Her smug little smile curdled. She looked for all the world like someone who had taken a sip of their coffee and realised they’d mistakenly put salt in it and was trying to be cool about it.

“What?” he asked.

She took a little breath in through her nose and opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Crowley couldn’t bear it, he stood up and took a look at the cards.

“Haaaah!” he crowed, buckling with laughter. “What does that one mean? What does that one mean, Device? What are your mystical senses telling you?”

The Lovers sat face up in the third position.

“Oh, be quiet,” Anathema grumbled.

“Is it something about good fortune? Is a load of money coming my way? Does it mean dear old mum up in heaven is watching over me? Wait, it does mean what I think it does, doesn’t it? It’s not some bullshit about peace of mind or something?”

“Oh, look who’s a believer now,” Anathema said with a snitty little frown.

“It’s pronounced ‘belieber’,” he corrected, just to rile her up further.

She scowled at him and examined the card. “The lovers are in Eden, the snake and the apple represent the temptations of the flesh.”

“So I am going to get laid?”

“Oh, gross! You’re a hundred years old, you don’t have sex anymore.”

Crowley grinned. “Whatever you say.”

“Well, you’re not allowed to tell me about it.”

“Oh, no, you started this, Miss Occultist. You’re the matchmaker. You’re going to get details.”

“Why am I friends with you?” She huffed.

Crowley picked up his phone, an ingrained instinct now that whenever he was feeling good he had to tell Aziraphale about it. He saw the text sitting unread. Oh dear. I hope you survive.

I always come out on top. Crowley studied it for a second, still chuckling, then added, Well, not always ;)

He looked up at the disapproving frown. “What? You wouldn’t keep the lovers away from each other, would you?”

She shook her head and looked back down at the card, dragging two fingers over the image. Her exasperation melted into a soft smile, something wistful in it. “The angel over them is Raphael, the archangel of healing. That’s what it means. Loving and healing, finding peace.”

Crowley swallowed. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s disgusting.”

He didn’t check for a return text. Healing. Great bloody lot of healing he was doing following Aziraphale around like a lovesick puppy. This didn’t feel like peace. It felt like he was developing an ulcer, every day more heartsick, weak and nervous and not breathing properly. Why wasn’t anyone just letting him have his dumb sex jokes, why did they always have to bring reality into it? If he had to cope with this, with where it was heading, either to fiery failure or years of unrequited yearning, he would do it without all the pitying stares.

Was it so much to ask to just have an unwanted flower infestation in his chest in peace? To feel like his teeth were made of sunshine whenever Aziraphale smiled and not be hounded about it?

Crowley took up his seat again and watched Anathema pack away her cards. She should have known better than to get them out in the first place. He didn’t need her witchcraft any more than he needed other peoples’ armchair psychology. He had his garden and half a cat and Aziraphale. That was what he was working with and it was going just fine.

“You do realise,” Anathema said, tapping the card before sliding it back into the deck, “that if you want this, you’re going to have to tell him how you feel? Eventually?”

He realised. But he never said he wanted it in the first place. “Ugh, stop with the feelings and tell me you’re going to be at the garden party. I have plans.”

“Of course. I assumed as much.”

-----

Winner

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The last hot day of the year and it was a stinker. The clouds had been moving in, showers of rain perking up the gardens, the beach going grey and thick coats retrieved from the back of wardrobes, but the sun had made a return after weeks of dreariness. Crowley was restless with it, he had just stopped being accustomed to the sweat on his skin, his collar hot on his neck.

Aziraphale had been the voice of optimism as always, scrunching up his nose and grinning at the idea of one more beach day.

“It’s going to be a long winter, we should take advantage,” Aziraphale had said.

And that was that. Settled. Crowley hadn’t taken him to his favourite spot on the beach yet, had kept it secret settled in his chest. But the ocean was still, barely lapping and it seemed like someone up there was giving him a last chance for the year.

It was a good chance, he recognised, when he talked Aziraphale into rolling his trousers up to the knee and wading through the lapping waves with him, the sand smooth under their feet, shoes dangling from their hands.

Crowley stole glances at Aziraphale’s free hand, hanging loose at his side. They’d held hands before, hadn’t they? The sky was laid out in stars, thousands on thousands of them bright against the black, the moon cast the whole sea silver. It was romantic. Would that make it better or worse to reach out and grab his hand and hold it while they strolled ankle deep through the water?

“Down here,” he said, using the excuse and taking Aziraphale’s hand, tugging him down the rocky outcrop, back toward the sand. He held the hand loosely, judging Aziraphale’s reaction, ready to let go if he started to pull away. He didn’t.

Crowley led him, hand in hand down the beach under the stars, west of where they’d ever roamed before.

“Must be one of the benefits of being a local,” Aziraphale said, voice even as if no one was quietly having an attack. “You know all the secret places.”

“You’re a local now. Give it another six months and I’ll have nothing left to show you.”

“Oh, I doubt that, my dear.” Aziraphale punctuated the statement with a little squeeze of his hand and Crowley stumbled, tripping on his own feet. Aziraphale pulled him straight. “Careful, now.”

“Meant to do that,” Crowley said, finding his feet again.

Just be cool. It’s impossible not to be cool right now.

The little pier he’d made his private spot was just down the beach. It was probably the dock for a dinghy at some point, years before he’d moved to town. He’d never seen anyone around this place, now. Whoever owned the beach didn’t use it, probably a holiday house for someone obnoxiously rich. Whatever. It was old and wooden and wouldn’t last another ten years, but for now it dipped perfectly against the high tide, inches off the water.

His brain was largely focused on Aziraphale’s silk-soft skin in his hand, but he kept it together enough to bring him to the end of the pier.

“This doesn’t look safe,” Aziraphale said, eyeing the ageing wood suspiciously.

“Probably not. Afraid of a little water, angel?”

Crowley let go of his hand and dropped down, dangling his legs off the pier and into the water. It was shockingly cold, even with the late summer heat and he tried not to make too big a show of adjusting in case it threw Aziraphale off.

His angel studied the whole situation with increasing scepticism. “This can’t be sanitary.”

“Sit down or I’m going to push you in the water.”

Aziraphale frowned but clambered down to sit beside him, raising his feet above the gently swelling salt water before letting them dip below the surface.

“Oh!” he cried out in shock, the freezing water hitting him and leaving the most comical, open-mouthed shock written across his face. “Oh, Jiminy Christmas, that’s cold.”

“You’ll live,” Crowley grinned at him. He really was a special kind of lovely in the moonlight, even when he was panting and wide-eyed with surprise.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and held him there, sharing their body warmth. He was right, it was bloody cold in the water, but it was worth it. Four cold white feet in the black ocean that stretched out around them, Crowley wishing Aziraphale’s cardigan was more forgiving so he could feel like he was cradling the object of his most ardent desire instead of a sheep.

“There’s seaweed in here,” Aziraphale complained.

“Yeah. It’s the sea. Look closer.”

Crowley leaned forward, holding Aziraphale tight to his side so neither was in danger of losing their perch. Aziraphale snatched his free hand, holding them so close. It was just to keep them balanced, Crowley told himself; these little intimacies were just the casual closeness of friends who could hold each other for safety. It was only his desperate mind that turned this into something more.

He watched Aziraphale’s face instead of the water, pinpointing the exact moment he saw the schools of tiny silver fish beneath the surface, swimming around their feet. Aziraphale lit up, any complaints about the temperature and the seaweed dissolved in an instant.

“Oh, Crowley. They’re right there. I could catch them in my hands.”

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale let the word out on a breath, looking from the fish to the silver ocean, the stars above and finally to Crowley himself. “Oh, my dear, it’s lovely.”

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” Crowley said, the confession coming out before he’d thought about it. The night was so beautiful, the water so cold, Aziraphale always so handsome in moonlight. “I just wanted you to see.”

Aziraphale’s free hand gripped his own knee, the last holdout, the last point of contact not indulged. His eyes were all love, always, a longing as deep as Crowley’s, but his body remained relaxed, walled off, accepting but not giving.

“I’m glad you brought me here. I’m glad you trust me. I don’t know what I’ve done to earn it.”

Nothing. The word, the thought, took the breath out of Crowley’s lungs. Aziraphale had showed him kindness, the same he showed to everyone. It was Crowley’s own delirious fantasies that made him trust Aziraphale even when he had no right or reason. Some stupid, unthinkably stupid need for reciprocation, a fairytale he told himself. He’d keep telling himself that story until Aziraphale gave him a reason to rewrite it. Until he had a hard no he’d pretend this could end happily.

Aziraphale was looking at him with those eyes. Soft, silver in the moonlight, his face so close their noses were almost touching. How could he hold anything against this man? It didn’t matter that he knew what he was doing, that he was playing this game knowing it would end with Crowley’s heart in pieces. Crowley didn’t care. He just didn’t care.

The soft lap of waves against the shore seemed to mimic his breath, in and out, blood rushing, caught in Aziraphale’s eyes.

He wasn’t sure which of them leaned forward.

Their lips met, mouths half open and warm and Crowley let the last of his breath leave him. He kissed Aziraphale, gently sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, squeezed him closer with the arm around his waist, the hand in his own. It was soft and warm, so gentle, the tentative search of lips and tongues. Crowley pulled back, just enough to take another breath, then press gentle pecks to Aziraphale’s mouth, their noses nudging each other.

Aziraphale swept back in, deepening the kiss, getting tongue involved. Crowley could hear the little huffing sounds from his own chest as he responded, letting Aziraphale take what he wanted. His angel was touching his tongue in little, gentle licks, taking advantage of his pliant recklessness.

Oh, my greedy angel, Crowley thought miserably, ecstatically, don’t enjoy this. Don’t you know you’re going to ruin me?

There was nothing of desperation in it. They stayed like that, hands entwined, exploratory kisses traded. Pulling back, diving back in, noses touching, eyes meeting and closing and meeting again, breathless exclamations in the cooling ocean air.

It was Crowley who couldn’t take it anymore, crushing Aziraphale close and burying his face in the crook of his neck, smothered in cardigan and skin that smelled of expensive cologne. He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t going to mean anything tomorrow. Whenever they got close enough to something it just disappeared into the air, sunlight melting it like ice. Aziraphale’s hand was still on his own knee.

Crowley breathed deep, trying to memorise the scent. His heart trembled in his chest, the sickness welling up from his guts, the need for this to be more than it was. To just blurt out I love you, be mine, I love you. He couldn’t. That wasn’t part of the game.

He knew the rules. There could only be one winner and it wasn’t him.

Crowley raised his face, looking into Aziraphale’s worried, wanting eyes. He wasn’t cruel. Naive, maybe, easy to convince, easy to lead, missing the affection of other men his whole life and finally free to accept it. Deep inside, hurt and wanting, not sure where he fit into all this. Flattered and curious to have an experienced man show him the ropes. Not meaning to trample on anyone’s heart, but also not looking too hard as he did just that. It was everything that made him so lovable, including that bastard streak he tried to hide.

Crowley dropped his eyes to those lips, soft and sweet, welcoming him. He let go of Aziraphale’s hand and dug his fingers into white curls. He pressed forward again, bringing their mouths back together.

Doesn’t matter if you win or lose. It’s how you play the game.

-----

Good Deeds

-----

If there was anything to be said about the sickly sweet bimonthly church group meetups, it was that Crowley would have rather eaten a hot poker than been involved. But he would also be eating that poker instead of disappointing Aziraphale, so, stalemate.

Anathema refilled his plastic cup with cheap champagne, a bottle she’d nicked wholesale from the snacks table along with a full plate of cucumber sandwiches. It was too cold to be out in a garden, sitting on lawn chairs, making small talk with middle aged women and their bored husbands. Well, really the cold was the least of the problems. And they weren’t so much making small talk as eating all the sandwiches.

He didn’t even need to be there. Aziraphale had made some noises about still being new in town, needing the moral support, all that, but these people loved him. They’d learned some years ago that Crowley wasn’t going to be their pet gay so they could all prove how progressive they were, but Aziraphale had no such compunctions. It was humiliating.

Anathema was having the time of her life.

“So the bumper was all smashed in,” some lady who was almost certainly named Sharon was telling her, “and you wouldn’t believe what the mechanic wanted to charge us. Highway robbery.”

“Mmm,” Anathema nodded. “Have you considered carrying some jasper to help with your finances? It’s very effective.”

“Oh. I… oh, no, I don’t suppose I have,” Sharon said.

They were alone again very shortly and Crowley waved his cup at her for another refill. She was so totally serene, enjoying every aspect of this. He wondered if he should tell her they were never going to invite her back, but why spoil the mood? At least one of them was enjoying it.

“You know,” she said, leaning over to fill his cup. “I thought you were just being dramatic, but you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Crowley was full of just enough champagne to laugh. “What gave me away?”

She made a general gesture to him, in his lawn chair, with his plastic cup of champagne, sitting next to a badly trimmed rose bush. He was even wearing his favourite jacket.

What did she want? Of course he’d do this for Aziraphale. It wasn’t about getting into those genuinely painful plaid trousers anymore, if it ever had been. He’d go to a hundred ridiculous garden parties, eat as many cucumber sandwiches as they wanted for another kiss at the end of a pier under the moonlight.

The man of the hour wandered their way, smiling. He didn’t look any more at home here than either of them, but he liked these people, wanted to be part of their lives.

“Having fun, you two?” he asked, eyes all for Crowley.

“So much fun,” Anathema said, pointedly pouring herself more champagne.

Aziraphale smiled brighter. Maybe three months ago Crowley would have thought he didn’t notice that the two of them were getting drunk and scaring the locals. The smile was so innocent, his eyes so blue, he could be mistaken for someone who just thought the best of everyone, who thought his friends would never do something embarrassing. Now Crowley knew better and extended one of the plastic cups. Aziraphale took it.

“Thank you both for coming, I know it’s not exactly your ‘scene’.”

“Nonsense, angel,” Crowley said, hoping he wasn’t slurring. “What ever gave you that impression?”

Anathema giggled beside him, well and truly on her way to being sloshed. She munched down another sandwich.

“Of course, how silly of me. You don’t mind if I steal Crowley for a bit, Miss Device?”

“He’s all yours,” she said.

Crowley took his cue, clambering to his feet and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Aziraphale led them away, a slow walk around the edge of the garden. The yard wasn’t the most impressive sight but the plants were loved and healthy. It had heart, he’d give it that.

“Thank you for coming today,” Aziraphale said. “I do appreciate it.”

“S’no trouble.”

Eyes were on them. As subtle as this lot could manage. He jerked his head to the little apple orchard and Aziraphale followed. It wasn’t exactly privacy but as good as they were going to get. The world was starting to tilt, the insipid conversation was easier to bear. Everything was just fine, he had Aziraphale with him.

“You looked like you might need a few minutes of quiet,” Aziraphale said. “Or maybe a strong cup of coffee.”

Yeah that did sound like the ticket. A bottle of water, a black coffee and a four hour nap. “We had a deal.”

Aziraphale bit down a smile. “That we did. You seem to be enjoying it.”

“Have to find something to do while you’re romancing the Women’s Institute.”

“Oh dear, I’ve been ignoring you.”

“A little.”

There was a little shed down by the hedge, long since fallen out of use. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him in that direction, hoping for just a minute’s real privacy. It felt natural now, to be a little physical. There were no complaints, at least.

“There’s going to be talk,” Aziraphale breathed as Crowley pulled him behind the shed and crowded him up against the corrugated steel wall, all grown over with moss.

“There’s already talk,” Crowley breathed, then kissed him. They hadn’t talked about The Kiss. It was just like he’d suspected, overwhelming in the moment and gone as soon as the sun rose. This one would be the same. C’est la vie.

He pressed Aziraphale against that wall, kissing him hotly, one hand cupping his face and the other splayed out against the old steel. Aziraphale’s hands clenched tight at his waist, his eyes fluttered shut. He enjoyed this.

“You’re drunk,” he huffed, not opening his eyes.

“Yep. And you’re thanking me for my good deed.” Crowley leaned against him, using his full weight to keep him there while they kissed.

“It only counts – as a favour –“ Aziraphale breathed out between kisses. “If I – can still show my face here again – after.”

“Who says?” Crowley mumbled into his mouth.

Laughter bubbled out of Aziraphale and Crowley pulled back enough to look, to appreciate. He was bright pink, eyes lidded and fixed on Crowley’s lips. Their bodies were locked together in a strange wearing-four-layers-of-clothing sort of way. Not an inch between them but also a wall of wool and cotton. Just enough to be warm and drunk and happy.

“You scoundrel,” Aziraphale said. “This isn’t the place.”

“Then invite me somewhere different next time.”

Crowley leaned in again, but suddenly the world tilted, hand strong like iron on his hips, his jelly legs stumbling. His back hit the wall, and where he had been so very suavely and confidently pinning his angel to the wall he now found himself pinned, hands dropping meekly to Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Fuck.

Aziraphale kissed him, hard, and there was nothing innocent about the lack of space between them. Crowley’s thoughts spiralled into some blissful, overheated place. Aziraphale could overpower him. His body found this information very, very interesting.

While Crowley was still overwhelmed and gasping Aziraphale pulled back. Crowley was suddenly free, the liquid joy of being handled like that pooling and draining away in a heartbeat. He looked up at Aziraphale, bewildered, breaths sharp and short.

Aziraphale was straightening his bowtie, tugging on his waistcoat. Getting himself presentable for the flock of hens when they could spend a perfectly good afternoon making out behind the pruning shed. He shot Crowley a cheeky smirk, dragging his eyes up and down him, appreciating his own work in flustering and dishevelling his friend.

Crowley coughed and tried to straighten himself out, pulling his sleeves straight and running a hand through his hair.

“Back to the party?” Aziraphale said brightly, as if that could hold a candle to what they’d just been doing.

“Party. Yeah,” Crowley managed, stumbling back to his own two feet. The impact of hitting that wall vibrated in him, Aziraphale’s hips pressing into his own. They were both lucky he was in any state to be seen in public. Fuck, at least he’d filled up his wank bank for the next two or three years.

Aziraphale led the way around the orchard, as if they’d never taken their detour, making comments on the trees and the fruit as they went. Just a couple of friends having a stroll on an overcast day. Walking off the champagne. The main yard was back in earshot too soon, they were rejoining the blasted party and their little interlude was over.

Crowley was barely reinstalled in his place next to Anathema when Deirdre Young was upon them, all her chipper smiles and innocuous pleasantries. She’d never done anything really wrong to him, exactly, but Crowley found her an irritant like sand in his underpants.

“Oh, Crowley, we’re so glad you could make it,” she said, and almost sounded like she meant it. “Aziraphale said you were coming but we didn’t think even your boyfriend could get you out of that house.”

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” Aziraphale said before Crowley had a chance. “Just…” He glanced between Dierdre and Crowley, wringing his hands. “...friends. Just friends.”

Right.

Fine. Great.

He would have said the same thing. It wasn’t… He knew things hadn’t changed. It might have been nice if Aziraphale hadn’t been so quick to correct her. Crowley’s stomach churned, the heartsickness rising again. Didn’t change anything.

“Thanks for the invite,” Crowley said, dripping as much sarcasm as he could, gesturing with his now-empty cup in a mock toast.

Deirdre’s smile stiffened on her face and she turned her attention to Aziraphale. “I have some people I’d like you to meet. Shall we?”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale cast a glance to Crowley as he was led away, their eyes locking for a long second.

Then he was gone.

Crowley realised Anathema was staring. She looked at him, eyebrows raised, mouth open. Even if Deirdre could ignore it he knew how he must look, rumpled and kiss-flushed, watching his very-not-boyfriend get led away by a tedious woman. Anathema was starting to get it, how deep he was in, how fucked he was.

He held out his plastic cup and she filled it again without a word.

-----

Cactus

-----

The aloe vera in Aziraphale’s kitchen was thriving. Even the ones in Crowley’s greenhouse hadn’t grown as much as this one, bright green and spiky and bigger every time Crowley saw it.

The sky was grey, the wind rushing against the walls, rain on its way, but the kitchen was warm from the oven, well lit, Kraken was watching intently from the windowsill and the aloe vera was looking like it was posing for a magazine. Cosy, that was the word for it. Like someone had transformed one of Aziraphale’s fluffy cardigans into a room.

Aziraphale’s baking was coming along. He’d thrown in the cakes in favour of pastries, his constant fussing with his hands turned to folding and buttering filo pastry, a new sheet, keep it moist, fill it with a bunch of whatever, brush the butter, fold and fold and fold and done. It was hypnotic.

Should Crowley be here, sitting on this bar stool, pretending he could think about anything but flinging Aziraphale down on the couch and riding him into the sunset? No, probably not. Was he? Oh, yes.

The Neruda book was out on the bench and Crowley flicked through it idly.

“In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.” He read the passage aloud, letting the words soak into the air. As close to a confession as he could come. “Cheery bugger, wasn’t he?”

“Are you accusing a Nobel laureate of melodrama?” Aziraphale asked, eyes still focused on his pastry work.

“They don’t give you melodrama immunity with the medal.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. I might have suggested you try for one.”

Crowley opened his mouth to give an elaborately offended protest, then snapped it shut again. Sometimes this man just came out of nowhere and he couldn’t stop himself being proud of him every single time. “You want some dramatics, angel? I can get dramatic for you.”

“Oh, no, it’s far too early for that.” He folded another pastry into its little triangle, popped in on the baking tray as part of a neat row. “Though we really ought to invite Anathema around sometime. I didn’t realise how amusing the two of you were together. I daresay she’s as much of a misanthrope as you, though she hides it better.”

“You’ve got it backwards. She enjoys riling people up, I prefer to keep out of it.”

“I think you might enjoy riling people up a bit.”

“Never.” Crowley leaned over and scooped a bit of the filling out of the bowl with his finger, quickly popping it in his mouth before he could be stopped.

Aziraphale gave him a fondly chiding look. “I don’t mean that. Not when you’re being cute.”

“Cute?”

“Adorable,” Aziraphale said, leaning into the word to antagonise him. “But not always. You’re so very prickly with other people, I don’t understand it. You’ve always been so lovely to me.”

Crowley laughed genuinely, a bubble of lightness bursting in his chest. “I’m prickly with you, too, you’re just too nice to notice it.”

“You aren’t, not like with them.”

Crowley shrugged. “Just don’t like them.” Not head over heels for any of them.

“I know the church group can be a little overbearing but they’re not bad sorts.”

Aziraphale was broadly right. They weren’t bad sorts. But that was only one half of the equation and Crowley was a bad sort. The people around could be as inoffensive as anything, it didn’t really matter. The first time he said something weird or cracked a joke they didn’t find funny or rolled up in his eccentric car something changed. A whole flock of perfectly normal people could suddenly make him feel like an alien who’d just landed his flying saucer on their lawn. It was just easier to keep out of it and quietly dislike them from the sidelines.

This was where Aziraphale distinguished himself. He was nice in a real way. Not just a veneer of pleasantries until he’d passed his judgement, he actually listened, didn’t toss Crowley aside the first time he was a bit off beat.

“Get a face tattoo and see if you feel the same,” Crowley muttered, stealing more of the filling.

The point was that Crowley had been happy alone in his house and his gardens, he was happy and only half dying of heartache with Aziraphale and Kraken. Anyone else could go jump off the bloody cliffs for all he cared, they only made his life more difficult.

“Really, dear. You’re too hard on people.”

“You’re too soft on them. Why hang around them anyway? I bet they don’t even read.”

“You hardly read and I hang around you.”

“Yeah, but, I’m better looking than them.”

A little spark flashed in Aziraphale’s eye, his mouth curling wickedly. His gaze flicked down Crowley’s body before he caught himself, looking away, then back, trying to organise himself. “Oh, good lord.”

“Also, none of them snog you behind the garden shed,” Crowley grinned, leaning forward.

Aziraphale’s already flushed skin darkened a shade. He probably shouldn’t tease, they still hadn’t talked about the kissing, probably never would. But there was no fun in just letting Aziraphale pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Or maybe they do?” Crowley continued. “Who else are you hiding away with in dark corners, angel?”

“Why, I – No one!” Aziraphale said, indignant, all aflutter with his buttery hands and beet red face.

“It’s Sharon’s husband isn’t it? I saw the way you were looking at him.”

“Who’s Sharon? I–I would never! Not with anyone’s… You know I don’t…“

How could anyone be so intelligent and so easily tricked at the same time? Aziraphale was starting to look genuinely hurt that Crowley believed he was sneaking around with married men.

Crowley grinned. “Now who’s adorable?”

Aziraphale grabbed the tea towel that sat slung over his shoulder and took a swipe, sending a little puff of flour over Crowley’s clothes, his mouth all pursed in frustration. “You fiend.”

“Watch the clothes,” Crowley said, brushing the flour off his black shirt.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Aziraphale said primly. “Maybe you’re just awful.”

“Nah, you don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

Watching Aziraphale clutch his pearls was the best thing in the world, Crowley had decided. Especially when he was also trying to check Crowley out on the sly and not doing a very good job of it. It would have been a good time to try to talk him into some more snogging, lick the butter off his fingers, get their clothes all messed up. Maybe even goad him into being Mr. Forceful again.

The voice of reason in his head was growing stronger these days, getting more and more anxious that he was going to push Aziraphale away, or sacrifice their friendship on the altar of a good shag. He had to hold back. Go slow. Let Aziraphale set the limits.

Aziraphale softened. “You’re right, I don’t think that at all.”

“I know. I don’t get it, though.” Crowley tried to make it sound casual. He got a little bit of it, knew Aziraphale was being forgiving because of their flirtation. But that was only enough to take the edge off it. If he really didn’t like Crowley he wouldn’t have hung around this long.

“I think you might be a bit more of a good person than you play at, Crowley.” The last of his pastries all lines up, Aziraphale gave Crowley a fond, inscrutable glance before picking the tray up with one hand and turning to the oven.

Crowley was making sarcastic mimicky noises about him being a good person when Aziraphale, hand halfway into the oven, dropped the tray. He instantly clutched his hand to his chest and let out a cry of pain as the pan fell to the ground, unbaked pastries scattering across the floor. Kraken was out of the room like a shot, so fast he almost teleported away from the big clatter.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale hissed.

Crowley was on his feet, round the other side of the island before he registered he was moving. He took Aziraphale’s injured hand and examined the burn forming on the skin.

“Come on, Pooh Bear,” he said, guiding Aziraphale to the sink while he was still wincing in pain. Crowley turned on the cold tap and directed the burned hand under it, holding it there. That was going to be a nasty burn, looked like he’d brushed the element.

Crowley left him with his hand under the running water and approached the aloe vera. He tore off the plumpest looking leaf and found himself a paring knife, cutting it clean down one side so he could peel it open, exposing the clear, sticky goo on the inside.

When the burn had been under the cold water long enough Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand out and dabbed at it with the nearest tea towel to dry the skin, then scraped the innards out of the cactus leaf with the paring knife and eased the goo onto the burn. Aziraphale winced at his ministrations but didn’t fight him, and when the soothing gel hit his hand he let out a long breath.

Crowley focused on the injury, trying to get the stuff rubbed into the skin without hurting the burn too badly. Bloody hell. He’d been right there. Three metres away and he couldn’t stop Aziraphale getting hurt.

After a minute of massaging the aloe vera into Aziraphale’s hand Crowley looked up, feeling eyes on him. Aziraphale’s baby blues were swimming with affection, so warm and fond that it was Crowley’s turn to blush, to turn away and be unable to hold eye contact.

“This is pretty bad, I’ll just go and… and find a bandage.”

Aziraphale nodded, little smile still playing at his lips, injury forgotten. Crowley escaped to the bathroom to find a first aid kit before his reputation was completely destroyed.

-----

Memory

-----

They were falling out of Thursday night routine. It had started out as every week and they’d kept it that way for longer than Crowley would have expected, but now laziness and comfort zones kept them indoors two weeks out of three. Crowley didn’t really mind giving the kitschy activities a miss, he’d only been doing them as an excuse to hang out, but Aziraphale was so openly, honestly delighted by every stupid little thing he couldn’t bring himself to nix his ideas.

The boardwalk opening the arcade out of season had lit Aziraphale up like a Christmas tree. Some memorial for some local… someone had the tourists flocking in and the funfair going for the weekend.

“I thought we’d have to wait for next year!” Aziraphale had exclaimed.

I hoped we would, Crowley hadn’t said. He couldn’t. How could he play the curmudgeon when Aziraphale was practically bouncing with anticipation? The least he could do would be to walk about among screaming children and photo-snapping tourists for a few hours.

Crowley didn’t mind the boardwalk. It was one of the things that had decided this town for him when he was picking where to move. He didn’t remember a lot of his childhood but he could pull up the glittering lights against the black sea, blue candy floss and he won a stuffed pig at some point. It all blurred together a bit.

Looked different now. It had been old then but the pier had been refurbished since, so the rusted hardware and sea-worn wooden boards beneath his feet were now fresh, the weather just barely beginning to creep in again. He’d also seen it through a sea of legs where now he was taller than most. The lights were just as bright, the ringing bells and arcade music somehow louder. The sea wind was bitter at this time of year and Crowley was in a heavy coat and scarf, but Aziraphale seemed to be warmed from within, wrapped in sunlight and the ugliest argyle sweater Crowley had ever seen.

I need to get you out of those clothes, Crowley thought, because they are just the worst.

A particularly loud burst of child-yelling drew their attention, Adam Young and his friends celebrating knocking over a single pin at a ball-toss game. Aziraphale looked on fondly and before Crowley knew it they were socialising.

“Adam!” Aziraphale cried happily. “What a good throwing arm you have.”

“Going to get them all next time,” Adam said with a certain nod. “Watch, watch.”

The kid picked up his last shot and took aim. Crowley lingered back, not sure how to interact with this situation. Really not his scene. Adam pitched the ball and it went wide, hitting nothing. The kids all gave the kind of exaggerated groans of disappointment only possible for preteens.

“Oh, now,” Aziraphale started rolling up his sleeves. “Let me show you young whippersnappers how it’s done.”

The kids giggled and one of them rolled their eyes. Crowley supposed Aziraphale had a certain embarrassing charm to kids, like Santa or a stage magician. He passed off a few pounds to the bored teenager running the game, then made a show of taking one of the rubber balls, inspecting it, polishing it on his trouser leg like a cricket ball. Crowley bit down his smile. He shouldn’t be indulging this sort of behaviour.

Aziraphale drew back and threw, nailing the stack of pins in a single hit. The children shrieked with surprised laughter and Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. The vivid memory of Aziraphale pinning him to the garden shed replayed itself for about the thousandth time. Had he fallen for an athlete? Interesting. Very, very interesting. Not helping with the keeping himself in check.

He turned away, redirecting his attention to the nearest guy with a candy floss machine. He just needed a few breaths, a moment to sink back into jangly music and lurid lighting and away from Aziraphale could kick his arse.

The distraction was forgotten once he had a giant puff of blue candy floss in his hands, catching the orange lights, the sense memory from childhood stronger than his ridiculous crush.

Had this been what it was like when he was a kid? He had been closer with his mother, with his brothers and sisters, before it all fell apart, before he became the black sheep. But there had been a before, and it had involved this, right here.

Crowley turned back to see Aziraphale handing a stuffed toy off to Adam and clapping the boy on the shoulder before looking around for him. Crowley offered out the spun sugar. He didn’t want to eat it, just look at it, and it would look better in Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale smiled at him and took the treat. “Oh, thank you, my dear.”

“Anything for you, slugger.”

Another man might have been embarrassed but Aziraphale smiled so broadly at him, sweet and happy. “I haven’t been to an arcade since I was a boy.”

“Same,” Crowley found himself saying without really meaning to. He glanced around. “Prizes haven’t improved in forty years.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d been here before.”

Crowley shrugged and started walking, moving them along. The rotating clowns had given him nightmares with their wide open mouths and dead eyes. That also hadn’t improved with time, still creepy as anything. Crowley gave them a disdainful glare. “How are those things still allowed in public?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“What? I came here as a kid. Fun little fact about me, I didn’t just get made from whole cloth the day you met me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did. You just fell right out of the sky and landed flat on your back as I was taking my walk. Given how little I know of your past it seems the most likely prospect.”

Aziraphale tore at the candy floss, twisting a long string around his fingers and popping it into his mouth, eyes fixed innocently elsewhere.

There was always this line between not talking about the things he didn’t like thinking about and needlessly acting like he was in witness protection, and Crowley hadn’t quite figured out how to walk it. None of it was a secret, he wasn’t ashamed. He’d had all the usual arguments with his family, they just weren’t a very forgiving lot. He’d done soulless but generally honest work, it was only a mismatch of temperament that had made him leave London. He didn’t have anything to be ashamed about. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest thing to cut his life into the Before and the After and then refuse to talk about the majority of it.

“I came here twice, 1980 and 1982. With my family. You know, beach holiday, like families do.”

“I never hear you talk about them.”

“That’s because I don’t.”

Aziraphale walked closer to him, their elbows brushing. Sometimes he was so understanding it gave Crowley a toothache. “You don’t sound like you have many good memories of them.”

Crowley let the smell of popcorn and sugar, the glare of bright lights ground him in the moment. The whole start of his life was a blur, even his teen years. Even his twenties, really. He could mark off the big events, recall a month, a year, a name, a place, but he couldn’t really sink into it. “Guess not,” he said. “But this one is.”

Aziraphale took him lightly by the wrist, encouraging one hand out of his pocket, and linked their fingers together. Comfort. Even when Crowley didn’t ask for it, he always had it with Aziraphale. Warm hand in his, warm smile shining up at him, no pushing, no pressure. He really was an angel.

“Let’s make another one then, shall we?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley didn’t feel a burning at the back of his eyes, didn’t feel a shake in his hands.

Aziraphale pulled him back toward the games, singling out a ring toss and handing a few notes to the vendor. Crowley found a handful of flimsy plastic rings in his hands, staring at the almost-certainly-rigged game in front of him, blue and red lightbulbs flashing above his head, too stuck in Aziraphale’s unironic joy to beg off.

He flung a few of the little hoops, watching them wobble through the air on the breeze into nothingness, but he couldn’t mind much. Aziraphale furrowed his brow in concentration and flung his first hoop, pitching it effortlessly around one of the wooden blocks. And again, and again. Crowley was laughing too much by his fifth hoop to even pretend he was aiming.

“Your hidden skill is carnival games, angel, I should have expected. It couldn’t be something useful like betting on horses or picking lotto numbers.”

Aziraphale grinned. “I prefer this, I think.”

“Of course you do.”

For all his perfect aim Aziraphale only received a little stuffed dog at the end of it.

“Rigged,” Crowley muttered.

“I’m sure it’s not.” Aziraphale held out the toy to him, like it had been obvious from the start that’s what he intended. “Anyway, he can keep you company when you’re missing Kraken.”

Crowley’s hands took the toy without his permission, cradling it like it was made of glass. He looked down and saw his own little hands at eight years old, sticky with blue candy floss, clutched around a toy pig. He’d kept it for years. His mother had lavished praise on him like he’d won an Olympic medal.

He clenched one hand around the little grey dog and reached out with the other, taking Aziraphale’s again. Every day it was harder to believe that this wasn’t another Before, waiting to mark the end of it with the day Aziraphale got bored of him. But it wasn’t. He was here with his best friend, in the After, where his life had really begun.

“Come on, angel,” he said, voice only a little wibbly. “I want to see what you can do on the strongman game.”

-----

Weekend

-----

Don’t go, Crowley had whined like the petulant child he was turning into.

Don’t pout, it’s only one weekend, Aziraphale had said, like the responsible adult he was.

A bloody book auction three hours away had ruined his whole flow, his vibe, the blissful beach romance novella his life had turned into. Six months ago he wouldn’t have known Aziraphale from Adam and now a whole forty-eight hours without him seemed impossible. The whole house was empty and eerily silent, even when he was playing music.

Kraken had been dumped on his doorstep, the little monster howling at him every minute as if it was his fault they’d been abandoned to nature. He was just at that age where he was all obscenely cute long limbs and had a habit of scratching up leather furniture.

Crowley was tossing and turning in his bed, three scotches deep, a pouting furball at his feet, staring into the blackness of his bedroom. He couldn’t even have a wank with the cat on the bed. This was bullshit.

I’ll have my mobile telephone with me, don’t fret.

Angel, I’m begging you to just call it a phone.

Crowley eyed the phone on his nightstand. It was a fucking temptress that tried to beguile him too often. Just reach out and touch it, and he could be talking to Aziraphale. Tell him his cat’s farts could kill an elephant at ten paces. Complain about the weather. Ask about the auction. Hear his voice.

Crowley was concentrating so hard on the phone that when it started ringing he nearly jumped out of his skin.

The cat was off the bed like a shot, startled as badly as Crowley.

He let out a gasping breath, pretending he hadn’t just got a fright, and reached for the phone. It would be cool and aloof of him to wait a few rings before answering, but he didn’t.

“Angel?”

“Oh, Crowley, you’re still awake,” Aziraphale said, as if he didn’t know Crowley would launch himself at his phone even if he’d been dead asleep.

“Mm, s’time? Everything okay?”

“It’s… late. I couldn’t sleep.”

Miss you, too. Crowley stared at his pitch black ceiling, felt Aziraphale’s absence. It wasn’t like he’d be here, in this room, if he was at home. They didn’t see each other every day. It was just that this time they couldn’t, and that made a weird kind of difference.

“How was the auction?”

“Fine. A few good finds, nothing to write home about.”

Crowley lounged back on his pillows, one hand behind his head. He’d got his wish, and that was enough, to hear Aziraphale’s voice before bedtime. “Then what’s got you worked up?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said. Lied. He sounded so anxious. “I’m just full of nervous energy. Too much excitement for one day.”

“You’re worried about the cat, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I miss him.”

What a bloody loaded sentiment. “Then maybe you won’t abandon him to my lair in future.”

“Oh, don’t tease. Is he alright?”

“He’s a cat, Aziraphale. He’s fine.”

“Oh.”

Crowley grinned into the darkness. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh, honestly, Crowley.”

“It’s the frou frou pyjamas, isn’t it?”

“…maybe.”

The cute little set, pale blue satin. Paired with his grandpa slippers and with Kraken winding around his ankles they were just the kind of cute and homey Crowley was craving about now. The sort of Sunday morning getup that came with early cups of coffee and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl.

“You look good in them.”

Aziraphale paused. “Do I?”

The scotch must have loosened his tongue, because before he knew it he was risking Aziraphale never letting him see his pyjamas again. “Mm, yeah. Wearing something like that? Called me up to relieve a little tension, did you, angel?”

“Crowley.” There was a lot of scolding in his tone, but also something distinctly… not.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. Had he actually called for that? Would Aziraphale ever do something so daring in his whole stuffy life? No, maybe not. It was the sort of thing he’d have to be talked into. Something he might enjoy being talked into. Their kisses still burned on Crowley’s lips.

“You did. Lying there in those silky pyjamas. What’s the point of a hotel room if you don’t dirty it up a bit?”

“Oh, you tease,” Aziraphale offered him his last out. Push this and he could lose everything. Everything that pressed against his chest like flowers blooming. Bring them to some awkward place where Aziraphale avoided his eyes when he came to pick up Kraken and then mysteriously stopped answering his phone, muttered something about being busy.

Or maybe…

“It’s alright, angel, I can get you to sleep. Unless you’d rather…”

“I… oh…“ Aziraphale’s breath was coming hard. He paused for an excruciating second, then, “…alright.”

Crowley hadn’t really been prepared for this. Couldn’t have been. His brain was still 40% taken up by Aziraphale’s tongue in his mouth, little breathy moans shared between them. He had no time to marshal the other 60% to do something useful. Aziraphale’s agreement to his suggestion had taken the legs out from under him and when he spoke again he had no idea how he managed to summon a voice rather than some breathy whimpers. “Just relax, angel. Undo a couple of buttons for me.”

“Alright, I have.” Aziraphale didn’t sound like this was relieving tension. He sounded like a tightly coiled spring.

“Put me on speaker phone, on the pillow, yeah?” Crowley suggested. He heard the fumbling of a phone between shaking hands and smirked.

“You’re… you’re on the pillow.”

Fuck, that voice had his cock perking up, breathy and uncertain and trusting. This was going to be a very poor showing if he wasn’t careful. “Good. Just lie back. Close your eyes. I think about it, you know, unbuttoning that shirt, running my hands down your chest. You’ll be my hands tonight.”

“Crowley, I…”

“Hush, shhh, it’s alright. You don’t have to talk, just let me. I’ll tell you what I think about, late at night, when you’ve spent all night getting me all hot and bothered.” Crowley slipped a hand into his pants and wrapped it around the base of his cock. He bucked gently into his hand, not overdoing it. He wouldn’t last. “Starting with getting into that shirt. I think about undoing the buttons, one by one until you’re all laid out for me. I’d kiss your neck, and down your collarbone, your ribs, your cute little belly. Are you all bare for me, angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Good,” Crowley grunted. He started stroking himself lazily. “Good, run your hands down your chest for me, I can feel it. You’ve got the softest skin I’ve ever felt, I want to smother it all with my hands and my mouth. Can you feel me there, angel, kneeling between your legs?”

Aziraphale whimpered, the sound far away like he’d flung his face away from the phone. God, Crowley couldn’t believe he was allowed to be doing this.

Crowley continued. “Do you want to know what I think about? I think about slipping my fingers into your waistband. I’d tease you, just along the sweet spots of your hips, run my fingers along there.”

A gasp of air. The angel was touching himself, just like Crowley dictated. Oh, he was going to fucking explode.

“That’s it,” Crowley growled into the phone, palming his cock harder. “Slip them down your hips for me. I’m there, with you, dragging them down. It’s my eyes on you.”

Aziraphale let out an oh that convinced Crowley that he was doing as told but was blushing five different shades of red while doing it. He could see it, clear as day, Aziraphale’s face pressed into the pillow in embarrassment, eyes squeezed shut, slipping his pants down his hips to mid-thigh. And what a fucking sight that that would be.

“I’d start kissing your belly. Think about it all the time. Your skin is so soft, don’t know how you keep it like that. Touch yourself for me, yeah? Follow my mouth with your hands. What do you taste like? I’d use my tongue, taste every inch of you.”

Aziraphale’s heavy breathing was intoxicating, shooting straight to his cock. He’d been thinking about those noises for so long, his brain designing some amalgam of his out-of-breath pants when they walked up the hill and his obscene moans when he ate good chocolate cake. It was close, but there was something new here, something making him painfully hard, hypersensitive to his own touch.

“Bet you’ve got the loveliest cock,” Crowley growled. “Think about it all the time. How fucking pretty your cock is.”

“I don’t…” Aziraphale tried to protest.

“Shhh. You do. Pretty and pale and silky smooth as the rest of you, isn’t it? Touch it for me. I’d do it for you, if I could. Get my hands on it, jerk it for you. Is it starting to drip for me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped. He was panting at this point, breathy, wanting sounds right into the phone.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, trying to cope with this. He squeezed the head of his cock, trying not to think too hard on the image of Aziraphale leaking precome onto his hands as they touched themselves together. He’d made his angel hard, dripping, moaning. He started stroking himself in earnest, it was too much for him, for any red blooded man.

“Think about sucking you.” The words spilled off his tongue now, the alcohol and the blood rushing in his ears refusing to let him think straight. “Think about getting my mouth on you, licking and sucking, licking up everything you give me. Bet you taste like nectar. Even if you don’t. I’ll lick every inch of you, be a really sloppy mess about it. Would you like that?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer except to give a strangled moan. Crowley kept touching himself, aware of something big and intense building at the base of his spine. He slowed it down, he had to hold off, wait for Aziraphale.

“Want your hands in my hair. Get big thick handfuls of it. Yank as hard as you like, I’ll suck you better for it.” Crowley took a breath, trying to calm down enough to keep his chatter going. It was hard through panting breaths, when his cock felt like it was on fire. “I don’t know how far I can take you, but I’ll try, I’ll choke if I have to, just to get you at the back of my throat. Oh, gorgeous, want you to lose yourself in me.”

He could hear the obscene sound of slick skin on skin through the phone, Aziraphale getting himself off to the sound of his voice.

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley gasped. He feathered his cock with touches, keeping himself close to the edge, bucking into his hand. “Want you. Want you to come in my mouth.”

“Oh, oh Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned in frantic, broken tones.

Crowley squeezed his eyes closed. He was so close he was edging himself at this point, just running his fingertips along his own length, in real danger of finishing himself off with his own filthy mouth. “Think of my tongue on you while you fuck my mouth. I’ll keep it moving, I’ll lick that little spot where -“

He was cut off by a sudden gasp through the phone, a cry, something that might have been a word. Crowley grabbed his cock and stroked once, twice, toppling over the edge he’d been hanging on. He called out for Aziraphale, their unintelligible begging mingling in the night air. Crowley curled in on himself, body twitching, coming all over himself.

He lay against his pillows, gasping, staring sightless at the ceiling. Aziraphale’s delicate breaths echoed through the phone line, almost like they were lying together. He couldn’t quite pull himself together. It felt too good, his whole body pulsing with the aftershocks.

Fuck, he was an idiot, but the luckiest idiot who ever lived.

“How’s that, angel?” he breathed. “Think you can sleep now?”

Aziraphale let out a hysterical giggle — a reedy, breathy thing. “I daresay.”

Crowley grinned. Grinned like a cat that got the canary. He couldn’t seem to stop grinning. “Good. Sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Love you.

“Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow,” Aziraphale gasped. “Tomorrow evening, I’ll be there with you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Yes, yes so will I. Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Night, angel. Call me again if you need to.”

Crowley hung up and flopped back against his pillows, wrung out and jelly-legged. Fuck. He laughed to the ceiling.

Yellow eyes peered at him in the darkness. Kraken glared at him accusingly and he gave the cat the middle finger. “Yeah, I did that with your dad. Deal with it.”

Crowley closed his eyes, cheeks hurting from smiling and laughing, whole body turned to a quivering mess. The angel had the best ideas, because he was about to sleep like a baby.

-----

Trial

-----

You shouldn’t have done that. The thought ricocheted around Crowley’s brain like a pinball.

Making his morning coffee (you shouldn’t have done that).

Driving an order out to a florist (you shouldn’t have done that).

Arguing with Kraken about who got what seat on the couch (you shouldn’t have done that).

No morning text from Aziraphale, no picture of his breakfast, no on my way home, pip pip cheerio. Total radio silence. What had seemed like a good idea in the darkness after a few drinks was now seeming like the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done. They couldn’t pretend that hadn’t happened. Or, well, they could, but it didn’t look like Aziraphale was going to. And not in the good way where they cut the bullshit and spent the next month locked in the bedroom.

It pinged around inside his head (you shouldn’t have done that) and he couldn’t get it together. He’d wrecked things. Ruined the best thing he had. A part of him, a dumb, stupid part he’d cultivated like growing weeds in his garden, told him he was being paranoid, that Aziraphale was just busy. But he knew. No point ignoring what he knew.

When the knock came at his door Crowley fought the urge to pretend he wasn’t home. Aziraphale knew he was home.

And it was awful.

Aziraphale talked to him in that high, soft tone he used when people were making him uncomfortable. They never quite made eye contact. Kraken was mercifully receptive to being packed into his carrier and the whole awkward interaction was over relatively painlessly.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley called as he was leaving. He turned back, cat carrier in hand, eyebrows raised politely. Crowley gestured helplessly, not finding the words. “Nothing.”

Aziraphale softened. “It’s good to be home, dear boy.”

“Yeah, that.”

Crowley let him go. Flung himself onto his bed and made strangled noises into his pillow. He couldn’t breathe right. If he’d ruined this he was going to die, he was going to crawl into bed and never get out. He’d been so careful, not pushing boundaries, letting Aziraphale set the speed.

It had been fantastic and hot as hell and he had Aziraphale’s moans painted on all the flowers in his chest, but it wasn’t worth losing him. Not completely, not suddenly without a chance to say goodbye.

Not knowing what to do and not having any other options, he called Anathema. Once he started talking he just didn’t stop, it all spilled out in disjointed, confused exclamations, what had happened, why it shouldn’t have, couldn’t have, how much he loved Aziraphale and how he’d lost him.

There must have been something in his voice, in his confessions, because she didn’t make fun of him.

“Okay, Crowley, take a breath. We’re going to do two things.”

“Two things, right, yeah,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. Thank God, thank Someone for Anathema.

“The first thing is, get your running shoes, you’re joining me again.”

He took a deep breath. “Running, yeah, okay.”

He’d let that slip and was regretting it now.

“The second thing is you’re not going to panic. Okay? You’re going to stay calm and give him some space and not panic.”

Don’t panic. Emblazoned on the front of the Hitchhiker's Guide in big letters. Don’t panic.

She was at his doorstep half an hour later and they were running. It was just as miserable as the first time, burning muscles and racing heart and his chest already hurt, but by the time he was standing in his shower afterwards he was too tired to have a panic attack.

He stood in the cubicle, fingers dragging over the condensation on the glass, water sluicing through his hair, and he could breathe again. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the hot water run down his back. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Aziraphale didn’t know how to deal with this, so he’d have to lead the way. It wasn’t over. They were just looking for a way forward.

It would all be fine if he didn’t get overexcited and do something stupid. Just ease back, give the kissing a rest, definitely no more phone sex, just dial it all back and let Aziraphale get comfortable again.

He took his mind off it, watching Netflix, strumming aimlessly as his guitar until he was tired enough to sink into bed.

He looked at his phone. Considered it. Took a breath.

Night, angel.

He turned the phone off and set it face down.

When he woke in the morning he found one unread message. Goodnight, my dear.

Crowley breathed deep. He could do this.

He made breakfast, ran with Anathema, let the scalding hot shower bring him back to himself. No huddling in bed, no Golden Girls. His garden needed him, his house needed a clean, he needed better running shoes and he was going to do it all like a functional adult. He wasn’t going to panic.

In the evening he cracked open a bottle of wine and took his tablet out into the gardens, remembering how he’d spent his nights before Aziraphale. It shouldn’t be some terrible test of his patience and his nerves to go without and he wouldn’t let it be.

When the night sky was full of stars and his breath was a foggy cloud in front of him his phone buzzed.

Goodnight, my dear.

Night, angel.

Maybe this was for the best. Maybe they both needed the breathing room. If Aziraphale didn’t know the way forward well neither did Crowley. He didn’t know what to do now except follow Anathema’s advice and just breathe through it.

His past lovelife hadn’t been a complete disaster, there were bright spots – shared apartments, great sex, shopping for fridges and all that. But Crowley’s temper had been a constant companion, his insecurities and his moods and the insurmountable walls he threw up when things got too hard. He couldn’t avoid it forever but he was in control of this one. Aziraphale could be the one freaking out, Crowley could cater to him this time while they found their feet.

On Wednesday Crowley’s phone buzzed early in the morning, a picture of eggs on toast, and the knot in his chest finally gave in and loosened. He sent back a picture of his black coffee.

Baby steps. He’d crossed a line and he needed to walk it back. That was okay. This wasn’t some flimsy flirtation anymore. He didn’t have to be perfect, Aziraphale cared about him, they could come back from mistakes.

It’s Thursday. He sent the text just after lunch, give Aziraphale time to make his excuses if he needed to.

Quite right. Where shall we go?

Crowley pressed the phone to his forehead and closed his eyes, trembling with relief.

Nowhere, I’m coming over to raid your wine.

I’ll make dinner at 7.

Another chance. He was back in. Just had to walk it back a little, back to that sweet spot. It was such a sweet spot, honey and cinnamon drizzled over days of gardening and running and making coffee. He wasn’t prepared to give it up.

His stomach tightened when he showed up to Aziraphale’s house, the anxiety trying to creep back in, but he bit down on it, kept it in check. He breezed in, screen door banging behind him to find Aziraphale in the kitchen, Masterchef apron and sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot of something that smelled of garlic and tomatoes.

There was a brief, electric moment when it struck him, half memory and half imagination, Aziraphale with dark eyes and swollen lips, crying out his name, eyes shut in ecstasy. It hit him at the base of his spine, a shock of arousal and longing and needing.

Crowley sat, landing a little too hard on his usual bar stool where Aziraphale already had clean wineglasses sat on the bench, a bottle of red airing next to it. He breathed through it. This wasn’t worth losing him. Nothing was worth that.

“Smells good,” he said instead.

Aziraphale smiled, something behind it, hesitant, unsure. “Bolognese sauce. I hope you brought your appetite.”

“Always,” he said wryly, thinking of how many half-finished plates he’d left on this kitchen table. He poured out two glasses and sipped at his, trying to ignore the silence in the kitchen, the only sound the bubbling pots on the stove.

“Angel-”

“Crowl-”

They both started at the same time, and stopped. Aziraphale finally met his eyes, helpless, the smallest self-effacing smile making itself known.

“This is dreadful,” Aziraphale said.

“Yep,” Crowley agreed. What was he supposed to do now? Offer to pretend it hadn’t happened? Ask for it to happen again? It was a choose-your-own-adventure and the next page he flicked could lead to getting eaten by alligators. He sighed. “I was drunk. Didn’t mean to push you.”

Aziraphale seemed to process that, turning it over in his mind, then let out a relieved breath. “Well, I’m certain we’ve both done worse things drunk.”

There it was, what Crowley had dreaded and wanted, but with it said out loud he couldn’t seem to feel either disappointed or relieved. The air wasn’t clear, he realised. Something had shifted. They could walk this back but it wasn’t going anywhere. It had happened and whatever path they had been walking before, they couldn’t just jump back on it.

Don’t panic.

He took the lifeline, even if it was anchored to the wrong boat. “Well, let’s get a couple more bottles in us and make some trouble. Go steal some garden gnomes. Shave the cat.”

“You leave Kraken out of this!” Aziraphale all but squealed, eyes wide in mock outrage.

“Four or five wines and you’ll be grabbing the clippers, angel. I know you’re a devil at heart.”

And just like that they were laughing again, the thing in the air releasing its stranglehold. Crowley was in control, his temper in check, Anathema’s advice had worked this time. But looking at Aziraphale, feeling the shifting ground beneath them both, Crowley just knew there was going to be a next time, and he wasn’t prepared for it.

Next: Part 3!

Comments

[hiddenlacuna]

Aaaaaaaggggghhhh middle section wiih so much good but also SO MUCH STRANGLED ANGST

I am getting nothing done today and I am going to be late and it is YOUR FAULT, mystery writer!

Arrrrrrrrghhhhhhh (more!)

[emmagrant01]

So much angst! I love this so much!

[sonnet23]

“Yeah, I did that with your dad. Deal with it.” <<< Ahaha, I laughed so much! Only Crowley could have said that to a kitten, giving him the middle finger!

I love how funny it is while being so angsty at the same time. <3 I'm certain they'll work it all out in the end, but my heart aches for them...