Happy Holidays, commodorecliche! Part 3

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Back to Part 2

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River

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They hadn’t talked, exactly, about what was happening between them. They skirted around it like they always did. They still did all the nice stuff, texting and drinking and being together, but none of the really nice stuff, like snogging or phone sex. Crowley wasn’t sure where he fit in Aziraphale’s life, except today his position was perfectly clear: in the husband chair while Aziraphale manhandled every piece of merchandise in Brighton.

Crowley guarded a stack of brightly coloured this-and-thats, the holiday hires competing to see who had the best gift wrapping skills. He couldn’t imagine who they were all for. Some for the church group, sure, a few baubles for the kids who had taken to calling him Uncle Aziraphale.

The family thing had come up. Aziraphale had nodded firmly, “I’ll be seeing them.” But he hadn’t sounded happy about it. He talked about his plans to visit London the week before Christmas the same way most people talked about a dentist appointment.

And when he was all vulnerable and sad eyes and trying to lift his spirits what could Crowley do? Well, he could snark and complain, but ultimately it was his arse in that husband chair, it was him following around after Aziraphale as he chattered and brightened, holding doors for him, carrying packages.

It was working; that made it worthwhile. The weird, tense distance between them had relaxed for the afternoon and the shadow of Aziraphale’s awful family had evaporated. Nothing like some retail therapy.

Crowley was shopping, too, but the sensible way. As he shifted himself from store to store, chair to chair, he flicked through online stores on his phone.

He was regretting spending his sick days as a kid watching Lifetime movies because there was some amalgam of a hundred Christmas scenes playing out in his head. The romantic lead would bust out some thing on Christmas Eve, like the ghost of the heroine’s dead dog or whatever and they’d be so overwhelmed with love that the music would swell and everything would fade to black and then the rest of the movie was just them hanging off each other like gross teenagers. That was how it went, right?

Nah. Even if it was on the table, he wasn’t going to win Aziraphale like that. All he wanted was thoughtful, passable, something to punctuate a nice day. Eventually, somewhere around 2pm when the pile of presents was up to his knees he decided on tickets to the West End production of Hamilton. He’d brave London, get a hotel room, make a weekend of it. Perfect romantic-but-not-too-romantic gesture.

Aziraphale was finally at the counter, chatting up the young girl wrapping the thing he’d bought.

Crowley sighed his way to his feet, balancing the stacks of packages under one arm and picking up a handful of bags with the other. He strode over to lean against the counter. “We nearly done?”

“Last one,” Aziraphale promised, giving Crowley’s arm an indulgent squeeze. “Let’s take a break, shall we? Get some tea?”

“Your shout. You owe me one.”

“I certainly do after today. Thank you for your patience, dear.”

Aziraphale took the package from the girl with a smile, then absentmindedly tucked it under Crowley’s arm and moved off.

Crowley rolled his eyes and followed out the door. They dropped the parcels in the car and found a cafe. He was going to make Aziraphale eat six slices of cake for this.

Once they had a couple of steaming cups in front of them Aziraphale looked better, lighter and easier than he had in the morning. He was in his usual pale blue jumper but Crowley could just tell something hideous was on the horizon. Knitted reindeer or snowmen. He’d weather it.

The coffee was good, he hadn’t noticed his nose and ears getting cold as they walked from store to store. Aziraphale had a piece of chocolate cheesecake and was making some questionable noises in the middle of a cafe in Brighton. Crowley’s brain was dragged kicking and screaming back to his bedroom in the middle of the night in October, the slick sound of Aziraphale touching himself, the breathy moans through the phone.

Crowley cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee. The cake was a mistake. “So when are you headed to London?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale paused to swallow his mouthful, dabbing daintily at his mouth like he wasn’t a porn star, “I think it’ll just be a day trip. Christmas Eve perhaps.”

“Long drive for one day.”

“I don’t really fancy having to stay in my brother’s house, all things considered. No, I’ll just pop in for lunch and be back home in no time at all.”

“They’re not being tits, are they?”

Aziraphale looked into his teacup. “They are, a bit. But they’re family, and ‘tis the season.”

Tis the season for being cruel to your little brother. “If they do one thing to upset you…”

“Then what?” Aziraphale asked with a benign smile. “You’ll beat them up? You’re so protective of me, my darling, but don’t be. I can handle my family.”

My darling.

The endearment slipped out into the air, nothing keeping it in. Aziraphale didn’t even seem to have noticed, too occupied with musing about his family.

“If they do one thing to upset you, come home,” Crowley said, my darling ringing in his head like church bells. “I’ll be here. You can tell me loads of embarrassing childhood stories about them.”

The cafe was bustling around them, dozens of other Christmas shoppers with bags and packages stuffed under their tables, harried wait staff. Just another Saturday in Brighton. Tis the season.

My darling.

Aziraphale sipped at his tea, not quite meeting Crowley’s eye. “I suppose I’ve been rather presumptuous, just assuming you and I would have Christmas day together. Do you have other plans?”

“You know I don’t.”

“We’ll make a day of it then. I can cook a… a ham.”

Crowley grinned. “You don’t know how to cook a ham.”

My darling.

“Yes, I thought ham was already cooked. Cured. Whatever they do with ham,” Aziraphale said with a wave of a hand. “Or maybe a turkey.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, trying desperately to ignore whatever was blooming in his chest, choking him. “You definitely don’t know how to cook a turkey.”

“I might!”

“And who’s going to eat an entire turkey? It feeds about ten people.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, lips pursed, challenge written all over his face. My darling. “I can cook a turkey.”

“Please don’t. What about a chicken? Cook a chicken.”

“I can cook a turkey,” Aziraphale said again, firmly, as if his entire masculinity has been challenged by the notion that the two of them couldn’t eat a twelve-person turkey.

Crowley had future visions of himself choking down whatever passed for Christmas dinner, full of Aziraphale’s cooking experiments. Deciding dish by dish whether he would pretend it was excellent or mock his angel mercilessly. Whatever the result, making sure they had the best Christmas they’d ever had in dry turkey and good red wine and theatre tickets and my darling.

He wondered if he should have tried for that Hallmark movie scenario after all.

“You already have the tree up, mid-November, don’t you?” he said, rather than why don’t we elope to Brazil it’s lovely this time of year?

Aziraphale blushed, a luminous pink that Crowley hadn’t seen in a while. Maybe since the first time he’d called Aziraphale sexy. He dandled his teaspoon, eyes fixed on his drink. “I thought we might… do it together, if I’m honest.”

Crowley licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, teasing failed and dropped away like a fizzling firework. He didn’t know how to get this all in step. He wanted to take Aziraphale’s hand again, to kiss him again, to just shake his shoulders and tell him to get his shit together because living in jumps and starts like this was unsustainable. He couldn’t. Could he? It wasn’t like blunt honesty had ever worked well for him in the past.

A lot of things hadn’t worked well for him in the past. Christmas, roast turkey, coming back from the sort of disaster he’d brought down on their heads with the phone sex. No one else would have forgiven him. He’d crashed and burned out of promising things on much less.

A stupid, promising, tantalising voice in the back of his head told him he was being judgemental. Can’t step in the same river twice, it told him. It’s not the same river and you’re not the same man.

“Come to the best interior decorator in the South Downs, have you?” Crowley winked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

If he could talk him out of this stupid trip to see his family everything would be perfect, but as it was it wasn’t bad. Crowley paid the bill while Aziraphale wasn’t looking.

They made their way back to the Bentley. Crowley had insisted on bringing her, it was his price of admission for being Shopping Husband for the day. The back seat was so full of brightly coloured presents it wouldn’t have fit a passenger. They’d look good in a Country Life way under the Christmas tree he was going to decorate with Aziraphale.

He opened the door for Aziraphale but before he could step in Crowley took him by the elbow. He leaned him against the side of the Bentley, wide eyes gazing up at him, questioning.

Crowley leaned in, capturing Aziraphale’s mouth in a long, slow kiss. Damn this distance between them, they didn’t need it. He held Aziraphale against the side of the car, not caring who saw or who said what or what the consequences for this might be.

When he let Aziraphale go he kept eye contact, watching his laboured breaths, his dark eyes.

“It’s going to be a good Christmas,” Crowley promised, and he meant it. He released his hold on Aziraphale’s arm, not acknowledging how he swayed to follow him, and made his way back to the driver’s seat. It was going to be a good Christmas.

My darling.

-----

Noon

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Christmas was a glimpse into the past. Specifically, Aziraphale’s past. Something had been good about his church upbringing because decorating his tree for Christmas was weighted with tradition and memory and it warmed Crowley through.

They sat on the floor and unpacked fragile glass ornaments and untangled fairy lights in front of an open fire, a bottle of red half-finished between them. Each thing had to be fussed about, some story told. What year did Aziraphale get this one and from whom or what store and why it didn’t even matter that it was overpriced because it was just so pretty.

The morning passed in a haze, time blurry about the edges. Crowley spent most of it taunting the cat with priceless Swarovski ornaments while Aziraphale talked, demonstrated, turned pretty baubles over in his hands.

He wanted to do this every year. That was his takeaway from the experience. Everything had come full circle, his thoughts had taken a little holiday to picturing himself getting ravished on every surface of the cottage, then they’d decided to come home to the sickeningly sweet visions of days like this together, and he finally settled on both. He didn’t want to choose between being a casual lay or a best friend, he wanted both, he wanted to be with Aziraphale as someone who shared his life.

It should have been easier, over time, to deal with this, but it wasn’t. The beginning had only been the first hints of Aziraphale’s light, how he would make Crowley feel, and now it was high noon.

It went both ways. He knew it, he could feel it. Six months since they’d met and he knew Aziraphale wanted as much as he did. Crowley wasn’t the one in denial, he didn’t miss the lingering touches, the glances, the smiles that were just for him.

I love you was speeding toward Crowley head on, rattling behind his teeth. Everything they did, said. Crowley could see the words in the negative space left behind.

His fears had morphed with it. There was no way he could get hit with I’m afraid that’s not how I feel about you at this stage. They were doing romance, living it. Now the real danger was I’m just not ready for something so serious, and to his eternal shame Crowley wasn’t sure he cared. He’d be Aziraphale’s dirty little secret, his fling on the side. He couldn’t deny him anything, not even something so painful.

“Would you do the honours?” Aziraphale handed him an angel, a spindly gold frame dripping with hanging crystals. It was beautiful, just like everything else, this designer tree collected over the course of a lifetime.

Crowley settled the precious thing on top of the tree and as he stepped back Aziraphale hit the switch on the fairy lights.

The tree glowed from within, the crystals and glass and shiny paint scattering the light. It was beautiful.

Aziraphale took his hand and leaned against his shoulder, lighting Crowley up like the Christmas tree. He hadn’t thought this would be where he ended up at this stage of his life, drinking good wine, decorating this Vogue tree, a soft, precious man cuddled up to his side.

“I have to go,” Crowley choked out.

Aziraphale looked up at him, bemused and disappointed. “Whatever for, dear?”

Because if I don’t then I’m going to fucking propose to you. Do you have any idea how cute you are after three glasses of wine?

“Got my own trees to tend to.” Crowley tried to keep his voice casual, hoped it sounded like he’d always planned to do this rather than like he was running away with his tail between his legs.

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned. “I’ll… I’ll see you out, then.”

Crowley retrieved his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, already moving toward the door, so close to escape he could taste it. He’d go home and call Anathema or just scream into his pillow for a bit, anything to stop him caving in and spilling everything right there at their feet.

He paused in the doorway, wanting to soothe a little of the hurt he’d caused, keep it casual. “This was fun.”

“Yes, thank you for your help. It’s been lovely having company for it.” Aziraphale tried for a smile but didn’t quite get there. He glanced up, then quickly down, like he’d seen a spider and didn’t want to panic anyone.

Crowley looked above his head. A sprig of mistletoe hung in the door frame.

He’d nearly made it out. Really. Two more steps and he would have been safe, back to easygoing and available next time they saw each other. Out of this burning sunlight before it scorched him.

But he wasn’t. Wasn’t safe, wasn’t easy. The grin sprung to his face, his chest fit to burst and he took Aziraphale’s face in his hands, leaning in.

“You cheesy bastard,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s mouth, taking the kisses he’d wanted all morning. Aziraphale laughed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulling him in.

He couldn’t stay, it was too good. Every minute with Aziraphale felt too good. The idea of having more, asking for more, was overwhelming. If a laughing kiss in the doorway was enough to turn him inside out what would happen if they took the next step?

He eased back from the kiss, holding Aziraphale at a safe distance with both hands, trying to let his fondness spill into his hands, his eyes, soften the hurt of his departing early. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? Tomorrow morning?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale was looking at him with such tenderness he just had to flinch away.

In a few swift movements he was out, disentangled and into the brisk November air. It knocked his brain a few degrees back into place. He couldn’t get so caught up in his fantasies, couldn’t just go around kissing Aziraphale whenever he wanted.

The ache in his gut was constant now. Or maybe his heart. His knees. There was plenty to go around.

He slammed his car door too hard getting in, took off too fast. He wanted that. The image repeated behind his eyes – Aziraphale taking each little trinket out of its wrapping, each one safe and loved, each one with its own story.

Those stories were starting to pile up in Aziraphale’s house. The aloe vera that was his first gift, the kitten they’d found who was now almost a proper cat, the books they’d bought on shopping trips, souvenirs from places they visited.

In his own home Crowley looked around. Almost everything was new, bought when he’d moved in. Three books nestled on a shelf, his tiny library of Aziraphale’s making. That was it. His story.

The ache was worst thinking about this. He could picture Aziraphale in his kitchen, the memorabilia of their life together stacked all around him. Crowley liked to toss most of his memories over his left shoulder, only checking in with them at the worst possible times. He wanted a cardboard box full of carefully packed recollections to be taken out once a year and shown off.

Here’s where we met on the beach. I loved you immediately.

This is when we first kissed. You were beautiful.

He threw himself on his couch and looked at the ficus on which he’d hung a single bauble as a joke. It was all of a sudden not funny. It was sad.

“Ugh,” he groaned aloud into his lounge room. He should have stayed. Should have bitten his tongue and stayed right there. It would have made Aziraphale happy. It might have made him happy, too.

So what was the point? He asked himself. What was the point of this push-me-pull-me game? He already knew the answer, it was just an ugly one. He was doing a badly choreographed dance to try to soak up as much of Aziraphale’s happiness as he could before things went sour, making up the moves as he went along and sometimes getting it all wrong.

He turned on his telly, sinking deeper into the couch. One hand was already on his phone, trying to word his apology text to Aziraphale.

I love you so much it hurts, please understand.

He didn’t send the text, Dr. Phil was assuring him that taking personal space was fine.

Maybe he’d get him a bauble. One of those expensive Tiffany ones that were hand-painted by Tibetan monks or whatever. So every year when he unpacked it all he’d hold it in his hands, no matter how things went between them, and think Crowley gave me this.

Maybe next year, if it didn’t hurt too much to think about.

Crowley pulled himself off the couch and went to kneel beside the ficus. He touched the plastic bauble, a gaudy gold, and tried to memorise it. Tried to imbue it with this moment. The year I was so in love with Aziraphale I had to run and hide from his Christmas tree.

Next year, next year, if he made it to next year he’d take it. Dangle it from one of the branches of Aziraphale’s designer tree and say This one’s from last year, the day I had to skip out early. It reminds me of you.

He sat beside his ficus and watched Dr. Phil, fingers running absently over the solitary gold bauble.

He’d wallow for the afternoon, he promised himself. Then in the morning he’d pick himself up, text Aziraphale, and go buy himself something. Something to keep on his counter or hang on a tree. Christmas 2019. The days of torturing himself with the things he wanted were over, he was here by the seaside and that meant he was free. And if he couldn’t have Aziraphale, he could have memories.

And if he plucked up his courage a little further, let the hurt settle and got himself back in order, maybe he could have both.

-----

Holiday

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Crowley hadn’t celebrated Christmas in the strictest sense for a long time. He wasn’t opposed – though it was more about sparkly trees and Santa in his mind than midnight mass – just without a family or close friends to share it with he’d sort of lapsed. The best part of the season was trolling eBay for the perfect gag gift for Anathema. (A set of Garfield tarot cards. The look on her face had been priceless. She’d returned a fake potted succulent which sat proudly beside his bed.) But he liked Christmas in practise if not so much in theory.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Aziraphale was a Christmas connoisseur. He spent the morning in church but by the time Crowley rocked up for dinner it was all on. Expensive brandy, cherry chocolates, shortbread and plum pudding, a spread that could have fed a dozen people and Edward Woodward playing on the old gramophone. The tree looked spectacular with all the fairy lights going. And Aziraphale was, of course, wearing the ugliest reindeer jumper Crowley had ever seen.

Aziraphale had followed through on his threat and cooked a turkey, but it wasn’t bad for a beginner’s attempt. He kept pushing food toward Crowley until he had to beg for mercy, fit to bursting.

“Are you trying to fatten me up for the kill?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale set a plate of pudding and custard in front of him and refilled his brandy.

“Why, my dear boy, I don’t think that’s possible.”

They exchanged presents in front of the fire, the theatre tickets tucked into a card, a plain white envelope in Crowley’s breast pocket that made Aziraphale shine with happiness. Aziraphale presented him with a monstera deliciosa, dark green leaves striped with galaxy white, it must have cost him a fortune. But it was no Christmas rom com and the presents were quickly forgotten in favour of lounging on the giant brown couch, brandy snifters in hand.

It didn’t snow by the sea but it was cold and the fire and the brandy and the gentle music had Crowley unseasonably warm. He sprawled on the couch, loose and relaxed and ready to slip into a food coma.

He was taking Christmas off, he’d decided. Taking it off from worrying. No desperate thoughts of I love you or run away with me, no considering the implications of Aziraphale’s kisses or touches, and absolutely no thinking about tomorrow. He was just going to have a nice Christmas.

“Not everything made after 1940 is bebop, angel,” he attempted to explain.

“This album is from 1972,” Aziraphale said, indignant.

“’72! You know who was about in ‘72? David Bowie. The Beatles. Queen. The Rolling Stones. Were you born a grandpa?”

“The Rolling Stones made a Christmas album?”

Sometimes it was hard to tell if Aziraphale was oblivious or messing with him.

Crowley leaned in close and flicked the tip of Aziraphale’s nose affectionately. “Stop being cute.”

Aziraphale kissed him. It was just a matter of inches, a surge forward, warm lips against his, then gone and Aziraphale was so close to him, smiling like sunshine. “I will when you stop being prickly.”

Crowley let the brandy render him dopey and kissed Aziraphale back. A quick kiss. Forward, warmth, gone. He traced a finger down Aziraphale’s jaw. “I’m going to get you some new music. Something you’ll like. At least Kristin Chenoweth.”

“What if I don’t like it?” Aziraphale dropped his forehead to Crowley’s, his breath blooming warm between them.

“You will. Nothing wrong with an update now and then.”

Then they were kissing, lazily dipping into each other, noses pressed together. No rush. Nothing to hurry them along. Just his angel’s warm mouth, tasting of brandy and plum pudding, the crackle of the fire and old Ned’s crooning to keep them company.

It was different than before. No freezing water around their ankles, no one else expecting them to stop and get themselves presentable. The couch was comfortable, easy just to relax into each other and keep kissing. So they did. Crowley leaned into it, cupped Aziraphale’s face in his free hand and just kept kissing him. He would never get tired of this, he could spend every night kissing Aziraphale, taking hours on end to float away in his softness and light.

They shuffled closer with every kiss until Crowley’s shoulder came up against Aziraphale’s in an uncomfortable, crowded position. He pulled back enough to orient himself, to set his glass on the console table behind the couch and then lifted himself up to straddle Aziraphale’s hips.

He was face to face with Aziraphale, his eyes reflecting the fairy lights from the tree, the moment hanging in between them.

“Alright?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded, just barely, his voice came out breathy. “Alright.”

His hands fell to Crowley’s thighs, jerked him forward and the whole tone of it changed. The kiss was open, hot, edging towards urgent. Crowley closed his eyes and fell into it. His whole body was flush against Aziraphale’s and it was just as soft and strong as his most entertaining fantasies.

No rush. Crowley kissed him, kissed him, kissed him for what felt like hours, hands clutching at each other but not exploring, making out like teenagers on Aziraphale’s plush couch.

Something must have happened, Aziraphale’s fingertips digging into his thigh or his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, or just something because he was jerked forward, their hips meeting at a different angle, and suddenly it wasn’t innocent. Crowley was hard, he could feel Aziraphale was, too, unable to hide from each other with Crowley’s weight bearing him down into it.

He should say something. Stop this. The phone sex had been a disaster. It was too fast for Aziraphale, too much for their unspoken arrangement. But before the thought hand even completed itself in his brain Aziraphale’s hands were on his arse, pulling him closer, grinding them together.

The breath all punched out of Crowley’s lungs at the first suggestion of their cocks rubbing together through their clothing. His hips bucked on their own, leaning into the pressure while his brain provided him with the all-too-real image of him coming in his pants without Aziraphale ever touching him.

He pulled back, just a few inches, just enough to hold him clear and let a little cool air between them. He had to take a chance, no rejection would be as embarrassing as coming in Aziraphale’s arms, untouched.

He smoothed a hand over Aziraphale’s cheek, staring into darkened blue eyes. “Can I?”

This time the nod was sure, immediate. “Please.”

Merry fucking Christmas to me.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s belt buckle. His hands were unsteady but he didn’t fumble it, even when Aziraphale’s fingers found the buttons on his shirt. It was a bad angle for this sort of thing, but their nerve-and-brandy-shaken bodies managed it with only minor shuffling. Crowley found his shirt pulled off his shoulders down to his elbows, Aziraphale huffing out heavy breaths when Crowley’s hand closed around his cock. Then he was onto Crowley’s jeans.

This was happening. It was happening and he wasn’t going to question it. Christmas off. Tomorrow didn’t matter.

And just like that he was jelly in Aziraphale’s arms, hands working between them, knuckles brushing as they groaned into each other’s mouths. It was slow and lazy and the best thing Crowley had ever felt. He had been right. Aziraphale had a pretty cock.

He squeezed the cock in his hand, running his thumb over the tip and revelled in how Aziraphale’s hand stilled for a moment, a dark, breathy sound groaned into his skin.

I love you. I love you.

It didn’t take long, all the kissing had Crowley already teetering on an edge, pressure building at the base of his spine. All too soon he was gasping into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, spilling over his fist. He just barely kept enough presence of mind to keep his hand moving, dragging his angel over the edge with him, the two of them splayed out on the old brown sofa, Edward Woodward warbling something about love in the background.

Crowley collapsed against Aziraphale, his chest heaving. Aziraphale threaded his free hand through Crowley’s hair and held him close. Thank god, they’d ruined that jumper and he could never wear it again.

The world sat still for a while, Aziraphale so comfortable and soft that Crowley had to fight to keep the food coma from overtaking him.

So. That had happened.

“Are you alright there, dearest?” He could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice.

“M’fine.” Crowley took a deep breath, steeled himself, then used all his strength and energy to peel himself off Aziraphale’s chest, sitting back a bare few inches. “Going to call me in the morning, angel?”

He expected Aziraphale to blush, to stammer and demure, but he didn’t. Instead he cupped Crowley’s face in one hand, holding him like a cherished thing and meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry for last time. It won’t happen again.”

Crowley didn’t meet his eye, it was too much. He looked down instead and laughed. The jumper really was ruined. “We’ve made a mess of you.”

Aziraphale glanced down and started chuckling as well, eyes bright and full of humour, both of them giddy in the aftermath. Very giddy, maybe, given Aziraphale’s next confession. “Quite alright, I only wore this to annoy you.”

“You-!” Crowley bit off the angry exclamation, scowling. Holding Aziraphale’s eyes he slowly, deliberately wiped his hand on the jumper, feeling Aziraphale’s belly shake as he laughed all the harder.

“It was a gift from my brother,” he said through mirthful tears.

“You’re a bastard,” Crowley said as Aziraphale took him by the hair and pulled him in for another kiss. It lingered, both of them sighing into it in the firelight.

Crowley let himself be gently rolled to the side, sinking back into the couch as Aziraphale rose to go clean himself off. He tucked himself back into his jeans and redid the fly, leaving his shirt open to feel the warmth from the fire against his bare chest and gave himself a moment while Aziraphale was gone to just enjoy the afterglow.

As it turned out, this Christmas had wildly exceeded his memories of the occasion. Didn’t know why he didn’t do this every year.

-----

Good News

-----

“Do you know what sea air is really good for?” Crowley asked, leaning halfway out Aziraphale’s window. The one with the good view, right over the surf. “Restoring ancient textiles.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, half-listening. His funny little eyeglasses were perched on his nose, 98% of his attention given to the old, old, old bible he was carefully rebinding, hands in soft cotton gloves, needle held between fingertips. “I thought it was ideal for growing inland flowers.”

He drew the thread through again. The concentration was unreal, he looked so still apart from the slow, deliberate movements of his stitching. Crowley wasn’t even certain he was breathing. It was slow, tedious work, piercing stitches through a thousand membrane-thin pages then gently, gently tugging the silk thread through. Crowley would have gone mad in about four minutes.

But Aziraphale seemed not only fine with doing this awful work but with Crowley throwing jabs at him from the sidelines, chattering away and occasionally putting a video on his phone, or running the gramophone. Hanging out, as it were. He was a little bit fascinated by Aziraphale’s hands as he worked. Always had been a little, but a little bit more now that their evenings sometimes ended in tipsy handjobs on the couch and those white cotton gloves were giving him ideas.

It wasn’t ideal, but it was skirting so fucking close to ideal that it was sharing a postcode.

“Shouldn’t you have a… a vault? Somewhere hermetically sealed or…?” Crowley didn’t really know.

“Ah, now, that’s very interesting,” said Aziraphale in a tone that suggested this was going to be the furthest thing from interesting. “You see while air conditions matter in long term storage, the principal source of damage to older specimens is… you’re not listening.”

“Is it cats?” Crowley suggested. “I bet it’s cats.”

“It’s handling. Acid on the skin.”

“Chuck the book in the bin, let’s go to the beach.”

Aziraphale somehow laughed without moving a muscle, hands still working with perfect precision. “Even if I wanted to go to the beach in this weather I wouldn’t be throwing out a customer’s priceless Bible.”

How was Crowley spending his Saturday watching a bible getting mended by his casual-not-boyfriend who went to church and said his evening prayers? When had that become normal?

“So it’s a million years old and he’s just thumbing through the thing?” Crowley asked. “What’s wrong with the Gideons one?”

“I couldn’t say, my dear. Perhaps he finds it more spiritually satisfying.”

“Does he think Matthew, Mark, Luke and John personally wrote this one?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Perhaps. I can’t say his academia is particularly rigorous.”

Crowley gasped theatrically. “Did you just insult a customer, Aziraphale? He must really be a tosser for you to go for the throat like that.”

“Alright, alright,” Aziraphale broke his statue stillness to wiggle his fingers in a sort of ‘sit down and be quiet’ gesture. “You mustn’t be rude to him, he’s very…”

Aziraphale trailed off and Crowley snorted. “A tosser. When would I meet him, anyway? He’s not coming over today?”

“Hardly, I’ll be at this a good while yet. But I planned to invite some regulars to my 50^th. It seems like the polite thing to do.”

Oh, no, he hadn’t forgotten, had he? “When’s that?”

“Oh, not until May. Thought I’d start planning, though. The church group has been hassling me to host something and, well… it seems a nice way to really… that is, I…”

“Putting your roots down,” Crowley finished for him and Aziraphale smiled for him. Of course it was like that. In May he would have been in the cottage at the end of Rose Road for almost a year. His family had been officially relegated to formal Christmas lunches and birthday cards. His clients knew to make home visits. And he woke up and went to sleep and spent a serious portion of the hours in between with his neighbour. He was a local.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

“You should…” Crowley swallowed, voice betraying him for a moment. He couldn’t kid himself forever. Aziraphale was here to stay. “You should have it in the gardens.”

Aziraphale looked up over the rim of his glasses. “What gardens?”

“You know, the gardens,” Crowley mumbled. “My gardens.”

The working hands came to a stop, halfway through pulling a strand of silk. If Crowley thought he’d seen still before, he was wrong. Aziraphale was frozen mid-stroke, eyes pinning Crowley to the spot. The air hung heavy between them and wow Crowley had really missed the mark for casual apparently. He fought down the urge to explain himself, to protest that it was ridiculous to try to keep Aziraphale’s fingerprints off his life when they were all over everything, his evenings, his car, his days on and days off and even his naked body.

Whatever they were doing, they were doing it.

“I’ve never seen your gardens,” Aziraphale decided on, his voice soft.

He wasn’t going to be able to do this if Aziraphale made a thing of it. This wasn’t some big romantic gesture, it was just accepting the facts.

“Then finish your book or whatever and we’ll go see them. I’ll pack us dinner.”

“It’s freezing out!”

“I have outdoor heaters.”

Crowley used the excuse to escape, leaving Aziraphale trapped with his book and his silk and his gloves. There was a picnic basket kept on top of the fridge, and as always the cupboards were stocked with the sorts of things that could be stuffed into it. Last weekend had been the farmers market so there was all sorts of pretentious nonsense that wouldn’t get eaten unless Crowley put it on a water cracker and shoved it under Aziraphale’s nose.

Once the basket was full, Crowley’s working hands keeping any thoughts crowded to the back of his head where they belonged, he took apart the linen cupboard in search of the tartan picnic blanket that had seen them through many a good afternoon on the beach. Aziraphale called out from the other room when he heard him emptying the cupboard onto the floor and redirected him to where the blanket sat draped over the arm of a couch.

“Come on, then!” Crowley called back. “Book in the bin and let’s go!”

“Hold your horses,” Aziraphale grumbled as he joined Crowley by the door, still peeling off the gloves. “Alright, ready to go. Shall we take the car?”

“Nah, not that cold.”

They walked in the bracing wind, Crowley carrying their picnic, down Rose Road and up onto the parkview to his own driveway. His house sat close to the road, the acres of land behind it mostly sacrificed to gardens. It wasn’t as industrial as it could have been. He’d had plenty of money stashed away when he moved here so the land didn’t need to be wrung for every profitable inch, it was a mix of proper business-making plants and a hobby garden. The natural trees and shrubs kept most of it from the road view.

As they approached Aziraphale took his arm, tucking cold fingers into the crook of his elbow and squeezing tighter than necessary. So much for Crowley thinking he’d been smooth, just coincidentally never extending this invitation. Aziraphale saw right through him at all the worst times. Maybe all the time.

Crowley bypassed the house, taking the old wooden side gate instead. It gave way with a creak and he ushered Aziraphale forward.

He wished it was some Beauty and the Beast library moment, a gasp in the cold February air and some magical revelation. It wasn’t. But it was nice. It was green, he kept most evergreen trees, and it was pretty, a little rambling. The nicest a garden could really look in the middle of winter.

“It’ll be better in the spring, with the, y’know, the flowers,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale said, earnest and admiring. Crowley handed off the picnic and grabbed one of the heaters, jerking his head toward a tree a little further out and leading the way.

He settled the heavy thing down beside his prize apple tree. It was bare and dormant for the season but the grass underneath with still the softest, the little rise it rested on high enough to get a good look at the ocean.

Aziraphale laid the blanket out for them and weighed down the corners with rocks he snagged from the garden bed edging while Crowley set the heater running. Once it was set he slunk down next to Aziraphale, reclining on the blanket and accepting a cracker slathered with pâté.

The gardens spread out around them and they could look down on them all from the rise. Crowley’s stomach clenched, looking at Aziraphale here in his refuge. It felt right, the two of them there, watching over this place from under the apple tree.

“Just beautiful.” Aziraphale gazed at him with soft blue eyes and smiled, “Thank you for sharing this with me, my dear.”

“’Course,” Crowley said around the lump in his throat. Part of him was terrified that Aziraphale would play therapist and ask why he’d never been invited before, what his inspired this act of vulnerability. But another part, the siren-song, the idiot who betrayed Crowley again and again, the voice that grew louder every day until it was almost the only voice left, told him that wasn’t going to happen. Aziraphale didn’t analyse and pry. Aziraphale accepted him as he was.

He had a whole speech lined up for himself, to repeat and mull over and drill into his own brain – Aziraphale wasn’t serious, if he was really interested he would have said something by now, this would never be what he wanted it to be – and he tried to remember it, he really did. He knew he’d remember it, word for word, once the sun was down and he was alone.

But for right now Aziraphale poured them both a glass of wine in the little picnic cups they’d bought, handed Crowley his, then held up his own for a toast. Crowley clinked the edge of his cup against Aziraphale’s and thought about drowning in that soft smile. It felt good to have someone in his garden.

-----

Blended

-----

Ever since the picnic under the apple tree Aziraphale had been looking at him funny. Not like funny haha, like funny. Judging, questioning, making an assessment every time he thought Crowley wasn’t looking. Gathering data. He was still present, laughing at their jokes, holding up his side of the conversation, but in every quiet moment, every time Crowley glanced away to take a sip of his drink, there was that look again.

It was starting to feel less like an expression and more like a guillotine blade over his neck. Aziraphale was making a decision. Maybe the garden had been too fast. Maybe he was finally taking some pity and realising just how deep his claws were sunk into Crowley’s heart, if he left it any longer to remove them they’d leave a mortal wound.

Crowley found himself twitchy, unable to focus on what he was saying. The only thing that held his attention was that blade wobbling above his head. The progress bar loading.

Twice Aziraphale had seemed to work up his courage, opened his mouth, paused, and gone off on a tangent he clearly hadn’t been planning.

He was going to end things. Or at least back them off. Crowley thought he might be able to handle that. Not in the moment, in the moment he was going to overreact and make an idiot out of himself, but once the dust cleared he could handle going back to platonic friends minus the occasional bit of slap and tickle.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale started, one afternoon when they were just back from lunch, the day overcast but bright. He let the word hang in the air, gazing up at Crowley’s sunglasses. A beat passed. “I’ll just make us some tea, shall I?”

“Yeah?” Crowley offered, trying not to tremble.

He crumpled into a chair while Aziraphale rattled around in the kitchen, tried to keep his focus on the clink of cups, the whistle of the kettle, the open and close of the cupboard. He stared at his own hands, trying to disassociate himself from what was about to happen.

Aziraphale set a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him. Chamomile. Chamomile was supposed to calm people down. Great. He kept standing, hovering really, looking between the other chairs before finally settling in the one beside Crowley, his cup of tea in his hands.

Crowley didn’t touch the tea, not wanting to give away how his hands were shaking. Aziraphale was looking at him with kind eyes. He tried to breathe through it. He’d survive this.

“My dear…” Aziraphale trailed off, not meeting his eye.

Crowley gave him some time, determined not to let his distress show, but eventually the air was just too thick. “Spit it out, will you?”

“The thing is,” Aziraphale said, nodding, not really looking at him, not really looking at anything. “The thing is that I need to talk to you about something.”

This was it. It jolted through Crowley like turbulence, like the floor dropping out from under him, like waking in the middle of the night just as his body hit the ground.

“We are talking.”

“Only the thing is,” Aziraphale continued, his voice getting weaker, his hands fluttering around his cup. “The thing is that we’ve been seeing each other for a while now. And I know we haven’t talked about it, exactly, but with… with your kind invitation for me to invite people to your gardens I did wonder… I did wonder if I might – that is to say – if you would be comfortable with me introducing you as my boyfriend. Or… or partner… beau, whichever term you find most amenable.”

Crowley felt that every drop of his blood had drained from his head. And his chest. His gut. It must all be hiding in his shoes because it certainly wasn’t powering the rest of him.

Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly and Crowley could only imagine the blank, shocked look on his own face.

“Right, yeah,” he said, voice coming out shockingly clear and calm when its owner’s brain had melted. “How long have we been seeing each other, now?”

“Since June, so eight months now,” Aziraphale mused, apparently not seeing anything wrong with that sentence.

Crowley had fantasies of Aziraphale falling for him, of course he did, he was only human. He had fantasies of some particular favour or gift that would freeze Aziraphale in his tracks, stun him into place. Make him see Crowley in a new light. Or even, on his drunkest, saddest nights the wild idea that Aziraphale might murmur, softly into his skin, that he had loved him since the beginning and had been too shy to say it.

He would have panicked if there was so much as a hint of those fantasies coming to life.

But still. Still. At least he might have had some foundation to build his response. He could have muddled through some middle ground between his suave, cool, romantic imaginings and the freezy, melty, stammery reality. He could have done something.

But nowhere in his life, not in his wildest fantasies or stupidest memories was there any precedent for this.

He’d never said anything. Not one word, not one breath of a whisper of a suggestion that this was more than fooling around. Crowley was certain. If he’d said anything he would have been clinging to it, would have had it tattooed over his heart.

He didn’t know what Aziraphale was talking about and didn’t know how to react and he didn’t know how he, Anthony J. Crowley, could be the stupidest person alive.

So he burst into tears.

He couldn’t breathe, the weeds in his chest finally winning their battle, wrapping around his throat and heart and lungs. Tears spilled from his eyes as he wheezed, desperately trying to get in enough air.

The first hacking sob had barely left his mouth and Aziraphale was on him, kneeling between his legs and bundling him into his arms. Crowley curled down into him, just trying to breathe but he couldn’t. The ugly, heaving gasps were muffled into Aziraphale’s shoulder, one sure hand pulling off his sunglasses, strong arms around him, hands rubbing his back.

“There you are, I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

He was an idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. No one could possibly be this stupid. He’d spent all this time thinking so badly of Aziraphale, thinking he didn’t know, couldn’t see, that he was… he was… using him as some sick ego boost.

“I’ve got you, my darling.” Aziraphale cradled him while he gasped for air, ran a hand through his hair, one down his back, calming him like a frightened animal. Crowley’s eyes burned, his head swam. Aziraphale was still here, holding him like some precious thing, like he wasn’t the stupidest, cruellest, most cynical man alive.

He didn’t even know why he was crying, why he couldn’t calm down, why every time he tried to breathe in his chest seized up. Aziraphale’s hand cupped his face, raised him enough to be free of the sweater and the spreading wet patch he was creating. A tea cup was pushed into his hand, held steady.

“There we go, just a sip.”

Crowley did as instructed without thinking about it. He took a sip, the action, the swallow enough to calm his chest for as long as it took to get the tea down, and then he was breathing again. Breathing in short, sharp gasps but breathing.

Aziraphale reached for a white bottle Crowley hadn’t noticed him put down and then there was a small white pill in his hand. Aziraphale cupped his hand in his own. “To help you settle, if you want it.”

Crowley downed the pill, let Aziraphale help him lift the teacup to his lips again. Was he happy or sad? Was he crying something out or crying it to life? Why couldn’t he stop?

You’ve misunderstood. You got it wrong. It was all in your head.

Anger would be a comfort. He could yell and snarl, spit painful memories at Aziraphale’s feet, curse the people who had mistreated him or just run and find something to smash. Rage against the heavens for time lost, for each time Aziraphale reached for him and he didn’t reach back, thinking it would hurt too much. But he wasn’t angry.

He stayed there, clutched against Aziraphale’s shoulder, until his breathing returned to him. The valium kicked in and he couldn’t heave and choke anymore, a warm, liquid sensation spreading through him. He was disoriented as he was moved, one foot in front of the other, boots abandoned at the door.

Aziraphale settled him in the bed, pulled the pale eiderdown over him and climbed in to sit beside him, Crowley’s head in his lap, strong fingers in copper hair.

“I’m so sorry, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured. “I tried to move slowly for you. I know how anxious this makes you.”

He couldn’t gasp anymore but he could cry. Idiot. What a fucking idiot he was. Eight months. Eight months Aziraphale had been holding back for his sake. Eight months of loving him as best he could and getting only Crowley’s ridiculous, flirtatious teasing in return.

Should he be more ashamed that Aziraphale had chamomile tea and valium on hand to ask him this, or that he’d needed them? He wasn’t even surprised! Not the tiniest bit flustered that this simple request had ended up like this. Crowley was even more of a disaster than he’d thought, and in a way that was apparently obvious.

He held Aziraphale and let himself cry. There was no point trying to stop it now, no hiding it. He cried himself exhausted in the soft cocoon, dozens of pillows and Aziraphale strong and sure in his arms. And when the drugs and the pain and the tears had worn him down to nothing, he drifted off.

However many hours later the sound of waves registered in his groggy brain. He was warm, bordering on too warm, the softest blanket in the world pulled up to his nose and the heat of another person wrapped around him. Something was trapping his legs in place and when he sluggishly opened his eyes Kraken stared back at him, fluffed up to his full fluffiness and curled into Crowley’s legs, purring. Out the window he could see the sun setting on the ocean, turning the waves golden.

He was groggy, limbs heavy, maybe too heavy to move. He shuffled, one inch at a time turning his limp body over to face Aziraphale, who just opened his eyes enough to acknowledge the shift, their noses inches apart.

“Oh, hello there,” Aziraphale whispered, as if they couldn’t break the cosiness of the room with something as crass as sound. “How are you feeling?”

Crowley’s mouth quirked down, a lump welled in his throat again, but this time it was something different overwhelming him. This bloody git had asked him out exactly once, eight months ago, and decided to manage his anxiety by being emotionally ambiguous and determinedly casual since then. Their stupidity and anxiety had been perfectly matched, a fine artisanal blend of self-conscious nonsense.

“I love you,” Crowley said, his hoarse voice cracking the words into pieces.

Aziraphale smiled like sunlight, eyes as soft and as blue as his stupid jumpers. “I love you, as well, my dear.”

Crowley leaned forward, hugging Aziraphale back against his body and closed his eyes again, happy to sleep away the rest of the night right here.

He wasn’t the stupidest person alive, he saw now that the shock had worn off.

It was an even tie with his boyfriend.

-----

Sharp

-----

Crowley drifted in and out that night, eyes closed, every so often rearranging himself against Aziraphale’s chest, waking to find Aziraphale had done the same. It was warm and soft, Aziraphale’s silky pyjamas easy to cuddle into. The moon was full and high and he could steal moments of watching Aziraphale sleep, silver in the light before sleep claimed him again.

It must have been early morning when he reached for Aziraphale at the same time Aziraphale reached for him, both moving closer, wrapping around each other. Crowley slid a hand down Aziraphale’s back, returning the suggestive slide of Aziraphale’s hand on his hip. By some silent consensus they didn’t settle back to sleep. Still groggy, Crowley leaned into the lazy, messy kisses they shared.

It was so fucking warm. And fluffy. He felt like he’d sunk a foot and a half into the mattress, propped up on pillows upon pillows, satin warmed through by body heat, pulled tight against Aziraphale’s giving body. His sleep-muddled brain could disentangle the sensations, the hands on him felt good, the thigh between his legs, Aziraphale’s mouth, and the gauze that padded and padded and padded all his jagged edges.

“I love you.” He wasn’t sure which of them said it, wrapped in their shelter, in each other.

“I love you,” Crowley breathed or maybe repeated. Aziraphale worked the buttons of his shirt free. He couldn’t respond like he usually would have, with passion, with fire. But that was alright, he realised, boneless and warm and tired as Aziraphale eased him onto his back.

Aziraphale was going to take care of him. He was safe here. The thought sank into Crowley’s chest, formed the glowing core of him as he sank further back into the pillows while Aziraphale tugged his trousers down his hips. It was freeing, his skin exposed to the air inch by inch, then wrapped up again against the cottony blankets, the glide of warm satin, Aziraphale’s cream-soft skin. He grabbed the pillows behind his head and closed his eyes.

“Darling, you’re so beautiful like this,” Aziraphale whispered, running his hand down Crowley’s side, his hip, to wrap firm around one thigh, a shiver chasing the touch. Was it the touch, or the words? Did it matter? Aziraphale wanted Crowley the same way Crowley had wanted Aziraphale all these long months. He could see it mirrored back, the need to touch cloud-fluff curls turned to the need to touch copper locks, the desperation for soft-mouthed kisses, the imperative to press body to body, hip to hip, hands to hands. Aziraphale had seen him and found him good, desirable. He let his legs fall open, welcomed the warm body between them, leaned up for another messy kiss.

“Can I, my darling?”

“Yes. Yes. Angel, whatever you want, yes.”

Crowley canted his hips as Aziraphale hooked one of his knees over the crook of his elbow, spreading his legs. Lube slick fingers pressed into him and Crowley moaned, squeezed his eyes more firmly closed, let his body splay and relax and all his sharp edges be cushioned. He moaned. He held the pillows and breathed and moaned.

What was for just a moment alien and intrusive soon became just another tangled up sensation, mixed in with his heart beating and the sound of the ocean and Aziraphale’s heavy breathing. He was comfortable, he was tired, he was so safe and his body felt so good. Aziraphale crooked his fingers just so and Crowley’s hips surged like the ocean, his voice rising to meet them.

When Aziraphale released him he gasped, looking up through half-lidded eyes, about to complain until he heard the crinkle of the condom wrapper. Aziraphale shone in the moonlight, strong and sure, soft and comforting, loving, loving right to the core of him. Crowley sighed again and buried himself deeper, let his legs splay open further, waited to be swept away.

He didn’t have to wait long before he felt the blunt pressure against him, the heavy promise of what was to come, then the slick, stretching intrusion. It didn’t hurt, didn’t pinch or burn like it had in the past, the initial wall to climb over before he could get to the good bit. Aziraphale had taken good care of him.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, Crowley,” his angel babbled, hips working themselves like he couldn’t stop them. His fingertips dug into Crowley’s thigh and he held tight, crushed his eyes closed and spoke through half-closed lips. “Oh, God, you feel so good, you’re so beautiful. Oh, yes...”

Crowley rose to meet him, gasping into the warm night air. It felt good. Aziraphale’s shower of praise felt good and Aziraphale pushing into him felt good and sinking into a mountain of pillows felt good. He couldn’t move, not really, not when he was held off the bed, Aziraphale angling his hips how he wanted them. All he could do was lie back and feel good.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale moaned, hands squeezing against his thighs, pushing one leg back toward Crowley’s shoulder and sinking in that much deeper, making them both cry out. “Yes, yes – that’s – just arch your back for me, just like that, oh, my God, my God, you feel...”

Crowley arched into him, his legs trembling as Aziraphale started pushing into him with short, staggered thrusts, the joy of it radiating out to the tips of his fingers. Every so often a flash of light burst at the base of his spine, Aziraphale nailing something deep inside him that made him moan helplessly. He hung on tighter. His cock ached and twitched.

“Love you,” Crowley moaned, finding new things to love by the second. Loved being manhandled, loved being fucked. Loved being told he was beautiful and good, loved having that chanted into the air like a prayer.

“I love you, I love you so much.” Aziraphale’s voice was getting more frantic, his strokes shorter. “You’re so good for me – oh, if you could see yourself, if you…”

Crowley reached out with one arm and Aziraphale leaned forward into his embrace, barely missing a beat. Crowley was desperate to press back against him, to bear down and fuck himself harder, faster. Aziraphale’s weight held his hips fast to the mattress. Firm, yielding, trapping softness on all sides, not letting him squirm or wriggle.

He hung from Aziraphale’s shoulders and begged for more friction, harder, faster, please. His pleas landed and Aziraphale began to work him harder, holding his weight up on one arm, pressing Crowley further into the mattress as he snuck one hand down between them. “Oh, you beautiful thing, you precious thing, I love you so…”

Crowley let out a cry when Aziraphale’s hand wrapped around him, that frantic, teasing pressure that hadn’t been enough was all of a sudden way too much. He wrapped his arms tight around Aziraphale, tugging his hair, keening into his temple, his cheek.

His body tried to rally, the rubber band winding and winding and winding, but he had started so floppy and loose that it twisted itself up more than he thought it could. Aziraphale’s hand around him, his cock in him, his body holding him down, it kept winding him until he was delirious, frenzied. All he could do was curl his toes and sob into Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale spread him open, fucked into him and breathed hot against his ear. “I can’t hold back anymore, oh, my love, my love, my love…” His words dissolved into whimpers, hips jerking and staggering. Something tugged loose deep in Crowley’s gut and then he was arching, tightening, wailing into the darkness. He spilled over Aziraphale’s fist as Aziraphale came inside him and it was perfect, it felt good and it was perfect.

When he collapsed back against the bed again Aziraphale eased back, releasing his much-abused hips and letting him loll, loose-jointed and jelly-legged on the covers in the warm night air. He might have fallen asleep again, right then and there.

The bed dipped under Aziraphale’s weight as he stood up and before Crowley could even tell up from down again he had a fluffy beige towel draped in one hand. With jerky, uncoordinated movements he cleaned up the worst of the mess and dropped the towel on the ground.

He curled into Aziraphale’s side again, a bit sticky, a bit sweaty, completely boneless. His face was smooshed into Aziraphale’s chest, half-witted, more relaxed than he could ever remember being. “Can’t believe we waited eight months to do that.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I rather thought it was worth the wait.”

“Absolutely. Absolutely.”

Short fingers dragged through his hair, lulling him further back toward sleep. He pulled the eiderdown up to their hips again although it was warm enough. He was addicted to this, to being covered and smothered and held from all angles. Let Aziraphale keep him here, put him in this bed for all time and visit occasionally to fuck him senseless.

“Sleep, darling,” Aziraphale murmured into his hair, still twisting fingers through, scratching along his scalp. “You’ve had such a big day.”

“M’not five. I don’t need naptime or else I get cranky.”

“Oh, my dear boy. I’m afraid only half of that is true.”

Crowley laughed, still giddy from the high. “Fine, fine, but don’t think just because we’re together you get to be all…”

“Caring? Loving?” Aziraphale suggested.

“Fine, fine,” Crowley yawned. “You win this round.”

He’d let Aziraphale pamper him as much as he liked, really. At least for one night. Crowley sunk down, making his little groove against the mattress, even more comfortable now that he was naked as a newborn. Aziraphale kept one arm around him, holding him tight, holding him like a precious thing.

For the first time since he could remember Crowley was completely at ease. Safe, cherished and relaxed, wrapped around his lover without a care in the world. He should be planning how to be careful, how to not become dependent and let it spoil him. But he wasn’t. For the first time since he could remember, he just knew someone was going to take care of him. He was safe.

-----

Privacy

-----

London was still busy. Fucking busy, all people everywhere all the time and Crowley realised he hadn’t missed it for a second. The theatre wasn’t any different, in fact it was deliberately packed with as many people as it could seat and that was about as pleasant as he remembered it.

But, and there was a ‘but’ now, it was okay. It took him back to his twenties, when he’d enjoyed this sort of thing. It had all tired him out through the years, the worst of burnout, but it was different with Aziraphale. Maybe he just had more energy from being hopelessly, helplessly in love or maybe just having one person to focus on in the crowds and the noise was easier. Whatever it was they spent the whole day in the city without Crowley’s moods rearing their ugly head.

The show was good, Aziraphale’s delight was better, walking out into the cool London night, streets lit up by streetlamps and the glare from restaurant windows was best of all. Crowley was young again, on a date in the city.

“I know a little sushi place that’s open late,” Aziraphale said, and they walked the streets in their own little bubble, impervious to all the things that used to weigh him down.

The sushi place was little, it was quiet, the sort of small intimate tables tucked away in corners that muffled sound, made it feel like there was no one else in the room. Aziraphale looked so right in his buttoned up clothes, lit by the soft glow of candles, the tinkle of a piano in the air. He radiated fondness for the luxuries of the big city, looked at home here as much as he did in his cottage by the sea.

He ordered in Japanese and Crowley gave him a look over the rim of his sunglasses.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, one hundred percent aware of what the look was about.

“Did you bring me here to show off your Japanese?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale blushed, a pleased smile teasing at his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

Adorable. Funny how he could be so sweet and prim and cute all put together in a high end sushi joint when Crowley knew it would be a different story once they made it back to the hotel room. He was lucky. At that moment he was the luckiest man in London.

Aziraphale showed him all the weird different etiquettes for eating each kind of fish thing, what to dip it in, how many bites. Mostly Crowley watched and drank plum wine, letting a flush rise up his chest, forgetting about the distance between here and home. He took Aziraphale’s hand across the table, holding it even as his angel gestured with chopsticks, chattered about the history of sushi.

“There are dozens of different ways to cut the fish, each for different occasions or with different meanings. Like flower language but with fish.”

“How much time did ancient samurai have on their hands?” Crowley said, wrinkling up his nose.

“A lot, it would seem.”

“What’s wrong with just sending a birthday card? Seems a lot easier than a diced fish.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind when yours rolls around.”

“Me too. You’re going to wake up to a fish in your mailbox.”

Aziraphale laughed. He was lovely here. Crowley had thought that this would be more difficult than it was. That smile, the chopsticks, the dim lights, he knew he’d be making more city trips. Aziraphale didn’t need him to come to the city but after so long it seemed unimaginable to go a whole weekend without each other, to deprive him of the chance to show off his old haunts and flawless Japanese.

Crowley’s hand ached and he looked down to find it clutched, white knuckled, around the little porcelain cup. He took a breath and relaxed. He didn’t have to go without Aziraphale again, didn’t ever have to watch him go off and not be allowed to follow.

It was like trying to fix a waterbed, pressing patches to all the leaks only to realise they’d been hiding something disastrous just out of his line of sight. He had fingers pressed to all his anxiety, his fear and his distrust, his self-consciousness, and with all that proudly sealed up he was still losing water. Aziraphale had his hand over the big wound, the puncture straight through his heart, and if he left then all the rest wouldn’t mean much.

He might have been able to stretch himself about and hit every spot by himself, but it was easier by a mile when he had that extra hand. Everything was better when he had his other half, the last piece of his puzzle. Aziraphale made everything easier, made everything better. Without him Crowley wouldn’t be sitting here now, enjoying himself like the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders.

He drank too much plum wine and ate too much seaweed, watching Aziraphale preside over his tiny kingdom, talking animatedly, swishing chopsticks back and forth. No one else in the world.

If he looked at himself through his own eyes at forty, at thirty, at twenty, what would he see?

At twenty he would have scoffed and rolled his eyes, mortified at middle aged gay men who loved the theatre, disgusted by people who passed over high-powered careers to potter about at the seaside in their gardens. The life of a boring, unfulfilled old man, a failure.

At thirty he still would have winced. Him? His younger self would demand. Really? Aziraphale wasn’t even six feet tall, not an ab in sight. At that age he had been busy shagging every gym junkie he could get his hands on. He might have tolerated the gardening, provided it had a good business plan to back it and a five-year expansion strategy. What a pompous git.

At forty… was it that early that he was looking at retired men and holding back a wistful sigh? Was he sick of it all by then? He had been tired, burnt out. The sight of happy couples in restaurants looked like a glimpse into a parallel universe where life might have been kinder, where he’d taken the time to breathe and think and made softer choices. The sight of happy gay couples in their fifties was like staring at a mirage, something impossibly out of reach. He hadn’t regretted it, though, he felt accomplished. He’d beaten the odds, risen out of poverty, made something of himself.

It was at forty-five he’d broken down crying in his flat at 5.30 in the evening on a Monday. Two minutes in the door and it had been silent, sterile, all his fancy toys like cheap plastic ornaments on a Christmas tree set up in September. All his life’s accomplishments and nothing worth coming home to. He’d decided, then, that something had to give. A month of mulling it over and he gave his notice. Two months to find his place by the sea.

He’d given up on the handsome young men who liked his money and his car. He’d given up on hope of finding someone else. It had been excised like a tumour. Just another shiny bauble he’d sold his soul for.

If, in that moment, someone could have shown him two old men sharing sushi, chattering about the show they’d just seen, living it up for a night in the city before they’d head back to their cottages by the sea, he would have begged for it to be him. He would have prostrated himself, wept, ached for this to be his future.

“I love you,” he said, as if realising it for the first time. Realising for the first time that he had to marry this man. It was that kind of love.

Aziraphale looked up at him, curious. “I love you, too, dear. Are you thinking profound thoughts?”

I think I’m going to spend my life with you.

“Fish things, really,” Crowley replied with a shrug. “Just… fishy, fishy things.”

There was no rush. Aziraphale would wait for him, until he was ready. This wasn’t like the flashy pleasures of the past, all adrenaline and money and gone once the shiny varnish started to scratch. If he took another ten years Aziraphale would wait for him. But he had to do it. If not for Aziraphale then for himself. To remind him even on his darkest days that this was here to stay.

Crowley waved down a waiter and paid the bill over Aziraphale’s protest.

“Your Christmas present,” he said, handing over his card, then took Aziraphale’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Once the card was returned he led Aziraphale from the restaurant. “I want to take you somewhere.”

It was getting late but they still had time. They walked the streets, still full of people on a Saturday night, puddles in the street mirroring the streetlamps. It was busy and loud but also… not. Not in their bubble. It was just background noise. It was just nice to walk off the food and wine in the cooling air.

He took Aziraphale to St James’s Park and stood with him by the lake. It wasn’t their ocean, too small and too still, but when he was forty-five Crowley had stood at the lakes edge, watching the ducks, and decided this was where he’d wanted to be. In the garden, by the water. He’d called the real estate agent from this spot to make his offer, not knowing where it would lead him.

Now he stood in this spot and held Aziraphale’s hand, pulled him in for a kiss, in the garden by the water.

“It’s lovely here,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley took in a deep breath, letting the smell of the water fill him up and the hand in his warm him through. “Yeah, it is.”

It only seemed right to make the next big decision here. But who was he kidding? That decision had been made for him a long time ago.

-----

Grace

-----

The night was clear and starry, the air just starting to chill after a warm day and the gardens were filled with laughter. Crowley and Aziraphale sat on a blanket under the apple tree, now thick with leafy foliage, and traded the remnants of a bottle of Glenfiddich between them.

The world had gone muzzy at the edges some time ago, the passage of time obligingly slowing and speeding itself so all Crowley experienced was Aziraphale’s laughter, his smile, the wittiest of jabs traded between them. He could feel that the air around them was getting cold, but the whisky had warmed him right through and he wasn’t going to move for anything.

“My point, my point, my point is…” Crowley tried, but Aziraphale had the giggles and they were contagious. He kept trying to get the words out but all that would come was another sputter of laughter.

“What?” Aziraphale asked between fits. “What’s… what’s your point?”

“It’s…” Crowley gestured broadly with the bottle, having entirely forgotten what his point was and trying to come up with something. Aziraphale was looking up at him from the blanket with those soft eyes, slightly unfocused, his hair a mess and his collar askew. “It’s that you’re so fucking pretty.”

Aziraphale dissolved into laughter again, hunching forward with it. “I’m not ‘pretty’! How dare you.”

“You are.” Crowley leaned down and kissed him, messy and grinning. He overbalanced but caught himself, trapping Aziraphale against the blanket, smothering him with kisses, mumbling out words between them. “You are. With your pretty hair.” Kiss. “And your pretty eyes.” Kiss. “And your pretty, pretty cock.”

The shocked laugh against his mouth made Crowley grin over again, rolling to lie on top of his lover, his wiry arms either side of Aziraphale’s head, muscles raised. He looked down, pleased with the rumpled, flustered, deliriously happy sight beneath him.

“I have church in the morning,” Aziraphale admonished, somewhat undercut by how broadly he was smiling.

“Mm, I know you do. Better do something to atone for, then.” Crowley leaned down, nudged Aziraphale’s jaw with his nose and attacked the pulse point of his neck. The reaction was immediate and oh, so enjoyable, Aziraphale arching underneath him with a gasp. Crowley parted his lips and sucked the tender skin between his teeth, hoping he could leave a mark before Aziraphale realised what he was doing.

“You-!” Aziraphale wriggled under him, managing to dislodge him enough to prevent the hickey.

Crowley chuckled into his skin. “Oh, come on, church boy. Let me leave some marks on your pretty skin.”

He flicked open the first button on Aziraphale’s shirt, then the second, trailing teasing, barely-there kisses down his collarbone. With one thigh he pressed up between Aziraphale’s legs, giving just a hint of friction. It was already enough for Crowley to feel it, his cock starting to harden against Aziraphale’s hip as his angel squirmed beneath him.

“You scoundrel,” Aziraphale protested, his hands sliding up Crowley’s thighs. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.” A third button sacrificed to the cause. Crowley nuzzled his way down suggestively, glancing up to see Aziraphale watching him with dark eyes. “I bet you’re dying for me to unbutton you, angel.”

“No,” Aziraphale breathed. “No, I’m not.”

Crowley drew back, sitting back on his heels. He was uncomfortably hot and constrained, but he’d heard the refusal. “Alright, I’m…”

He stopped talking when Aziraphale sat up, bringing them nose-to-nose again. Then there was a hand pushing his shirt up his stomach and another dug into his hip. “No my dear, I’m dying to unbutton you.”

Crowley helped pull the t-shirt over his head and came back in, Aziraphale kissing him. He moaned as those soft hands worked the fly of his jeans, fumbling for a second with his belt buckle before it gave way.

“Fuck, yes, angel,” Crowley gasped, bucking into Aziraphale’s hand, searching for pressure that his angel refused to give.

“No, not like this. Stand up for me. Against the tree.”

Crowley shot to his feet, overeager, his mind suddenly filled with images of what was about to happen. He stumbled, leaning on Aziraphale’s shoulder to steady him as he staggered the single step to the apple tree and let his bare back hit the bark.

Aziraphale knelt at his feet, fingertips digging into the most tender part of his hips and Crowley whined. “Please, please, angel, please.”

He was hard, oversensitive, flinching at the lightest touch as Aziraphale eased his jeans and pants down enough to free him. When Aziraphale’s hand closed around him he moaned shamelessly, staring down at his pretty angel about to suck his cock under the apple tree.

Aziraphale’s intense stare cracked a little as Crowley whimpered, a power-drunk smirk flashing across his face. Then he leaned forward and took Crowley’s cock in his mouth.

Crowley threw his head back, cracking hard against the tree, gasping. “Oh, fuck, angel, yes, yes, fuck…”

He fisted his hands in his own hair to stop him grabbing Aziraphale’s, breathing hard, all his drunken brain power focused on not shoving forward into that soft, soft mouth. Aziraphale held one hand wrapped around the base of his cock and bobbed forward, tongue dragging along the underside.

Crowley whined into his own arm. “Oh, yes, angel, suck me. Suck me just like that, your fucking mouth…”

He was wrecked from the start, the whisky and the night sky and Aziraphale worshipping at his feet. The filthy babbling only seemed to spur Aziraphale on, which was good because he wasn’t sure he could stop. He risked a glance down and moaned.

“Oh, fuck, my angel, you look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth… my pretty angel… oh, God, suck me…”

He couldn’t help it any longer, letting one hand drop to Aziraphale’s hair. Not forcing, never forcing, just to hold him, just to have something to touch as Aziraphale took him deeper. His whole world was the impossibly hot, impossibly wet mouth around him, the tongue working him.

“…tongue feels so good…” The words tumbled out, every one making Aziraphale moan around his cock, take more of him until he felt himself hit the back of his throat, the sucking and licking turning into frantic swallowing. “Fuck, ‘Ziraphale, gonna come… can I – want your mouth…”

Aziraphale started clenching the hand at his hip convulsively, meeting his eye, a moan he prayed was permission vibrating through him. Crowley gripped the ash blond curls in his hand, trembling, his knees threatening to give out on him, and let himself come, swearing loudly into the still night.

Aziraphale swallowed around him, holding him in place, dragging out every excruciatingly perfect moment of it until he slumped back against the apple tree, exhausted.

Crowley’s head swam, the drink and the orgasm working together to bring him back to his knees, clumsily falling into Aziraphale’s arms. He kissed him, hot and open and more in love than he’d ever been, hands already working at Aziraphale’s fly.

“Love you,” he groaned into Aziraphale’s mouth, sharing gasping breaths, hand wrapping around his cock and starting to work him. “Love you.”

They fell backwards, an uncoordinated dance of hands and knees and open kisses as Crowley eased Aziraphale onto his back. He stroked Aziraphale’s cock as he tugged his shirt up, letting him press kisses against the fine hair trailing down from his bellybutton.

“My angel,” Crowley mumbled into the skin. “My pretty angel.”

He leaned forward and took Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, sucking the salty precome off his skin and taking him deep.

Aziraphale’s cry was weak, the hands that wrapped in Crowley’s hair were clumsy, the muscles of his thighs already trembling. There was no finesse to it, Crowley gave him everything he had. He swallowed around him, using his tongue as best he could.

Aziraphale thrust up into his mouth and Crowley moaned, relaxing and letting him take what he needed. He was so worked up it wouldn’t take long. The hands in his hair pulled harder than usual, Aziraphale’s soft oh, oh, oh ringing in his ears. Before long he was coming, hot and thick in Crowley’s mouth. Crowley swallowed everything he was given and licked him clean, the last few drops landing on his lips to be swept up by his tongue.

He used the last of his strength to pull back and lie down beside Aziraphale, their hands finding each other and squeezing tight. They lay under the stars, under the apple tree, breathing hard, side by side.

Crowley rolled his head to the side, looking at Aziraphale. He was already half asleep. Crowley grinned. What a compliment, to have worn his man out like that. A bloody compliment he’d managed to get him to come at all after that much whisky.

Fuck, he was so lovely. Pretty, just like Crowley said, but lovelier, to him, because they could get whisky-drunk and fool around in Crowley’s favourite spot on a Saturday night. Lovelier because they fit, they matched, they worked together.

“C’mon,” he said, just barely finding his voice, tugging his jeans back into place and casting about for his shirt. “You’re staying here tonight.”

Aziraphale made a wordless sound of protest but buttoned himself up again as well. “Nn, I have… have…”

Crowley smiled fondly. He heaved himself to his feet, only staggering a little, and offered a hand. He had to get Aziraphale to bed before they fell asleep in the garden and caught their death. And if it was nice to wake up next to a warm body after a big night, that was just a bonus.

“Don’t worry, angel.” Crowley dragged him to his feet under protest, wrapping an arm around his waist so they could support each other back to the house. He smiled into Aziraphale’s hair, thinking of the velvet ring box stashed in his nightstand, chuckling to himself over his own joke. “I’ll get you to the church on time.”

-----

Fireflies

-----

Crowley’s gardens had always been empty except for him. A solitary figure wandering amongst wisteria and willow, nothing but the flowers and the wind. It had been his sanctuary.

He worked to make it right for Aziraphale’s party. He trimmed down the rose bushes, packed away all his equipment, rearranged the outdoor heaters and what furniture he had. It had only been set up for him, just a couple of chairs, a little table. In the weeks leading up Crowley thought about it, thought about another presence in his garden, the ring that burned a hole in his pocket, what he wanted for himself, and eventually gave in and got some more benches and tables.

He could picture it, not just a single night but going forward. Aziraphale reading under the apple tree, having friends around to drink tea and gossip, the sort of things he’d need if… if… Crowley couldn’t even think it.

So he didn’t. The night of Aziraphale’s 50^th he found a quiet corner with Anathema, hoarding the best snacks, allowed Aziraphale to play the dashing host, and obstinately enjoyed himself instead of melting into a pile of wobbling jelly. The weather was warm enough, the sky clear and turning pink as the sun set, the flowers in brilliant full bloom. There was something nice about seeing it full of people.

“You almost look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Anathema said. She looked better here, as well, with decent champagne in a proper glass, nestled against the potato vines that spilled tiny white flowers through her hair.

“It’s just one night,” Crowley said.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see people in your garden. Come to think of it, I didn’t think I’d ever see your garden. It’s nice.”

“So glad it meets your standards, your majesty.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “So I take it true love hasn’t improved your ability to take a compliment. Is tonight the night?”

“Don’t ask me, we’re not talking about it.” He wasn’t thinking about it. It was like ripping off a plaster or jumping out of a plane; he could do it, just not if he thought too hard about it beforehand.

“He’d love it if you did it out here, in front of all these people.”

“He would. Do you know who wouldn’t love that?”

“Is it you?”

“It is. It’s me,” Crowley nodded. Aziraphale was talking to some people, standing under the wisteria, and looked up as if he’d felt Crowley’s eyes on him. He offered the softest smile, and Crowley could already hear his voice – thank you for this.

He ignored whatever Anathema was saying and climbed to his feet. He’d spent forever getting this garden into shape, making it perfect for the occasion, and he was pretty proud of his finishing touch. Under the porch he found the power outlet, ancient and cobwebbed over with one shiny new plug attached. He threw the switch.

The gardens lit up, dozens of strings of pilfered Christmas lights threaded around the trees and through the taller bushes.

There was a little murmur of approval from Aziraphale’s guests, his guests, as the low sunlight suddenly turned to fireflies, people turning to look around them.

Aziraphale caught his eye again, somehow looking even more sticky sweet and lovestruck, eyes big and glassy. And that was it. Crowley knew the moment was on him. His insides twisted up like someone was trying to giftwrap them. He looked to Anathema who offered him a cheeky grin and mouthed good luck.

Crowley cleared his throat as he walked, not sure his voice would come out normal. He approached Aziraphale and took him by the elbow. “Come on. Little walk.”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes starry, and followed him without question, their hands tangled together as they moved away from the party. Crowley didn’t understand what he found so enjoyable about hanging out with all these people, but he did, he was light with it, relaxed and happy. Maybe it was the people, or the gardens, or just where he found himself at fifty, but Aziraphale was almost floating as Crowley led him to the apple tree.

The glitter of the fairylights was still visible, still catching against Aziraphale’s hair and skin, the silver buttons of his waistcoat. The stars above were vibrant, no clouds in the sky. A blanket of flickering silver and gold, above and below.

“Are we going to cause another scandal?” Aziraphale asked with a smirk. “Because I did receive a good bit of ribbing about Deirdre’s garden party.”

“We’re going to cause… what’s the opposite of a scandal?”

“A celebration, I should think.”

“A celebration.” Crowley stuck his hand in his pocket, closing his fingers around the velvet ring box. He held onto the thing for dear life, his heart leaping to action in his chest, trying to hammer its way out. “I… Aziraphale… I want… Got you a present. Might be cheating to double up, birthday and…”

Whose brilliant idea had it been to wing this? He should have memorised a speech or something. What was that Neruda poem? The one he liked? I love you because I know no other way, so close my hand on your chest – No, fuck. Your hand on my chest –

He dropped Aziraphale’s hand and pulled off his sunglasses, rubbed his eyes. Too dark to see with the bloody things anyway. If he was going to fuck this all up he might as well look the man in the eye while he did it.

Gathering all his courage, he clasped the ring box in his hand and shoved it into Aziraphale’s. Both their hands wrapped around the box, not yet letting Aziraphale look, just feel, but his eyes were already widening. Crowley held their hands together around that box like it was a live grenade.

“I want… We should wake up together every morning. And have your parties here. And do just one Christmas tree, our Christmas tree. And you’re too soft on that cat, he’s got the run of the place.”

He should write romance novels, he should. Really show other idiots how to propose to the love of their life.

But Aziraphale was looking up at him, lip trembling, a disbelieving smile spreading across his face. He looked down at their hands, then back to Crowley, then eased the ring box free, leaving Crowley’s shaking hands without their tether.

Under the apple tree, in the firefly light, Aziraphale opened the box and looked at the simple, shining ring. He let out a sigh, his smile brighter than sunshine.

“I’m afraid I need you to say the words, my darling,” he breathed.

“Marry me,” Crowley blurted. “Will you… Please, marry me.”

Aziraphale laughed, somehow even happier than he had been before, joyful tears springing to his eyes as he nodded. “Of course, of course I will.”

He pulled the ring free and slid it onto his left hand, then lunged forward, wrapping Crowley in an embrace that pushed him back against the old apple tree. A weak, relieved laugh escaped Crowley, pushed out by the impact and he buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, crushing his fiance to him.

The nervous tension holding him up all dropped at once and he turned to mush, holding Aziraphale tight. He said yes. Everything he’d had for the past year, that he hadn’t thought he’d ever have, now it was his forever.

They were still laughing, relieved and a little hysterical, as they made their way back to the party. Crowley had meant to stand back, allow all the attention to fall on Aziraphale, but as soon as the warmth of the gathering hit them he realised he couldn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand. He wanted to wrap himself around his angel and never, ever let go of him again.

He let Aziraphale break the news to the party at large, smile so wide he couldn’t seem to help it, happy tears still lingering on his eyelashes. And they were bombarded, because of course they were, but Crowley let Aziraphale field the congratulations and just held on, refusing to let go for even a heartbeat.

Anathema dragged him in for a hug, maybe the most sincere he’d ever seen her.

“I’m happy for you,” she said, then smiled. “And the cards never lie.”

“I can’t stand you,” he replied, squeezing her tightly before letting her go.

The quiet night of hiding in the corner with the hors d’oeuvres was out the window, but the party wound down as time wore on, the stream of social situations bleeding down to a trickle. He danced with Aziraphale amongst the fairy lights, like someone cast a magic spell on them so they could only look at each other. For one night he could be the sappiest bastard in the South Downs. He was all full of those rose-coloured feelings. Aziraphale in his garden, under his fairy lights, wearing his ring.

It seemed like they danced for hours, a blur of strummy guitar music and champagne and Aziraphale’s dopey, blissed out smile. Crowley thought he must have looked just as love drunk.

Aziraphale held his hands and leaned into his chest. “If someone had told me at twenty that the happiest night of my life would be my fiftieth birthday…”

Crowley chuckled and pressed a kiss into his hair. “You would have called them a liar, and a mean one, at that?”

“How grand it is to be proven wrong. How wonderful to have such a blessing in my life.”

Aziraphale sighed happily and swayed to the music. Crowley held him close and swayed with him. He would have thought the same at twenty. In fact, he would have said the same at forty-five. This had all seemed so impossible such a short time ago. Aziraphale was right, it was a great thing to be proven wrong.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself again that this was real. As improbable as it all seemed, it had happened. He was going to wake up beside Aziraphale every day, was going to argue about dishes and money, was going to meet his stupid family, was going to be there for every smile and every kiss.

He smiled into Aziraphale’s hair. “Happy birthday, angel.”

-----

Butter

-----

On the morning of Aziraphale’s 51^st birthday Crowley sat under the apple tree, looking out over the ocean. Kraken was curled up beside him, purring, and Crowley let one hand rest buried in his fur, gently scratching. His sunglasses sat in his breast pocket.

The flowers were all in bloom, bursting white and pink and red through a sea of green. The apple tree had begun to blossom, though it would be a few months before they saw any fruit. When it did he’d come out and pick them all for Aziraphale before the birds got to them and have weeks of preserving and stewing and weird apple experiments.

He breathed deeply, letting the ocean air and the scent of the flowers fill his lungs, and closed his eyes for a minute.

“C’mon, puss,” he said, letting the moment pass. “Better go see what he’s up to.”

The cat looked up at him, offended to be woken from his nap, but dutifully uncurled with him and trotted back to the cottage. The fairy lights were strung up again, a tradition now, and the furniture was starting to grow into its surroundings, sinking into the ground, creeping vines twisting around the bases.

Crowley stopped at the patio, gazing through the window into the kitchen. His husband (husband) was hard at work, filo pastry laid out, one hand wielding a basting brush dripping with butter while the other hand folded, working his concoction into perfect little triangles. He was sweating from the heat of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a crinkle of concentration between his eyebrows. A cake sat cooling on the bench alongside the general debris that followed Aziraphale everywhere. Cookbooks and regular books, the aloe vera plant, wooden spoons and balled up tea towels and a thin layer of flour over it all.

Crowley opened the door, letting Kraken slink his way in before following. It had been a hard choice, not so long ago, to let go of the cottage on Rose Road with its spectacular view. But Aziraphale’s presence was not so much creeping into Crowley’s home as it had taken over. Bookshelves lined half the walls, there was a tartan throw rug on his crisp leather couch and they had combined their respective pillows into a pillow mountain fit for a sultan.

They’d also brought in the bar stools where Crowley could sit and annoy his husband (husband) while he cooked.

Aziraphale brushed down another sheet of pastry, fingers glistening with warm butter. “How’s the garden looking?”

“Tickety boo. All ready for tonight. How’s the food?” Crowley stuck a finger into some sweet looking batter, earning himself a swat on the hand but winning his scoop of chocolatey goo.

“Better without sticky fingers in it. Deirdre called ahead, she wanted to know if they could pick up those lemon trees while they’re here tonight.”

“Mm, s’all bagged up,” Crowley mumbled, finger in his mouth. “I’ll call her.”

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale leaned up for a kiss and Crowley obliged. “It’s going to be quite a get-together tonight. Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“I’ll be fine. Worst comes to worst I’ll get drunk and make a scene.”

When had his teasing threats stopped working? Aziraphale only laughed at him. “I’ll task Anathema with keeping an eye on your consumption then.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She’d be unbearable. If he thought she was unbearable before it was only because he didn’t know what it was like when they ganged up on him to make him ‘behave himself’ or ‘not die young’.

“That’s the last of the pastries, I’ll start on the canapes after lunch.” Aziraphale slid the baking tray of little filo triangles into the fridge and turned to grab a tea towel off the counter to wipe down his buttery hands.

Crowley caught his wrist.

“Lunch, you say?” Crowley leaned forward, smirking and raised Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth. He licked the butter from the tip of his thumb, then lightly sucked.

Aziraphale turned bright pink, his free hand fluttering. “Crowley! I have work to do.”

Crowley sucked the next finger clean. “Mm, that’s why I’m cleaning you up. So you can get to work.”

He loved the way Aziraphale’s hand trembled in his, how he kept opening his mouth to launch some objection only to let out a breathy bit of nothing. He grinned, the tip of Aziraphale’s finger caught in his teeth.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed in what had surely been meant as a stern tone.

“We’ve got some time before lunch, I want to give my husband…” (husband) “…a birthday gift.”

Crowley coaxed him out of the kitchen, trading smiling kisses, greasy hands clasping. Aziraphale tasted like pine nuts and brown sugar, smelled like a day of baking, mixing his soft floured essence with the earth and greenery of Crowley’s day gardening as they tugged each other toward the bedroom.

Before the end of the day the house would be full of people. Anathema would be set up in the lounge reading people’s fortunes, the mother hens would be trading pie recipes with Aziraphale and Crowley would be talking classic cars with the old bloke from the hardware store. The gardens would be lit with fairy lights and the house would smell like freshly baked pastry.

Five years to build a new life. Five years to grow an orchard, to develop a career he could enjoy, to get killer calves running on the beach. Five years ago it had been a dream, an almost insurmountable task that tested every limit of his patience and determination. He had only kept going by chasing that golden goal, the far-fetched dream that he could be happy. And it had been such hard work, but he had put in the work, made something to be proud of.

And now the lovingly tended pieces of his life knitted back together in silk thread and tartan. The last piece of the puzzle. His other half. The part of the dream he’d never dared hope for. He fell against the bed with his husband, a smile free and easy on his face.

Comments

[demonsadvocate]

I feel as if I have just been served with a superb 3 course meal. A light, yet tasty, starter to begin, followed by a sumptuous main course and all finished off with a dessert which rounded things off beautifully.

Altogether a lovely AU setting.

[(Anonymous)]

This is so lovely! Thank you for sharing this. I cried when Crowley realized. I love this take on them as humans.

[juliet]

This is fabulous. Really enjoyed reading it.

[shoebox_addict]

I genuinely teared up at the end of this, it was so utterly wonderful. I've been reading this over the past few days, and it's just lit me up from the inside. A wonderfully drawn AU with all those essential elements still there. The way you write Crowley's love and adoration of Aziraphale is so sweet. The big "are we boyfriends" moment was so good, and the proposal melted my heart into candy goo. Bravo, I loved every minute of this!

[hiddenlacuna]

So beautiful! What a ride. So lovely to have a slow story of learning to trust and love and be loved. Can’t wait to bookmark it!

[emmagrant01]

I enjoyed reading this so much! It was a gorgeous, slow-burning ride with a ton of angst, and every moment was glorious. Crowley’s anxiety and pain were palpable throughout, and Aziraphale’s gentle understanding was so lovely - even if the two of them were generally idiots about the whole thing. But I love them as idiots? They’re so perfectly idiotic together.

Thank you for this fantastic story!

[curiouslissa]

This is a gem of the Good Omens Holiday Exchange!
I didn't want this story to end, it sucked me right in and I kept constantly returning to it in my thoughts during the days it took me to read it :)
First of all, this is such a clever human AU, both of them are so in character, even though they are not actually the angel and the demon, their personalities stayed the same. You don't even question Aziraphale's name, it suits him so well, just as it is when Crowley starts to call him "angel" <3 Oh, how perfect your Crowley is, such a brittle sarcastic show-off, but so caring and hopeful and ridiculous XD <3 Their first meeting, the Fall, the way they both were dithering around each other was just brilliant and so endearing <3
And I want to thank you especially for making them middle-aged, it's not a common thing for a human AU, and it really suits them! And I loved how you handled it: they have their own separate histories behind them and so their chance for a new happy life together feels all the more precious <3 And I applaud your sense of humour (oh, Anathema with her comments was quite something! :D)
Delicious, delicious angst.
Perfect pining Crowley.
All the amazingly beautiful scenes, like their first kiss, or Aziraphale coming to Crowley's house to bring him books, the storm...
How cathartic was Crowley's breakdown, and how sweet and caring was Aziraphale <3
The hottest bedroom scene *_*
And the fluffiest of fluff in the end! I love them <3
Masterful work! Can't wait to learn who you are, dear Secret Author :)

[sonnet23]

This was absolutely delicious! <3
When the story begins you sort of don't expect it to be so full of emotional roller-coasters! The set is so idyllic, and the sense of humour makes it easy and pleasant to read. But at the same time, you made us worry so much for these precious idiots! Mostly it's the effect of Crowley's POV because although we feel that Aziraphale certainly loves him back, we can't help but suffer from the same anxieties together with Crowley. It is all so brilliantly created! <3

I was so happy for them in the end! When Crowley broke down and Aziraphale had chamomile tea and valium prepared for him, I was sobbing in the bus and ran out of tissues.:D

Thank you so much!