Happy Holidays, ineffably_good!

[goe_mod]

Title: Dressed for Success
Recipient: ineffably_good
Author: [redacted]
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 15000
Tags/Warnings: Emerging romantic relationship, misunderstandings, light angst with a happy ending, service top Aziraphale, bottom Crowley, (references to top Crowley/bottom Aziraphale), body image issues, resolved argument.

Summary: Post-not-apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley are trying to navigate their emerging romantic relationship. It's harder than it sounds when both parties are bringing more than six thousand years worth of baggage along for the ride. (Or: Aziraphale finds out why Crowley really hated the 14th century, and gets the opportunity to clear up a long-held misunderstanding.)

Notes: ineffably_good, I really loved your prompts and had trouble settling on just one. I've included elements from your first prompt as well as writing to your second prompt. I truly hope you enjoy your gift and that you have the happiest of holiday seasons. I'd also like to send warm holiday wishes out to my beta, Soap/Soaponarope (AO3), who is a master of streamlining and catching the many times I get stuck on a word I like a lot and end up repeating it over and over.


Aziraphale sunk further into his overstuffed chair in the back room of the bookshop, savoring the swallow of pinot noir he'd just gulped from his glass, his decorum slipping incrementally as the alcohol seeped further into him. He and Crowley were two bottles in, having retired here after a simply lovely performance of...oh, whatever they'd seen earlier that evening. Aziraphale could remember that the actors had been spectacular and the sets magnificent, but all he could really recall was how over the moon he felt to be sitting there with Crowley, in the open, without worrying about the cover story he might need later.

They'd dressed up for the occasion, and Aziraphale looked down at himself with a small measure of satisfaction. His surprise had gone over quite well, this new suit his tailor had finished for him earlier in the week. Crowley looked absolutely smashing, just as he usually did, but in a slightly more formal jacket and trousers that were fitted so precisely to the demon's backside and long, lithe legs that Aziraphale's mouth had gone quite dry the moment he'd seen them.

Their earlier attention to their appearance had faltered as the wine had flowed—Aziraphale's new-fangled long, silk tie was now loose around his neck, and the first three buttons of Crowley's shirt were undone and pulled open enough to expose the defined lines of his clavicle.

Aziraphale itched to do something with these...observations of Crowley's many attractive features, both physical and intangible, but they were still on somewhat shaky footing with each other. Oh, confessions and declarations had been made in the wake of the apocalypse that never quite got off the ground, and they had come to something of an Understanding. As joyful as life could be for Aziraphale now that he was free to admit to being in love with Crowley, they were both clearly fumbling for ways to truly make the transition.

He heaved out a deep sigh, letting his head sink back into the cushion, thinking more on it as they sat together, the conversation lulling for a moment. Perhaps it had been inevitable that this period of change would take them time to get through, given how long the status quo had remained in place.

And—ah! Aziraphale smiled to himself, recalling that they had rather sunk into their new paradigm on several occasions now, when the lights had been dimmed and their gentle kisses slowly progressed to something deeper, their hands set loose to wander.

He just couldn't—not for the life of him—recall exactly how they had managed the transition on those occasions. Kissing Crowley had many delightful effects, none of which the angel would trade for anything, but it did have one that seemed rather inconvenient to Aziraphale at the moment: a tendency to blunt Aziraphale's concrete memories around those moments, his mind instead choosing to lovingly commit the sensations of the experience in exquisite detail. It was all the feel of Crowley's lips, those lean muscles under Aziraphale's hands, and that smoky, spicy scent that he associated with Crowley filling his senses.

He could never quite remember, afterwards, how they'd gotten there. That had led to Crowley doing all of the initiating, and Aziraphale silently wanting yet unable to work out how to ask for what he desired.

Aziraphale frowned a little, looking up and taking in the space between them. With everything they'd said to and done with each other, Aziraphale should have just been able to snuggle into the sofa next to Crowley, but those old—ancient, really—habits had kicked in, and he'd settled into the armchair instead.

"All right, angel. Out with it," Crowley said, his voice honeyed and low, roughened by the alcohol. "You've been over there with that worry-crease in your forehead, and now you're staring at me like I'm some sort of text you're having trouble translating."

Aziraphale stifled an uncomfortable laugh, wishing Crowley wasn't quite so good at seeing directly inside of him and pulling out truths he might or might not be ready to face. Perhaps it hadn't been Crowley himself he'd been trying to decipher, but he had certainly been trying to work out how their particular puzzle pieces were meant to fit together.

And worse, he was so dizzy with the wine and a touch panicked at the uncertainty of it all that he fell back on one of his oldest, most shameful coping mechanisms.

He lied.

"I was merely admiring you in your new suit, my dear, and trying to arrange some sort of compliment that could even come close to expressing my deep admiration for the tailoring, and for you in it."

"What? This?" Crowley said, sitting up a little, pulling at the lapel of his suit jacket. "Hardly different from what I usually wear. Now, you...in that new suit..." His golden eyes fairly glowed in the darkness of the room, and Aziraphale shifted self-consciously in his seat.

"I don't really think these modern fashions are for me, I'm afraid." He plucked at his shirt, missing his waistcoat quite severely. "I've never been truly suited to moving ahead as quickly as the humans do." He regarded Crowley's long, relaxed form again, appreciating the way his clothes clung to him. Every clothing trend throughout the ages had sat well on the demon. So much so, in fact, that Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from saying it out loud a moment after he'd thought it.

"What?" Crowley said, laughing. His eyes were wide with delighted surprise, and for a moment, Aziraphale was back up on the eastern wall of Eden, equal parts flustered and smitten with the demon who had such expressive features and a charmingly curious nature.

"You heard me," Aziraphale said, his face growing hot, and not just from the third bottle of wine they'd polished off. "Every era flattered you: togas, or breeches, or brocade gowns..." He stopped, getting lost in memories of the many times he'd savored crossing paths with Crowley and how flustered he became each time the trends of the day enhanced how compelling he found his adversary.

"Now I know you're putting me on," Crowley said, taking another long swig from his wine. Aziraphale looked longingly at the way Crowley's lovely, long fingers wrapped around the smooth neck of the bottle. "I've looked complete rubbish for centuries, sometimes. There's no need for you to exaggerate."

Were compliments the way to shift the evening into something more intimate? It seemed like a good idea to Aziraphale, and this particular method had the virtue of being absolutely true. Aziraphale honestly couldn't remember a single moment of their shared history when at least some part of him, even if he'd had to bury it deep under a mountain of denial, hadn't found Crowley absolutely striking. And it wasn't just his corporation; it was the way Crowley moved, the power and style that he exuded—that spark within him that transcended everything else.

"You have never failed to take my breath away, my dear," Aziraphale said, wishing he could have said it more loudly, or that he'd had the confidence to stride over to his love, to kneel down and take his hand while whispering the sweet words to him.

"Never saw me in the fourteenth century, then, did you?" Crowley had mumbled this, the words barely audible through the tipsy haze making Aziraphale's head feel a little too light.

"On the contrary, we did meet at least once back then." Aziraphale remembered it well, and couldn't believe Crowley had forgotten. "We even spoke about clothing, as I recall!"

"Yeah," Crowley said, and he was sitting up straight now, an unreadable look on his face, like he'd gone blank. "So anyway, angel—"

"Wait, I'm sure I have the right of it. We spoke about women's fashions, and those horrible sumptuary laws you were trying to subvert. Ridiculous, those bans the nobles tried to put on the bourgeoisie to keep them from having the newest nice things. Then we saw each other a few years later, after you'd tried the same thing, but with men's fashions."

"Yep. You're right. That was it." Crowley looked truly troubled now, his knee bouncing with nervous energy. "Silly of me to forget. But you know how I feel about the fourteenth century, angel, so let's just—"

"No," Aziraphale said, looking over and taking in—really taking in—Crowley's body language. He braced himself and pushed the fog from his mind as the wine refilled its original bottles. "There's something wrong. You're upset. I can feel it."

"That's cheating, using your angelic..." Crowley said, waving his hand vaguely in Aziraphale's direction. "Whatever angels have instead of wiles, that thing where you can eavesdrop on...those things..." Crowley's gesture changed, his hand now circling in front of his own chest and stomach, still oddly graceful despite his inebriation.

"Feelings?" Aziraphale supplied, and Crowley cringed. He was probably a mere moment from protesting that demons simply chose not to have any of those, a ridiculous falsehood when Aziraphale considered how breathtakingly expressive the demon sitting opposite him had always been with his emotions as they raged just below the surface.

"Ugh," Crowley groaned, looking a little sick.

"I think perhaps you'd better sober up as well."

Crowley let out a deep breath, his shoulders dropping forward. "Yeah, all right."

When the alcohol had left Crowley's system, the two of them stared at one another, neither apparently eager to speak first.

"Listen, I should go," Crowley finally said, his hands on either side of himself, ready to push him up to stand.

If he did that, he'd leave, and they'd never talk about this. There was something painful Crowley was carrying with him, and Aziraphale would never get up the nerve to broach the subject again.

"I think we should talk about it," Aziraphale said, the words flooding out in a rush before he could second-guess himself. "Whatever has you so upset. And before you correct me, Crowley, I would be able to tell you were upset right now even if I wasn't an angel who could 'cheat' by just sensing it from you."

"Tell me what you want to talk about." Crowley's voice was guarded in a way that hadn't been pointed in Aziraphale's direction for centuries. Millennia, even.

Aziraphale felt sick at the sound of it. It took him a moment to gather himself together and give an answer.

"I'd like you to explain to me what's got you so upset," he began. "So I can help, o—or," he said, finding it difficult to continue, "or at least so I can understand, and know how to avoid bringing it up again."

Crowley put his head in his hands. "I really," he said through his fingers, "truly despised the bloody fourteenth century."

---

1353

Crowley picked up her skirts, the velvet soft against her fingers, but it was difficult to enjoy the sensation when the ridiculously wide hems on the sleeves of her outer cloak also seemed to be trying to swim in the dusty grime along the walkway. She was tempted to miracle some new clothes for herself right there, out in the open, and damn the risk. The disapproving looks from the clergy and the men of the village that had once been quite enjoyable now ached like a wasp's sting.

Her plan had worked a treat if one measured it only by her initial intentions. She'd arrived in England earlier in the century to take some of the credit for the Black Death (though it had sickened her a little to do so when she saw the situation firsthand) only to find herself annoyed at the idiotic sumptuary laws that had popped up, restricting what people (mostly women) were allowed to wear. Most of the wives of the more well-off members of the bourgeoisie longed to wear the rich colors and fabrics the nobility were keeping to themselves, a covetousness so intense that it had become an unrelenting background buzz in Crowley's demonic senses.

She'd been quite relieved to find some stomachable mischief she could get up to, some discord she could sow, that she could happily take credit for in her reports back to Hell. Nothing made her feel ill about inspiring women to ask for something they wanted—something they deserved, given the idiot husbands most of them had to put up with—and it was always a joy to shake up the class structure and make the nobles clutch their pearled buttons and embroidered fabrics in alarm.

Most of the assignments she'd had from Hell over the past few centuries hadn't seemed nearly as fun, especially the things she hadn't actually done and hoped no one would notice.

This one should have been a pleasure.

Her mouth was set into a grim line, lips narrowed, as she strode toward the inn where she was renting a room. It hadn't been long, perhaps an hour, since she'd seen the woman being berated by her husband after he'd had to pay a fine because of the clothing she'd been seen wearing around the market. Crowley had felt the wrath coming from the man and the fear from his wife as she'd cried and promised never to wear her (treasured; the sadness poured off her in waves) purple cloak with the fur-lined hood ever again.

She liked to sow discontent as much as the next demon, but this wasn't what she'd set out to do. The idea had been to make these women's lives more tolerable and to get the rest of polite society to thumb their noses at the Church and the idiocy of the nobility.

Instead, she'd felt that husband's rage seeping through every pore in his body, and had no reason to think it wouldn't turn violent once they were in private.

Crowley seethed.

It didn’t take long for the anger to turn to regret, even some approximation of guilt, as she had been the one to inspire those exact fashions among the wealthy wives of the most successful merchants in the area.

It made her want to rip the clothes from her body, tear the silk to shreds, let every tiny pearl button scatter its way into the gutters.

Instead, it would inspire her to get tragically, heroically drunk.

---

She had, indeed, gone to her room to change into clothing that would get her fewer stares for her audacity before coming back out to drink. Existing in public as a woman who was swallowing down pint after pint of ale still garnered her plenty of notice, though, and she'd just had to rebuff the second gentleman (she used the term loosely) who'd assumed she was a particularly daring prostitute. His hands had settled too close her breasts when he'd slid his hands around her shoulders from behind, and the only way she could smile at him as he tromped angrily away was knowing the demonic miracle she'd just muttered under her breath would give him some nasty boils in a very inconvenient and painful place.

Another swig of the ale went down, burning its way through her throat. She hated ale, the tang of the fermented grains too earthy and bitter in all the wrong ways. For the thousandth time, she hated herself a little more for nudging the climate in the area to turn colder, thinking it would foment some ill will among the populace. The only thing it had truly done was make the growing of crops, including those lovely vines of rich, red grapes, damnably difficult, and with their disappearance made scarce the wine she so dearly loved.

"Crowley?"

"For the last time," she said, waving her mug and letting some of the whale-piss ale spill over the top, "I am not a prostitute and I will not retire back to your rooms with you."

Aziraphale, dressed in a monk's robes and wearing a bemused expression, came into view as he sat down across from Crowley at the table. Crowley wasn't sure whether to groan or faint away with pure delight at this development.

"I should hope not," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement in the dank, dark light of the inn. "Though, one does try very hard not to judge."

"Ah yes, that's the hallmark of your sort," Crowley said, taking a large enough gulp that the ale spilled along her cheeks at the sides of the mug. "Not judging people."

"Well, never mind that," Aziraphale said, his smile faltering. "Would you mind if we shared a mug or two? I've just helped the monks deliver more ale, and I'm absolutely knackered. I could really use a few moments off my feet."

Crowley shrugged and gestured expansively at the table, though she was still trying to work out why the angel often seemed quite delighted when they bumped into each other.

"What brings you to England?" Crowley asked. She'd had an odd tickle itching somewhere inside her for awhile now, something that always set in whenever Aziraphale was within a few hundred miles of her own location. Certainly there had been a few blessings floating around that led to a weakening of the plague, but other than those, Crowley hadn't seen any other signs of angelic intervention.

Aziraphale leaned down and lowered his voice, and Crowley had to stifle a laugh. Apparently the angel had never noticed the way Crowley shrouded them in a veil of demonic misdirection when they chanced upon each other out in the world, to keep their conversations private.

"I've been at the monastery, you see, giving inspiration to the monks. Several of them were...well, losing their way. I decided to spend some time getting them back on the straight and narrow, as it were."

"Decided?" Crowley said, sensing something off about the way the angel had put that, and she zeroed in on it, wanting to ferret out the truth beneath.

"I haven't—oh, I probably shouldn't be telling you this," the angel said, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly that it pinched his entire face together. "I haven't been given an assignment in quite awhile."

"Quite awhile?" Crowley prompted, keeping her voice low to lull Aziraphale into continuing. It was clear the lack of assignments was bothering him, and who else could he possibly complain to about it?

"A decade or so," Aziraphale said, barely audible and under his breath. "I'm afraid to contact them, you see, because there's been talk of calling me back to Heaven." He looked surprised to have said this and immediately began to backtrack. "Of course, if that's Her will, I will go without reservation."

"Of course," Crowley agreed, taking a long sip of the ale and waiting, because the crackling in the air between them positively vibrated with Aziraphale's need to confess whatever was on his mind.

"It's just...there's so much that needs doing here. So many in need." Aziraphale looked around, exuding a faint glow as he regarded the other patrons. "And Earth is quite lovely, really. So many of Her wonders here to behold. Never a dull moment, if one is careful to keep oneself busy."

Crowley nodded.

"I feel closer to Her here," Aziraphale said, directly into his mug. "Closer than I have in a long, long time."

"You should stay, then. Like you said, there's a lot needs doing. And you have my deeds to follow behind, undoing, as well."

"Ah, and what messes of yours shall I be untangling, then, now that I know we're in the same area? Encouraging the farmers to sloth? Gambling?"

Starting a gambling ring wasn't a bad idea, really. Crowley made a mental note of it, and then tried to figure out if she should be cagey or just answer the question. Aziraphale looked as though the weight of a bronze anvil had been lifted from his shoulders after talking through his problems. Perhaps the same would happen for Crowley if she followed suit.

Crowley leaned back, got as comfortable as it was possible to be on these gnarled, wooden chairs, and decided to unburden herself.

"Surely you know about the sumptuary laws?"

Aziraphale pulled a face, something like exasperation or disgust.

"Yes, and what a silly waste of time they are. The Church shouldn't be so beholden to the nobility, for one thing, and I'd really like to know why they find so much satisfaction in these attempts to keep women 'in line,' as it were. The laws are meant to apply to men and women alike, but they are much less frequently applied to men." Aziraphale looked guiltily across the table. "You must know this better than I, being..." He trailed off, his eyes darting around uneasily.

"Woman-shaped, at the moment?" Crowley supplied, and Aziraphale nodded. "Been trying to encourage the more well-off women in several of these villages to revolt. Thought if they all ignored the laws, the nobles would have to give in eventually."

This got her a raised eyebrow in return, which just made Crowley feel worse. She should have remembered how much some humans loved that feeling of control, how the avaricious would relish doling out scores of fines. It still rankled, after all these centuries, how markedly her fortunes among the humans changed when she chose to appear female.

"Yes, I can hear how idiotic that sounds, now I've said it out loud," Crowley growled, shutting off her simulated breathing so she could empty her mug in an improbably long series of gulps.

"I shouldn't say this," Aziraphale began, and that was certainly enough to get Crowley's attention again. The things the angel tended to be most reluctant to admit were usually quite delicious. "I agree with you. The whole business is such a horrid twisting of Her will."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, reclining further as she basked in the waves of such strong and conflicting emotions pouring off of Aziraphale.

"Is it bad, do you think, that we agree on this?"

"I'm sure it's a coincidence," Crowley said, deciding to soften Aziraphale's distress. "We both got there for different reasons, I'm sure."

"Ah." The angel's smile was almost blinding, the corona of his halo almost poking through to this realm and shining around his golden curls. "That seems likely."

"Anyway, it hardly matters. It isn't working. At least, not the way I intended."

"It's a shame," Aziraphale whispered, sounding truly regretful. "If your charm and wiles aren't enough to wrest these silly notions of control and the ridiculous hoarding of certain comforts, I'm sure it can't be done. Certainly not while they still consider women to be morally weak, or this nonsense about them bringing about the ruin of man."

The truth seared as Crowley took it in, considering how all the frustrations and little slights endured while presenting as a woman had been wearing her thin.

"As it happens, I've been feeling more male, recently." It was odd how true it felt as she said it, though the observation was only crystallizing now. "Might be time to settle into this village as my brother."

"Oh, that's brilliant! You could give your scheme a try as a man. Perhaps you'd make more headway."

Crowley growled, annoyed at how correct that felt.

"Don't know," she said, affecting an air of carelessness. "Maybe if it amuses me, I'll try again." She frowned, realizing she'd just lost most of Aziraphale's attention.

"The monks seem to be looking around for me," Aziraphale said, his eyes pointed at the table. He looked almost sad...regretful? "I should be going, I suppose."

Crowley shrugged, as though it was nothing to her either way.

"Well," Aziraphale said, standing and fidgeting in place, his hands seeming particularly restless. "Do take care of yourself, Crowley."

Crowley raised her mug and watched the angel retreat, telling herself that she didn't care that he never seemed to look back once he'd decided to take his leave.

---

Present Day

"Yes, you've made my point quite well, I think!" Aziraphale tilted his head, thinking back again on the clothes he'd seen Crowley wearing around the village before he'd gotten up the nerve to (purposefully) run into her at the inn. "Those velvets and deep, rich colors...the fur linings...the marvelous hats. All of it suited you."

Crowley shrugged, deflecting the compliment with yet another unreadable expression, and Aziraphale wished he understood what Crowley was trying to tell him.

"It wasn't my best plan, if I'm honest. Couldn't quite get things off the ground, no matter what I tried."

"But you tried again! Unconscionable though it may have been that you couldn't make headway into the issue as a woman, I recall you being on the absolute cutting edge of fashion when we next met. I'd been seeing the same on nearly every merchant I ran into, and the sumptuary laws seemed to relax around that time. Surely you reported that as a win in your missives back to home office. Quite a victory, I would have thought."

"Didn't have anything to do with me," Crowley growled in a low, gravelly voice, as though he was speaking to himself. "Happened around me. Yeah, I took credit for it, but all I did was suffer through the nonsense and make a bloody fool of myself."

"Certainly not!" Aziraphale cried. "I'm quite sure—"

"Angel," Crowley cut in, his voice sharp. "Maybe it really is better if we don't talk about this."

"I wouldn't..." Aziraphale began, frustrated and utterly confused at how far astray their evening had gone. "I mean to say, I would never force you discuss something you find difficult. If you say the word—"
"You'll wonder about it, though," Crowley said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two of his fingers, as though he had a terrible headache.

"Of course I'll wonder about it, Crowley, but what I said stands."

Crowley shook his head. "Brace yourself, Aziraphale. You're about to find out why I really hated the fourteenth century."

---

1358

Five years. Five years was a pittance of time when compared to the long history of exploits Crowley had trailing behind him, but these particular five years felt more like a lifetime.

This plan should have been easier, presenting as a man in this solidly male-dominated culture, especially with so many of his presumed contemporaries made up of fairly weak moral character. It should have been child's play to nudge them, to press wiles upon them here or there to help weaken the footing of the nobility and the Church.

And it had been quite easy, actually, to tempt the most prominent of the merchants to indulge in the spoils of wealth the nobility wanted so badly to keep to themselves.

When Crowley had pictured doing this as a man, however, he'd somehow imagined he would be the one introducing the trends. He'd always had an eye for clothing, he felt, and relished the idea of spreading the popularity of some truly inspired garments. If pride was a sin, he'd set out to bathe in it, to walk the streets buoyed by the satisfaction of seeing others wearing the clothing his own whims had brought into being.

Yet, once he'd set his mind to it, he'd found there was some unknown hand guiding things, always a step ahead of him. The speed at which the new fashions took hold outpaced Crowley's plans so severely that he'd found himself stumbling to catch up, forced to help popularize them rather than propagate some of his own.

He hadn't been very plugged into men's society here during his years as a woman, and it seemed some of the truly influential men were still unknown to him. He grumbled a little as he walked along the path.

A moment later, when Crowley found himself face down in the dirt, he realized the irony of just having thought to himself that he was figuratively stumbling to catch up. This idiotic and yet firmly established trend toward ridiculous shoes was certainly going to do him in.

Crowley's serpentine nature was never truly gone, no matter how effectively he'd taught himself to shift forms to appear completely human. The joints and limbs had always been the hardest parts to get right, and his hips and legs had always suffered the most. They forced him to walk differently than a human would, so he'd adapted it into a sort of swagger, covering his vulnerability with a show of strength and power.

These newest fashions for men seemed determined to showcase all of Crowley's weakest points. The tunics got shorter and shorter, and more form-fitting at the waist. Breeches did the same, rising upward and revealing more leg under tight hose and garters. The new finery revealed every odd sway or otherworldly joint movement Crowley made as he walked, drawing far too much of the wrong sort of attention.

But the worst—the worst by far—were the bloody shoes. He had no idea what sort of criminal mastermind had popularized them, but the sodding pointed shoes made walking as a serpent-turned-manlike-being a misery.

The most coveted of the styles had points at the toe that were long and irregularly shaped, perfect for making Crowley stumble as they caught on an uneven patch of ground. Despite their utter impracticality, they were widely embraced as a fashion necessity. The length of the tips were supposedly a measure of one's wealth and power, so being seen with anything less than a shoe that would cause even the most nimble of men to lose their footing had become unthinkable.

When paired with the huge hems on his sleeves which caused the fabric to drag on the ground and become perilously easy to trip over...well, Crowley had gotten quite familiar with hoisting himself up from the dirt over the past few years.

Dusting himself off, he resumed his walk back to the inn, trying to be more careful this time. He knew he hadn't been paying enough attention. He'd been thinking about the party he'd just left, how he'd decided to disappear once that bloody nickname had come out again.

It was entirely the fault of these form-fitting clothes. Crowley was thin—sinewy, he liked to think, in his more optimistic moments—and the current fashions made his build far too apparent. Some of the burlier, wealthier men had taken to calling men built the way Crowley was 'weak,' or worse, 'angelic.'

Crowley knew angels—had been an angel—and he knew very well there was nothing weak about them. And he was well shot of Heaven, filled with those sanctimonious bastards who'd stab you in the back as soon as look at you. It shouldn't have bothered him, shouldn't have stung like this.

(But it did, all of it did, from the first moment he'd gasped for breath as he burst upward through the sulfur until now. Every slight and indignity afterward could only magnify it, twist the knife, further chill the ice around his heart.)

And having that word—"Ah, let's have this fine, angelic lad open the next bottle for us!"—spew forth from the mouth of the most boring slab of meat currently walking around on two legs, then hearing the laughter that followed behind it...

It festered within him the same way the many slights and injustices of presenting as a woman had. Always striving toward something, going out into the world to ease the itching of his soul as it screamed at him to poke and prod at the human condition, yet he always felt unworthy or disregarded in the end. He'd made a lifestyle out of it, this drive inside him to push his grasping fingers toward some kind of deeper understanding, always falling short.

All it caused him was pain, from the first questions that leapt unbidden from his mouth and the way Heaven had rejected him, then life as a woman where she never seemed able to escape the irrational bonds set upon her, to life as a man where he somehow still failed to be acceptable.

It was time to stop. He'd come to the end of this larger plan, this ill-conceived notion to spread chaos through personal freedom. He could feel the rage within him burning after the last decade of slights, no matter what he had tried.

This was what he got for trying to...ugh, he hadn't been trying to help the humans, had he?

Of course not. Tempt them into excess, maybe. Encourage them to covet, definitely. Sow discontent? Always. But help? He spat on the ground in disgust at the mere thought of it.

He burst through the door to the inn, stalking toward the common room and letting an aura of darkness and gloom cloud around him. That should be enough to force people to give him a wide berth, allow him to lick his wounds in peace until he could make another plan. Perhaps it was time to move on to another village, somewhere he could get some proper mischief done.

Maybe he could even put an end to this miserable, frigid weather and get some decent grapes growing again. He could do with a respectable bottle of wine.

Just as he was settling into a satisfying bout of brooding, he heard his name called out from across the room, the voice far too familiar.

"Crowley! Yes, I was certain it was you. How lovely to run into you again."

The angel's eyes seemed to take in every inch of him, darkening Crowley's mood even further. It was one thing to gad about the village looking ridiculous when he was trying to get some decent evil done, but it was another thing entirely to be seen this way by his...adversary? Rival? Sod it, Crowley could never figure out exactly what was simmering in his chest when he and Aziraphale were in the same room or what the angel was to him.

(Well, he could figure it out. But he chose not to.)

"Before you get too comfortable, I'll warn you." He paused, wondering why he was about to tell the angel about the terrible mood he was in. What should he care if he let some of his ire spill over onto Aziraphale? He was a demon, wasn't he? "I wasn't planning on staying long," he finished instead, hiding his wince at how pathetic he sounded.

"I imagine you've got any number of fancy parties or important meetings to get to," Aziraphale went on, apparently oblivious to Crowley's mood. "Dressed in all the modern splendor, which I'll have you know I've seen on every influential holder of wealth in the county, noble or not."

"Yeah, does seem like it," Crowley agreed, and caught the angel staring at him. His gaze seemed to be fixed on Crowley's midsection, then trailed down his legs to those preposterous shoes, all with a glassy sort of sheen making his eyes almost glow.

Barely contained fury welled up inside Crowley, as he wondered if the angel was having a fine old laugh to himself at how ridiculous the clothes were, how they made him look weak, how they caused him unending discomfort. Did the pain linger around him in an aura Aziraphale could see? He always seemed to know when one of the humans around him needed a blessing to ease some injury within, after all.

It stung more than Crowley would ever admit, even to himself, that Aziraphale might take such personal, visceral glee at seeing the way his adversary's plans had backfired.

"I have to go," he grit out through his teeth, letting his eyes fall to the floor meaningfully to imply that he wasn't merely planning to go back to the room he was renting. "Reports need to be filed, that kind of thing."

"Of course," Aziraphale said, still beaming, his eyes flickering along Crowley's shoulders, then back to lock eyes with him.

"Yeah," Crowley growled, standing up and nearly pushing the chair backward into the wall as he did. "Won't be coming back here, afterward," he added, suddenly knowing he couldn't be here with Aziraphale any longer, not when he'd have to debase himself in these clothes in front of him.

"Time to move on?" Aziraphale said, taking a sip of his drink, suddenly looking everywhere but at Crowley.

"Finally got an assignment. Other side of the world...really...far away. You can do your good deeds here in peace. Probably won't run into each other for a long time."

"Ah." Aziraphale's polite smile fell, his face blanking into something like complete neutrality. "What a relief, not to have to worry about you unraveling all the good I've done."

"Yeah," he said, turning and starting to walk away. "See you around, angel," he tossed over his shoulder.

Aziraphale said something in return, but Crowley couldn't make out what. The consonants blended into the background din of their fellow patrons, and all that remained was that soft tone, the one Crowley would recognize anywhere.

He knew he wouldn't hear it again for decades. Centuries, maybe.

He kept walking, and told himself he didn't care.

---

Present Day

"You thought I was laughing at you?" Aziraphale sputtered, standing up and fidgeting in place, his hands restless and his fingers curling along the sides of his trousers. He needed to do something with this bolt of energy running through him. The injustice of the accusation, and after everything he'd done to help! "What an awful thing—"

"But you were," Crowley insisted. "Should've seen yourself, grinning at me."

"And haven’t I been known to smile at you under other circumstances? Isn't it possible you chose to misinterpret me quite severely?"

"Look, the glasswork on the mirrors in the fourteenth century might have been a bit rubbish, but they were enough for me to see what I looked like." Crowley fixed Aziraphale with a pointed glare, as though he was absolutely certain he had the right of it.

"Were you...unhappy with those clothes?"

"Of course I was," Crowley returned, incredulous. "You saw me in them. I was ridiculous."

"How were you ridiculous? Everyone was wearing those things."

"Look at me, Aziraphale," Crowley yelled, exploding to his feet and gesturing down his body. "Those clothes...it's like they were engineered to make me look as terrible as possible. I'm thin and spindly. I looked weak."

"You are no such thing!" Aziraphale strode over, almost coming toe to toe with Crowley, close enough to see the hurt and anger welling in his eyes.

How had this gone so badly wrong? Crowley wasn't thin or weak. He was eternal and powerful, more than any single word could possibly contain. Crowley was beautiful, in every form he'd ever assumed. It couldn't be...that he didn't know?

"I thought you looked breathtaking. That day, when we bumped into each other again. I would never have laughed at you. I couldn't have. I would never have made those fashions—"

Aziraphale cut himself off. Crowley still looked incandescent with rage. This would be the worst possible time to reveal the full truth.

Crowley's eyes narrowed, winnowing their way into Aziraphale's very being just as they always had, ferreting out everything he was trying to hide. It had happened since the very beginning, on the wall of Eden, when his first confession about the sword came spilling forth. It had happened again and again since. This time would clearly be no different.

"You must promise me that you'll allow me to explain." He put his hands out, palms down, as though he was trying to calm a wild animal.

That garnered a raised eyebrow in response, but nothing more. The silence between them was an actual, physical ache burning inside Aziraphale's chest. He couldn't stall any longer.

"I may have...influenced...many of those fashions," Aziraphale said, keeping his voice steady and clear in direct opposition to the nerves raging inside him.

"Many?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to repeat himself. What was the real difference between that and the truth?

Except that he'd done enough lying to Crowley, and more than enough to himself.

"Nearly all," he admitted, which stoked the rage in Crowley's eyes. But worse, there was an aura of pain beating its way out of him, something bone-deep that Aziraphale couldn't begin to understand.

"You," Crowley whispered. "Those years of ridicule. The nicknames. I thought another demon must have been behind it all, someone who really had it out for me. But it was you."

"What do you mean, nicknames?"

"They called me weak. Sickly. Fragile. Angelic," Crowley said. "I was a punchline. Was that what you wanted? Was saving all those souls from the sin of pride worth it to you?"

"That was never why I did it." Aziraphale wished Crowley would just listen. They could talk this out, get it out in the open. It had to be salvageable; this simply couldn't ruin things, could it? Not after everything they'd been through together. "Those men, the ones who said those thoughtless things...they didn't matter. Surely you know that?"

Crowley was being ridiculous. He'd acknowledge it eventually, that he'd just been sour at the idea that his plans had been thwarted all those years ago. It was clearly being blown out of proportion.

"It wasn't just what they called me, angel," Crowley said, still towering above Aziraphale, the negligible difference in their heights somehow seeming massive at the moment. He took in the stiffness of Crowley's frame, the way his shoulders curled inward, protective. Protecting himself from Aziraphale, and that rankled. He'd never meant Crowley any harm, not even during the many years they'd ostensibly been enemies. "Those clothes, they were painful."

"I've seen most of the things you've chosen to strut around in of your own accord, Crowley," Aziraphale said, feeling it might be overdue for him to begin defending himself. He hadn't meant to cause inconvenience, after all, and it was simply unsporting of Crowley to make such assumptions. "It was hardly a life-changing burden for you to wear impractical clothes for a few years."

"Oh, really?" Crowley stalked the length of the room. "What would you know about it? Have you ever been uncomfortable for a day in your cushy, ethereal life?
"
"Of course I have. How dare you—"

"No, just stop. You have no idea what you're talking about. Your body is still the same as She made you, standing there, right now. Do you think I don't remember what it was like? It's been a long, long time, but I can still feel the difference. The light...Her grace, it softens everything. You can kneel for hours, walk for days. Everything you conjure for yourself is warm and soft, even if you aren't trying."

"You're saying these things as though you don't have your own powers—" Aziraphale cut in, but he was silenced with a single, burning look from Crowley.

"What would you know about demonic powers? Do you think I can make just anything happen, the way you can? Do you think I surround myself with things that are hard and unforgiving and cold entirely on purpose? Do you think it's easy to stroll around looking like a human when every last piece of me is a slithering, cold-blooded serpent? There's work in the transformation, angel. Pain. Do you think I choose to move the way I do? Haven't you ever noticed me wince and stretch when I settle into one of your overstuffed chairs?"

"You're..." Aziraphale said, choking a little on the tears he refused to let fall, as he knew Crowley would interpret them as pity, "in pain?"

"Every last day," Crowley said, slowly, squaring his shoulders and standing tall, "of my entire forsaken life."

"No," Aziraphale breathed, and he couldn't help it, couldn't hold back any longer. A single tear fell down his cheek, and he saw the moment Crowley noticed it. His face hardened, and the sunglasses he'd stopped wearing when they were alone suddenly came out of the inner pocket of his jacket, shrouding his eyes from Aziraphale again.

"Keep your blessed pity for someone who needs it, angel."

For the first time in eons, when the word 'angel' fell from Crowley's lips, it didn't sound like an endearment. It was more of an indictment, and one that currently felt entirely deserved.

Crowley was gone before Aziraphale could react, the front door of the shop slamming shut and the Bentley's engine roaring to life in the quiet of the early morning hours.

---

Two silent days passed, two of the most eternal in Aziraphale's long life. He wasn't sure what to do, whether he should give Crowley space or call him—perhaps seek him out in person and beg to have a second chance at the conversation they apparently should have had long ago. He knew he'd mucked things up, spoke (as he often seemed to) without giving it enough thought, and allowed some very hurtful things to pass his lips. It was all so tragically opposed to the way he wanted to treat Crowley, the one he loved.

He hadn't bothered opening the bookstore, sitting instead in his back room. He'd made a sporting attempt at finishing a novel he'd been reading, tried to listen to some music, but the solitary hours simply melted one into another as he replayed the disagreement over and over in his mind.

In the end, it didn't really matter what Aziraphale's intentions had been back in the distant past. His actions had been undertaken for selfish reasons, and they'd caused Crowley pain.

He would never have admitted it a few centuries ago, not even to himself, but he'd prodded and suggested ideas to the nobles, beginning those trends specifically because he'd longed to see Crowley in those form-fitting clothes. The ridiculous shoes hadn't been his idea, but that hardly mattered. It seemed the rest of it had done quite enough harm on its own.

Aziraphale had indirectly caused Crowley pain, and then he'd implied Crowley had been overreacting. The reflex had been there, ingrained within him, to assume that anything he'd done had been part of the bloody ineffable plan. If he was an extension of Her divine being, and his actions part of Her plan, then he'd always believed he couldn't be wrong, not really.

If there was one thing he'd discovered in the few months he'd spent, post-near-apocalypse, thinking about the meaning of his own existence and where he was meant to fit in, it was this: he was far from infallible. He could, and had, done wrong. He'd made mistakes, miscalculations, and he'd been careless more times than he could bear to count.

It was while Aziraphale was stewing over these thoughts specifically, wondering yet again what actions he should take to make amends with Crowley, that he heard the jingle of the bell over the shop's front door.

He could sense right away that it was Crowley who had let himself in, the demon's presence asserting itself in Aziraphale's consciousness and sending twin thrills of relief and wariness down his spine.

"Afternoon, angel." Crowley pulled his sunglasses down, leaning artfully against the doorjamb. "Lunch?"

Aziraphale just blinked, but it suddenly occurred to him—of course this would be what Crowley would do. It was what both of them had done for the entirety of their friendship. One of them would be angry or hurt over something, some time would pass, and then they'd pick back up the next time they saw each other, both of them acting as though nothing had happened.

The avoidance of it all felt familiar and safe, and it was a deep, ingrained reflex that made Aziraphale scramble to his feet and agree to the restaurant Crowley proposed, then follow him out to the Bentley.

Throughout the entire meal, Aziraphale kept telling himself to be grateful that the demon had gotten past their conversation, that he was signaling so clearly that he was ready to move forward from it, and that any future trouble could be avoided by never bringing it up again.

The food, looking delightful on the plate in front of him, tasted bland and featureless once each carefully curated bite made it to Aziraphale's tongue. The wine went down like stale water, and he felt as though he was looking at the world through Crowley's glasses, muted and obscured instead of bright and vibrant.

Crowley even followed him back to the bookshop afterward, laying his head in Aziraphale's lap and allowing his hair to be stroked back. The look of peace on his features was a gift, along with all the other events of the day. It was generous beyond the boundaries of even Aziraphale's ability to believe, how silently but clearly Crowley was indicating that all was good, all was forgiven and forgotten.

When they parted for the evening, it was with a soft, aching kiss that Crowley initiated, the touch of his palm against Aziraphale's jaw leaving warmth that persisted long after the demon himself had left.

It should have been fine.

Every other disagreement which had ended with a mutual, silent pact to simply never mention it again had flowed away into the forgiveness of the ether, buried under the reassuring weight of all that they meant to each other.

Yet, this time, Aziraphale found he couldn't let it go.

It was with a leaden weight of anxiety in the depths of his stomach that Aziraphale made a visit to his favorite tailor, the one who had used the wonders of human ingenuity to keep one very well-worn suit of clothes ticking for the last decade or so. (Using his own miracles to improve his clothing simply didn't seem right. He could always feel the difference, just like that spatter of paint that Crowley had so kindly fixed for him weeks ago.)

The seamstress greeted him with a knowing smile, but her look turned curious when he brought out some sketches he'd made, and even more questioning once he began to outline his request.

This would either quell the voice in his head, the one that kept saying that overt amends needed to be made, or it could ruin everything. Crowley might be incensed and hurt when he discovered what Aziraphale wanted to do, but if they could both open themselves up to this, it might set right a few ancient wrongs and give Crowley the peace his battered psyche deserved.

It was a risk. But upon hours of reflection, it seemed like a risk worth taking.

---

They met as normal, over the next few weeks, as Aziraphale's seamstress toiled away. Crowley's behavior betrayed nothing of him holding any sort of grudge, and they resumed their burgeoning romantic relationship just where they'd left off.

Aziraphale was seriously considering calling off his plan (which Crowley, of course, still knew nothing about, making the idea of giving it up all the more enticing.) Aziraphale even had himself convinced he'd do just that, until the day the call came from his seamstress, telling him that his order was ready.

Well.

He'd already earned the money needed for payment, resolving to do this using no miracles at all. It seemed correct for this to be part of his penance, that the labor for the meat of the apology he intended to offer should be pure and true. He'd called a man who'd left his number after seeing a rare volume on Aziraphale's shelves, something the angel had never intended to part with, and he'd sold the book.

Even if he could pay the woman for her time over the telephone, it seemed rude not to at least pick up the items. He could always get rid of them later. He had to admit, he'd been curious how close they would mimic the real article. Perhaps he'd take a look at them, if only out of academic interest.

But then he saw the clothes, neatly hung on padded hangers, and he was transported back to the fourteenth century. He was in the inn, Crowley was in those clothes, and Aziraphale could recall, viscerally, exactly how blinded he'd been by the radiance he'd beheld.

It seemed a shame to let such hard labors go to waste. He'd just keep them. He could miracle his closet to be a bit larger, to grow a hidden compartment in the back, and he could take the outfit out whenever Crowley was elsewhere. He could daydream and...

No.

He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the garment bag to his chest as he rode the bus back to the bookshop. He was finished with lying, even lies of omission. There had been enough deception and mistrust between Crowley and himself, and there would be no more.

If Aziraphale kept these clothes, he was resolved to explain it all to Crowley, telling him what he'd planned when he'd decided to have them made. He would put the question to his love, his dearest, and give Crowley the choice. Crowley could certainly work out if he thought he had anything to gain from it, and Aziraphale would abide by his decision.

---

The invitation had been issued. A quiet dinner in, music, and some aimless relaxing together for as long as they liked before they retired to the bedroom on Aziraphale's second floor. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been there together, but somehow, Aziraphale was even more anxious than he'd been the first time Crowley had led him up those stairs a few weeks ago, the two of them hand in hand as they gave themselves to each other.

Crowley deserved so much that Aziraphale had been too self-conscious and inhibited to offer him, as yet. He should be cared for, adored, treasured. The praise he was due for each of his most wonderful traits still hadn't been adequately given, and clearly this was a deficiency that needed to be rectified.

Everything was in place. Candles had been lit (and miracled not to melt away), and the softest bedding Aziraphale could find (purchased, not created from thin air) adorned the bed. When Crowley arrived, he'd startled as he heard the marvelous compact disc Aziraphale had found in a music shop, which featured lovely orchestral versions of the Velvet Underground group Crowley seemed to like so much.

"That—" Crowley said, doubled over with laughter when he'd finally managed to place why the music was so strangely familiar. "That's bloody amazing, angel."

"Thank you," he answered, crisply. "I have no idea why you thought I wouldn't like them. Their music sounds utterly charming!"

"Yes." Crowley was still laughing a little, his head thrown back in that wonderful way that only happened when he was truly happy and at ease. It made Aziraphale's heart stutter in his chest, as nonsensical as that was. "Remind me to play the real versions for you sometime. I'm sure you'll just love them."

Aziraphale thought it best to move on, though he could have watched Crowley enjoy the music all night with nary a complaint. If his nerve held up and he went forward with his plan, they'd certainly need all the time they could get.

"What did you get for dinner?"

"Fish and chips," Aziraphale said, turning around before he answered so Crowley wouldn't see his smirk.

"But...you aren't that fond of—"

"I like them just fine." Aziraphale set down some lovely china plates on the table, then leaned forward to open the takeaway containers and divide the food between them.

"You got this because I actually like it."

"You seem surprised that I'd want to make sure you enjoy the evening as much as I will." Aziraphale stopped for a moment. Crowley certainly was quite good at offering up gifts, 'finding' delightful bottles of rare wine, or showing up with theatre tickets for plays which had been sold out for months. Yet, Crowley was shocked to have any of the same care directed back at him. Was Aziraphale truly so unequal with his own gestures of affection?

"Angel." And Crowley was right there, at Aziraphale's elbow, sliding his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders and giving him comfort the moment he'd faltered. Just as he always did. "What's wrong?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, 'Nothing,' and go on with the evening as he'd planned. It would be trying enough to navigate without adding layers of difficulty, but then he was hit square in the chest with the resolution he'd made to himself. Truth. Crowley deserved the full truth.

"I've been thinking. I don't believe I've been as demonstrative of my affections with you as you deserve. I'd like to change this, and I hope you can find it in yourself to be patient with me as I stumble my way through it."

"Angel, you don't have to—"

"You deserve this. This and more, more than I could ever give you. I intend to spend eternity perfecting this art and making it my chief concern."

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, his eyes growing wide, everything of Crowley blossoming and opening up before Aziraphale, and it was achingly beautiful to witness.

"Would you, Anthony J. Crowley, do me the very great honor of sitting at my table and joining me for a meal?"

Aziraphale pulled out a chair and gestured to it, let Crowley get settled, and then pushed him in, just close enough for comfort. His own chair was nearby (he couldn't bear to be across the entire expanse of the table from Crowley, not tonight) and he slid into it, pouring the wine soon after. He gestured to the food and waited for Crowley to taste it first, something the gobsmacked demon did after a few befuddled blinks.

"Mmmmm," Crowley moaned, swallowing down the first morsel. "I swear, this is the only food a demon should ever eat. Tastes like pure sin."

Deciding to ramp things up a bit, Aziraphale held Crowley's gaze, not even bothering to look down as he brought the first bite of his fish to his mouth, then faked a pornographic moan.

Crowley's fork clattered to the floor.

"My dear," Aziraphale said, watching Crowley lurch forward to retrieve the fork, then realized with horror that he intended to merely wipe it off on his napkin and continue using it. "Crowley, wait, please. Let me fetch you a fresh one."

"'S fine, angel. Not worth the bother."

"You are well worth the 'bother.'" He plucked the offending cutlery from Crowley's hands. "I'll be back in just a tick."

After that gesture, Crowley seemed to grasp how serious Aziraphale was about his newfound dedication to being more demonstrative. He still seemed a bit confused, his head tilting in wonder as Aziraphale made a point of touching Crowley's hand or shoulder as they talked or whispering aloud the little compliments that Aziraphale normally would have kept as observations only to himself.

"Are you sure everything is all right?" Crowley asked, his fork frozen in front of his mouth, as Aziraphale had just expressed his admiration for the way Crowley's hair was growing out long enough to curl into waves around his face.

Aziraphale faltered, his nerve wavering. Perhaps this was making Crowley uncomfortable? That was the last thing he'd meant to do, and given the request Aziraphale intended to make of him later, he wanted to make sure Crowley was at ease.

"Are you discomfited by my behavior, my dear?" Aziraphale asked evenly, hoping he was wrong.

"No!" The answer came right away, with great vehemence. "No," he repeated, his voice soft and filled with wonder. "I never thought—"

"How beastly of me, to make you believe you didn't warrant being treated with care."

"That isn't it. Don't think that about yourself, angel." And there was Crowley again, Aziraphale's soft place to fall whenever he stumbled. "You should let me finish."

"Of course. Quite rude of me to interrupt." Aziraphale waited, a heaviness in his stomach, a dread of what he might hear next.

"I never thought I would be able to make you feel safe enough with me to trust me this much. To open up this way. I know how hard this is for you. I remember what Heaven was like. As peaceful as it was, it was bland, too. These extremes of emotion...I'm not sure I allowed myself to feel them until after I Fell."

"Do you mean that? About us feeling safe enough with each other to open up? To take chances?" Aziraphale's heart was beating fast again, hope swelling within him that he wasn't about to make an enormous mistake. "Do you feel that way?"

"With you?" Crowley's eyes softened, and he reached out to cup Aziraphale's chin. "Yes. More and more every day."

Aziraphale could recognize an opening when one presented itself, and he steadied himself one last time with a deep breath before plunging forward.

"Would you, my dearest Crowley, be amenable to dispensing with after dinner drinks and retiring for the evening as soon as we're finished here? There's something I'd very much like to propose to you."

"If you're gonna propose, angel, the ring better be—" he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth, until they widened in shock and he stopped speaking abruptly. "Wait, you aren't..."

"No," Aziraphale admitted. "But let's put a pin in that idea and discuss it another evening. I believe I would be very interested in your thoughts on the matter."

"You...you'd...you'd really...?"

Aziraphale stood, putting out a hand to help Crowley up, but Crowley leapt to his feet and kissed him before Aziraphale could think.

The kiss was impulsive at first, the angle odd from the haste that had brought them together, but Aziraphale had found he could settle comfortably into any kiss Crowley offered him. Their lips softened, moving against each other, until their mouths opened to begin a deeper exploration. Crowley's hands fisted in the fabric of Aziraphale's waistcoat, pulling their bodies intimately together. The warmth was intoxicating as Aziraphale buried his hands in Crowley's hair, holding him at just the right angle to utterly plunder his mouth.

They broke apart, gasping, their foreheads pressed together.

"I love you," Aziraphale whispered, turning his head to press the words into Crowley's cheek. The stubble there tickled his lips, made it all feel more real. "And even more than that, if such a thing is possible, I trust you."

Crowley just looked at him, dumbstruck, his chest heaving. It shattered Aziraphale's heart a little to realize that Crowley still didn't feel he deserved this.

"Please, allow me to take you upstairs. There's something further I hope you'll entrust to me."

Crowley nodded as Aziraphale took his hand, brought the back of it up to his lips for a brief, heartfelt kiss, and led him up the stairs.

---

Aziraphale had felt so certain of himself and of what he'd planned to do as they'd ascended up to the bedroom. Once they were there, however, and after taking in a quick, guilty glimpse at his closet, he wondered if this was going too far. Perhaps discretion truly was the better part of valor?

"Hey," Crowley said, mouthing down Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale realized he'd frozen in place in the doorway. "I lost you there. Are you—"

"I'm fine," Aziraphale cut in, the old reflexes to cover, to obfuscate the truth, kicking in before he could stop himself.

Crowley's tilted head and narrowed gaze made clear that he wasn't buying it.

"I'm nervous," Aziraphale admitted, letting out a whoosh of air afterward, a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

"What did you bring me up here for?" Crowley said, his grin widening. "Something kinky? It'll take more than a pair of handcuffs or a blindfold to scare me off, Aziraphale, and I'm capable of telling you 'no.'"

"Are you?" Aziraphale asked, being completely honest, but Crowley read it as a joke.

"Oh, very funny. You should give me some credit, angel."

"I'm sorry, I'm being serious. If I ask you for something...here," he said, willing Crowley to understand, as he wasn't sure he was capable of being explicit, "in the bedroom...you'll tell me right away if it makes you uncomfortable?"

"Sure," Crowley said, with an air of 'what could an angel possibly ask for that would shock a big, bad demon like myself,' and he pressed another kiss to the underside of Aziraphale's jaw.

"Please promise me," Aziraphale insisted, fighting not to lose his clarity in the wake of the revelation that was Crowley's mouth tracing along his skin. "Properly."

Crowley pulled back.

"You're serious."

"Deadly."

"Yeah. Okay then," Crowley nodded, taking both of Aziraphale's hands in his, and looked him right in the eye. "I promise."

Aziraphale broke away, moving to the closet before he could stop himself, and he pulled out the garment bag. Crowley's eyes widened and Aziraphale wondered what thoughts were going through his mind. Surely he thought the bag held a revealing piece of lingerie, or perhaps some sort of specialized gear the likes of which Aziraphale had only ever read about in erotic literature. He could only hope that Crowley could trust him enough once it was all revealed, could allow him to heal the wounds he'd caused centuries ago.

"Please come with me," he said, walking back toward Crowley and pressing the bag into his hands. "We'll open it together, and then I'd like you to allow me to explain what I had in mind when I had these made, before you decide."

They laid the bag on the bed and Crowley pulled the zipper down, his body language going from loose and relaxed to something more stiff and guarded. Aziraphale could taste the tang of fear in the back of his own throat, but he tried to remain outwardly calm in hopes that it would inspire the same in his love, his dearest, his Crowley.

"This is..." Crowley said, his voice dying away as his trembling hand reached out and one long, graceful finger traced a line down the clothes inside.

"It's as close as I could remember to what you were wearing that day, the second time we ran into each other during the fourteenth century," Aziraphale said, so Crowley wouldn't have to.

The look of confusion, the twinge of hurt on Crowley's face nearly punctured Aziraphale's resolve, and he wished for just a moment that he could take the last ten minutes back, erase it all as though it had never happened.

"You asked me to let you explain." Crowley's words came slowly, carefully, but his voice still had a warmth to it, something that gave Aziraphale hope. Crowley wouldn't look up, though, his eyes fixed on the clothing, following the movement of his own hands against the fabric.

"I would never have used my influence...machinated behind the scenes, to inspire clothing designed to cause you pain. Physical or otherwise. I truly hope you can believe me."

"Yeah," Crowley whispered. "You couldn't have known how the others would react, and I'm sure whatever you'd pictured was better than the reality of it."

"You're only half right," Aziraphale said, guiding Crowley down to sit on the edge of the bed, and then he came down beside him. Leaning down to catch Crowley's eye, he continued. "I can't explain why the others reacted the way they did, but I knew exactly how you'd look in them, and the reality didn't disappoint. You were incandescent. You always have been, to me, but these clothes were different. We'd seen each other mostly in togas, oversized tunics, the odd kaftan here or there. It was selfish of me, but I longed to see you...really see you, to make out the shape of you. I wanted to commit it to memory, burn the image of you, every line, every hollow, into my mind. We met so infrequently, you see, and the memory of those fleeting moments had to last, back then. I wanted to know you, better than we were allowed to while we were so frightfully restrained by our sides. It was a moment of weakness, I admit. Selfishness. I didn't give enough consideration to the effect it might have on you."

"Angel," Crowley said, halting as his brow furrowed. "It had to have been a disappointment, when you finally saw me—"

"You were dazzling. Everything I'd pictured and more. I loved—truly loved, in a way I wouldn't be able to admit for hundreds of years—everything about you. I loved you. I desired you. I wanted more, so much more, and we had blessed few ways to pursue such things."

"You can't mean that."

"I do," Aziraphale insisted, moving closer to Crowley on the bed, cupping his cheek with his palm. "I need to apologize, and I hope to make amends for the pain my actions put you through."

"It's fine," Crowley stammered. "It is. You've apologized, and explained, and I understand now." His eyes fell back to the clothing, sitting out like an open question at the other end of the bed. "Surely we don't need to—"

"I know you've forgiven me. You always do, when I'm careless or when I've hurt you. This isn't about that. This is about atonement. Healing the pain I caused. Drawing it out of you and filling the space left behind with the love I have for you."

"What," Crowley said, clearing his throat and gathering himself together, "do you want to do?"

"I'd like you to put these on," Aziraphale said, taking Crowley's hand and running their joined fingers over the fine, carefully tailored fabric, "and allow me to worship you."

---

Aziraphale waited in the hallway, giving Crowley time and privacy to make his final decision about the clothes. If he called Aziraphale in and Crowley hadn't changed, they'd agreed never to speak another word about it.

If, however, he'd put on his gifts, Aziraphale was fully prepared to do his best to rewrite the past. He wanted to erase the sting of those memories, to reassure his love that he was adored in every way.

Aziraphale's heart was in his throat as he opened the door when Crowley bid him to do so, and his breath caught when he saw Crowley was wearing the outfit, trying so hard to stand with the same confidence he normally carried.

The outermost layer was a doublet made from a deep red linen. Aziraphale had specified that the color should mimic kermes dye, the rarest, most sought-after shade of red in the fourteenth century. Crowley had managed to pull the lacing up the front as tight as it could go, the strings straining with each of his breaths. The shirt beneath matched the short breeches that hugged Crowley's hips and thighs, both a rich black. White hose skimmed over his calves and knees, pulled up to the bottom of the breeches, where they were laced in place with red strings, matching the ones on the doublet.

The very sight of him was enough to transport Aziraphale back to that day, over six hundred years ago, when they'd met in the common room at the inn.

"My dear," Aziraphale sighed, coming forward immediately and barely pushing away a somewhat absurd desire to fall to his knees in supplication.

Crowley shifted his weight, looking horribly unsettled, and Aziraphale urged him to sit back on the edge of the bed.

"Perhaps you'll be more comfortable here?" he said, watching as Crowley tried to play-act his nonchalance, and he wondered again if this had been such a good idea.

"I'm not sure..." Crowley said, worry lines around his eyes, and Aziraphale surged forward to kiss him. It was returned instantly, though he could tell Crowley was still holding back.

"Let's lie back," Aziraphale said, helping Crowley ease himself down before he leaned over him, kissing over to his ear, then biting down on Crowley's earlobe, his tongue following behind to soothe the ache.
His hands wandered, tracing down the tight, tailored lines of the doublet.

"You are remarkable," he said, his fingers toying with the lacing down the front of the garment, the softness of the brushed linen nothing next to the feel of the silken skin he knew hid beneath.

Aziraphale looked over the entirety of Crowley's lithe form, back curved beautifully as he stretched into Aziraphale's caresses. He'd planned to start slow, building the ache between them, but he could sense they were both already long past that. Crowley needed reassurance, carried to him on the waves of pleasure.

He loosened the band at the top of the breeches just a bit, not wanting to remove them quite yet, and he was most grateful that he'd bothered to source period-accurate hosiery. They encased Crowley's legs admirably, but they stopped mid-thigh, where they were laced to the bottom of the breeches. This kept them quite out of the way. Sighing with anticipation, he slipped his hand around Crowley's cock, which was jutting proudly forward now over the loosened waistband, rock hard and reddened at the tip.

Getting to his knees at Crowley's side, he bent forward, licking at the head. He pushed his tongue into the hollow on the underside of it, that spot that always seemed to make Crowley keen with pleasure.

That drew out a sinuous movement of Crowley's hips, and Aziraphale took the hint, wetting his lips and sinking over the head, taking the entire length slowly inside him. He let it rest, just at the back of his throat, before he began to move.

Crowley's movements stopped, though the strong muscles of his hips and thighs twitched under Aziraphale's hands. Aziraphale knew he was trying to hold back, thinking of Aziraphale's comfort, not wanting to take too much for himself.

Aziraphale stilled, pulling a tortured groan from Crowley's throat, and stayed that way as he slid his hands under Crowley's arse to guide him to begin thrusting.

"Fuck me, Aziraphale. You can't mean—"

Aziraphale concentrated on using his tongue, pressing into the sensitive vein on the underside as Crowley's first halting movements began to blossom into something more needy.

"This really," Crowley panted, watching with veiled eyes as Aziraphale encouraged Crowley to go as deep he wished, in whatever rhythm pleased him, "this really does it for you? These bloody clothes?"

Aziraphale pulled back, replacing his mouth with his hand at Crowley's bereft moan.

"You 'do it for me', Crowley. In every form, in every way." He paused, letting his eyes rake slowly over every inch of Crowley's body. "But these clothes...yes. They do a great many things for me."

"What could they possibly—"

"They reveal you, your shape. Your strength. Not just the inner strength of your soul, but the power in your body, your limbs, your fingers. It is a miracle—a revelation—to be here with you, like this, when I'd never allowed myself to hope that my attraction and love for you could ever become a reality."

"Angel," Crowley began curling into himself again, and Aziraphale could sense that he longed to explain it away, to minimize, to hide himself.

"Your shoulders, such an elegant line they cut," he said, hoping to interrupt Crowley's self-consciousness. The muscles tensed under Crowley's skin, twitching under Aziraphale's gaze. "They descend into the lean power of your arms, and your hands, so strong but so careful, with such clever fingers. Fingers that can snap and change the world, if you will it so."

"I'm not—" Crowley protested, his words turning to a groan when Aziraphale leaned forward and took two of Crowley's fingers into his mouth, laving his tongue along the elegant swirls of his fingerprints and creases at his knuckles.

Crowley began to involuntarily thrust them into Aziraphale's mouth, matching the tempo of Aziraphale's hand on his cock. Aziraphale moaned, savoring the connection between them and going a little light-headed with pure want.

He wondered if Crowley could finish this way, and idly played with the idea that it might be enough to court his own climax, as well. Finally being able to express this long-repressed praise and adoration for Crowley sent a bone-deep satisfaction through him, a pleasure stronger than anything else he'd ever experienced.

Crowley's fingers popped free and Aziraphale keened with the loss, but Crowley pulled him up into a heartrendingly deep kiss instead.

"I need to slow down," Crowley hissed, when he pulled away moments later.

"We should," Aziraphale reluctantly agreed. "I'm nowhere near done with what I need to tell you yet."
He sat back, taking in the splendor before him.

"Your waist and your hips, these hips that have taunted me for centuries. That swagger of yours."

Aziraphale's face clouded. "But you've told me they cause you pain. I wish I could take it away, banish it forever or bear it myself instead." Aziraphale murmured a quick blessing, allowing a supernatural heat to warm his hands, and he rubbed them over the sharp, limber curves of Crowley's hips.

"Oh, angel," Crowley whispered, rutting upward, and Aziraphale took Crowley's cock into his mouth once more, encouraging him to thrust at his own pace again while he concentrated on bringing relief to Crowley's aching muscles. He could feel the demon both relaxing and straining under his touch.

He continued until Crowley urged him back, mumbling something unintelligible that sounded an awful lot like, 'not yet.'

"And oh, your legs, Crowley." Aziraphale slipped down the bed, running his lips over the soft, stretchy material of the hose. "The supple curve of your calves, the raw power in your thighs. The strength of your serpentine form, my dear, I think a lot of it manifests in these legs."

The hose were laced to the bottom of Crowley's sinfully tight, short breeches, and Aziraphale pulled at the string, freeing them, and rolled each one carefully down and off the end of Crowley's foot, placing a chaste kiss on his toes as he went. "These legs carried you to me, over and over again. I couldn't be more grateful."

The breeches followed, getting tossed carelessly to the floor, forgotten immediately in the bright, shining light of Crowley's radiance.

"Angel," Crowley moaned, writhing on the bed, desire and love tearing at Aziraphale's heart at the very sight of it.

He moved to lie at Crowley's side, his fingers already unlacing the skin-tight doublet before he found his voice to speak, using the moment it took to pull the garment away with the shirt beneath to collect himself.

"And here," he said, pausing to place his hand over Crowley's chest. "What joy can I bring you here?" He leaned forward to take Crowley's nipple into his mouth, his stomach tightening with desire when Crowley's fingers tangled in his hair as he worshiped there.

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, his hands moving restlessly from Aziraphale's hair to trace every inch of skin he could reach, as though he was trying to convince himself this was real.

"I'm here," he said, pulling back to lave the widened flat of his tongue over Crowley's nipple before continuing. "I'm here with you, Crowley, at last."

"You are." His expression was full of wonder, a look Aziraphale realized he'd always wanted to see gracing the sharp, refined features of his face.

His hand moved to the middle of Crowley's chest, and he sat up to lock their eyes together.

"This is the core of you. Your heart."

"It's yours," Crowley sighed, tears in his eyes.

"And I'm afraid all I can make is the poor offering of my own in return."

Crowley's hand found Aziraphale's, still resting on the hollow between his ribs, and he squeezed.

"I need you, angel. Please. Don't care how. I just need to feel you."

Aziraphale leaned over to his bedside table to pull the lube from the top drawer, Crowley's pupils widening with lust the moment he saw it. A shade of confusion passed over them when Aziraphale set it aside, then climbed over Crowley to settle between his legs.

"I'm still not done," Aziraphale told him, shuffling down and hooking his arms under Crowley's hips, lifting him up a little. Crowley's legs fell apart, hiding nothing, and Aziraphale was nearly panting at the visceral desire that pulled ruthlessly at his stomach as he took in the sight before him.

"Angel," Crowley moaned, almost incoherent.

Aziraphale froze, wondering if he'd discerned a note of pain amidst the pleasure. He had to be sure.

"This isn't hurting you, is it, my dear?" he asked, licking up the underside of Crowley's cock.

"Wha..." came the answer, and Aziraphale waited for Crowley's head to clear enough to understand.

"Your hips, my love. Please tell me I'm not causing you pain."

"No, no no," Crowley babbled. "No pain. Can't even remember the pain."

Aziraphale ducked his head to hide the tear that fell, knowing Crowley wouldn't want to see it, even in such a relaxed state. He swallowed Crowley's cock again, leaving plenty of saliva behind to slick the way for his hand, and he pushed at Crowley's legs to bend them closer to his chest.

"Oh, angel. Aziraphale."

Crowley's entrance was before him, and the intimacy of the moment was nearly overwhelming. The first touch of his tongue, filled with a hesitance he hadn't intended, pulled a high keen from Crowley, who tensed for a moment before his thighs went slack again.

Armed with nothing but the memory of Crowley performing the same act on him, he tried to remember what had made it such a transcendent experience so he could give it all back. He licked a few times over the surface, feeling the contractions of the muscle as Crowley arched beneath him.

Buoyed by this reaction and being driven forward by an instinct that felt nearly animalistic, he pointed his tongue and allowed it to plunge inside. He was rewarded with two hands fluttering to the sides of his face, holding him reverently, fingers trembling with the effort. Aziraphale knew he hadn't been so gentle when he'd been in Crowley's position, with his greedy hands digging into Crowley's flesh as he'd tried to weather the onslaught.

His heart softened, impossibly, at the care Crowley always used with him.

He channelled all of that feeling, the depth and power of their millennia-long love for each other, into making Crowley feel every inch of his tongue as he opened him with it. An otherworldly cocktail of lust and adoration flowed through Aziraphale's veins, powered by the uninhibited responses Crowley let loose into the evening air.

When he'd set up a steady rhythm, Aziraphale reached up with one hand, finding Crowley's cock and curling his fingers around the long, solid length of him. He began to move his hand in concert with his tongue, greedy for more signs of the pleasure he was bringing to his demon.

Aziraphale couldn't get enough. Being let in this way after such an eternity of longing was addictive, and he wanted more. It was intimate, and it should have felt forbidden, but nothing felt more right than bringing Crowley to the edge of absolute bliss. He angled Crowley's legs up further, pressing in as far as he could, and felt Crowley's thighs begin to shake where they rested against his shoulders.

And then he was crying out with frustration as Crowley shoved him back, his chest heaving and a fierce red flush playing over his overwrought features.

"You feel so fucking good, but I need you to fuck me, Aziraphale. Fuck me properly. I want to feel it for weeks."

Aziraphale reached over, pulling one shoulder out from under Crowley's hips to take the lube and open it, slicking the fingers of his right hand. His left shoulder pushed up harder, splaying Crowley's legs even further, and his index finger teased at Crowley's rim.

"Angel," Crowley moaned, drawing the word out on a long exhale, sounding as utterly wrecked as he looked.

"You are the most magnificent creature in all of creation," Aziraphale told him, his finger breaching inside, seeking out the warmth within. Crowley threw an arm over his sweat-slicked forehead, obscuring his face. "Please don't hide from me, my dear," he said, slowly thrusting his finger for a moment before he added a second.

"I don't know," Crowley panted, his arm shaking, "if I can help it."

Aziraphale swallowed, taking in the sight before him, and knew he'd asked for too much. He was greedy for Crowley, deep down in his soul, as though it had been written there when he'd been made.

"Of course, my dear. You're fine, don't worry," he said, feeling Crowley beginning to tense. He shouldn't have put that sort of pressure on him, not when he was so exposed, and with Aziraphale still fully clothed, at that.

"Wait," the demon managed to whisper, pushing himself up onto his elbows, locking eyes with Aziraphale again. "I can," he said, sounding clearer than he had since their lovemaking had begun. "I can do it."

"You are..." Aziraphale breathed, at a loss for words, "resplendent. I am so deeply, irrevocably in love with you."

A sob hiccuped from Crowley's throat, and his eyes narrowed with the effort, but he stayed with Aziraphale. Every twitch of his expression was an offering, and the way his lips curved as he cried out with pleasure was a delight for Aziraphale to devour. Crowley was so trusting and open beneath him, his vulnerability laid bare between them like the most priceless, fragile offering. Aziraphale had never felt such acceptance and trust before, forcing words of gratitude from his lips in strings of utter nonsense.

Crowley's body was opening up beautifully for him, warm and welcoming under Aziraphale's hand, and after a few minutes of taking a third finger, it seemed he was ready for them to be truly joined.

Aziraphale sat back, too impatient to undress any more than necessary, and he undid his belt and pushed savagely down on his trousers and underwear, freeing his aching cock.

The raw hunger in Crowley's eyes at the sight nearly finished Aziraphale right there.

He slicked up his cock with more lube before positioning himself, sliding inside with a moan that was pulled from the depths of his very bones. Crowley whined in answer, biting his lip as Aziraphale began to sink in.

"Faster, Aziraphale. I'm so close already, I'm sorry."

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to rut fiercely into Crowley's pliant body, the echo of Crowley's plea fuelling a jolt of lust that temporarily robbed him of his senses. It took a moment, frozen in place as Crowley almost wailed in frustration, for Aziraphale to master himself again.

"You needn't be sorry, my dear. I'm with you, I promise. I'm with you."

"Angel, please." Crowley's eyes were wild now, wider than seemed possible. "I need this. Mark me. Finish me."

Blood screamed through Aziraphale's veins as he leaned forward to close his mouth over Crowley's throat. As he made contact, he sucked mercilessly, pushing his teeth into the skin. He could feel the heat of the bruise forming there, flaring to life with the strength of Aziraphale's desperation.

Crowley undulated his hips, begging wordlessly for the rhythm he needed, and Aziraphale finally broke. He drove forward again and again, going slowly mad at the way Crowley's body molded around him. His mouth traveled, making more marks over Crowley's throat and chest, as Aziraphale searched for the angle that would hit that spot deep inside.

He pulled back, needing a different kind of connection, and found Crowley's gaze waiting for him still. They blinked at each other, Crowley's mouth slack with his gasping breaths, as Aziraphale used the last shreds of his sanity to hold back as he drove his hips forward. Every thrust took a little shard of his soul, but he'd gladly give all of it to Crowley, every last piece of him, if it meant they could continue just a little longer.

"Angel. Oh," Crowley cried, his eyelids fluttering, his muscles tensing so gracefully that Aziraphale could almost weep at the sight of him. "Oh, my angel."

Aziraphale found Crowley's cock with his shaking hand, trying to give him what he needed to find his release. It took only a few moments, and when he came, the dazzling chaos creating a beautiful mess between them, it seemed to last forever before his body crumpled with exhaustion. It took every ounce of Aziraphale's willpower to still himself afterward, pulling back to take the pressure off Crowley's hips.

"No," Crowley clutched at him, slurring out the word, his hands clumsy.

"You'll be oversensitive, dear," Aziraphale said, trying to pull back again, but Crowley wouldn't let him. "I won't hurt you."

"Don't care," he said, the words clearly difficult for him to form. "Want you. Won't hurt. You feel so good."

Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to steel his resolve, but when Crowley thrust upward against him, he was lost. He continued haltingly, but once Crowley began to chant out fragments of praise about how good Aziraphale felt inside him, he gave himself permission to reach out for his own release. It was difficult to grasp after denying himself for so long, but it washed over him in a rush once Crowley twined their hands together, their fingers interlacing.

They crashed together as Aziraphale collapsed, their sweat-slick bodies melding together as their hearts pounded against each other in their chests. It was like floating, all of his cares gone; the only thing that mattered in the universe was the feel of Crowley against him.

Once his senses began to return, he tried to roll away to spare Crowley his weight, but Crowley refused to release him. He pulled down, sighing contentedly as the burden settled back over his stomach.

It was a long time (full of exhausted kisses and whispered words in more languages than either of them should have been able to recall) before they could separate. They came to rest on their sides, facing each other, both of them tracing their fingers over the other's face.

"You didn't have to do this, angel," Crowley finally whispered, breaking the spell of the silence.

"I wanted to," Aziraphale protested, leaning forward to drop an exhausted kiss onto Crowley's slackened lips. "You deserve this, and more. It was long overdue, really." He stilled one of Crowley's hands, which had been tracing a line along Aziraphale's cheekbone as Crowley looked at him in wonder. He tugged it to his mouth, kissing each of his fingers in turn. "I do so adore you, Crowley. I was fascinated with you from the beginning, and that grew into this love that I can hardly contain. I've always hungered for you, even before I knew why."

"Angel—"

"I'm sorry, my dear. I really have to say this." He sat up, determined to make this part of his apology as heartfelt as possible, continuing despite the choked up expression on Crowley's face, which he was trying valiantly to hide beneath his usual, casual exterior. (And this was fair, it was more than fair, that Crowley still felt as though he had to protect his heart a little, keep up his 'cooler than thou' appearances. It would take time for both of them to allow their relationship to shift.) "These feelings have always been so strong, and so confusing for me, and there are many points where I made choices I really shouldn't have when I allowed my mind to be clouded with selfishness. You were hurt, many of those times...either by what I did or what I said. For that, my dearest Crowley, I am eternally sorry."

"Ugh, stop," Crowley moaned, pushing gently at Aziraphale's shoulder and then covering his face. Aziraphale could see the wonder in his eyes, though, and the hopeful expression he was trying to hide. "Never mind that, Aziraphale. Let's sleep. Even you must be tired enough, after an evening like this."

They allowed their limbs to tangle, one of Crowley's long legs insinuating itself between Aziraphale's, and they curled into each other. Aziraphale began to whisper a story ("Once upon a time, there was a wily old serpent. He met an angel, who was technically on apple tree duty...") It wasn't long before Aziraphale's voice began to falter, and they'd soon fallen together into a dreamless, untroubled sleep.

Comments

[hiddenlacuna]

Ok now HOW do I leave an articulate and relevant comment with actual language after THAT??

That was so amazing I am tattooing the entire thing onto the inside of my eyelids.

That was so emotional I need a tub of industrial-strength dopamine tablets just to feel barely above sad every day from now on.

That was so erotic I’m becoming a monk because I have no further need for earthly bodily necessities.

Gosh freaking darn, I enjoyed this fic, is what I mean to say.

[(Anonymous)]

From the author: Thank you so much! That is all so sweet of you to say. I'm really glad you enjoyed the story.

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my gosh — thank you so much, anonymous gifted! I love it so much! It’s such a unique take on the 14th century question that I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this before. And the argument is perfection! And the way crowley tries to just blunder through as if it never happened and aziraphale has to work up his courage to figure out a way to prevent this... and the worship!

Thank you again, I love it!

[(Anonymous)]

Oh, you're welcome! I hope it was at least close to what you were thinking of when you composed your prompts. (I really loved those prompts, by the way, and it took some time to whittle down the ideas they sparked to just one.) Happy Holidays! :)

[(Anonymous)]

Wow, this was amazing!

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you so much! :) :)