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go_exchange2019-12-21 06:39 pm
goe_mod) wrote in go_exchange2019-12-21 06:39 pm
Entry tags:
Happy Holidays, wagnetic!
Title: How to Romance a Demon
Author: [Redacted]
Gift for: Wagnetic
Summary: Aziraphale is finally ready to act on his feelings for Crowley. He’s just not quite sure how to get started. However, he has read a great many romance novels.
Rating: M
Length: 6800 words
Tags: fluff, humor, mild angst, pining, romance tropes, vague descriptions of sex, post-Apocalypse realizations, they’re both idiots
Notes: Wagnetic, you requested Aziraphale POV, angst with pining and a happy ending, and I fell in love with an idea to satisfy that prompt. After I’d written the entire thing, I realized I’d gotten one of your liked story elements backwards — in this one, Aziraphale is the one who is foiled by his own plans. I hope that’s okay!
Thank you to Esterbrook for the beta!
+++
Aziraphale had frequently heard the human adage that one’s life flashes before one’s eyes just as death is imminent. Aziraphale had no reason to believe it to be untrue, nor had he, as an immortal being, given it much thought.
It turns out this adage is absolutely true.
One moment, Aziraphale was strolling along the pavement, thinking fondly of the scones at that lovely shop around the corner, and the next he stepped off the kerb and straight into the path of a vehicle moving at high speed. Fortunately for Aziraphale, this vehicle was a 1929 Bentley and its driver had quick reflexes.
The next thing Aziraphale knew, he was sprawled inelegantly in the passenger seat, heart pounding in his ears. The bebop playing over the car’s speakers was deafening, though not quite loud enough to drown out Crowley’s panicked screeching.
“What the bleeding Heaven were you thinking, stepping out into traffic like that without so much as a— You could’ve been discorporated! You’re damn lucky it was me who came along because you weren’t even aware enough to miracle yourself out of the way, you great, fucking nitwit!”
Crowley said all of this, but Aziraphale didn’t hear a word of it. His extraordinarily long life was still flashing in front of his eyes.
It was a very full life, he realized as the scenes flickered past like a television montage: that banquet in ancient Egypt where he’d had his first taste of oysters, the noodle stand in Xi’an three millennia ago, the scents of the market as he sipped coffee in Shibbam, combating the thinness of the air with coca tea in Cuzco. On and on the scenes came to him, whirling faster and faster, rendering him immobile and speechless. The patisserie in Marais where he’d convinced Crowley to help him devour an entire croquembouche; the day they’d sampled twelve distinct versions of bucatini all’Amatriciana in the cloistered streets of Trastevere; the week or so spent exploring the Barossa valley —performing a series of blessings and temptations, of course— and sampling the wine along the way.
As time wound forward in his head, there was more and more of Crowley. Crowley seated across from him in a restaurant, a wine glass dangling between his long fingers. Crowley looking mildly bored while sipping an espresso in a bustling square, people-watching behind his sunglasses. Crowley leaning against the Bentley, looking impatient, though they had nothing but time.
“Are you listening to me?”
Aziraphale blinked. He’d always thought they had all the time in the world, especially since the Apocalypse hadn’t happened. But did they, really? One careless mistake and one of them would be discorporated, and then where would they be? Neither of them were in any position to ask their respective headquarters for a replacement body. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he would be safe returning to Heaven even if he had to — so where would a discorporated angel go? What would he do?
All the most important memories of his life had centered around sensual experiences, and without a body, he’d have no more of those. The idea of eternity without food or wine or the warmth of a fire or the smell of old books — he couldn’t bear thinking of it.
“Angel?”
Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. The car was parked now — illegally, though the NO PARKING sign on the pavement next to them was doing its best to appear as if it had been misplaced. Crowley stared at him, his expression concerned.
“Sorry, I—” Aziraphale pressed his hands over his face for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what happened.”
“You stepped in front of the Bentley, is what happened.” Crowley sounded very much like he wanted to start his rant all over again, and was only barely restraining himself from doing so.
“And you, you—” Aziraphale gestured at Crowley and back at himself. “Thank you, my dear.”
“We’ve got to be careful,” Crowley continued after a moment.
“I know.”
“If something happened to you—”
“I know.”
Crowley pressed his lips together and looked away. “Well, anywhere I can drop you?”
Aziraphale wanted to be back in the safety of his bookshop this very moment, but he also wanted the comfort of Crowley’s presence for a bit longer. His appetite was gone, though, and it was too early in the day to invite Crowley for a drink. He took an unnecessary, soothing breath.
“Here is fine, actually. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”
“Angel—” Crowley’s fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrist.
Aziraphale froze. The pressure of Crowley’s hand, the feeling of fingers against his bare wrist, was grounding. It had been a while since Crowley had touched him at all, and he’d forgotten the feeling of it. Other images flashed across his mind then, images of things that hadn’t happened, but that he’d always thought would, some day. They had so much time that he’d never felt any urgency to act on it.
But this, now — this was different. It felt terrifyingly urgent, this sudden realization that something could happen to either of them at any time, and that would be the end of it. He looked up at Crowley, sure the desperation and longing were clear on his face.
Crowley frowned. “I can drop you at home, if you like. It’s no trouble.”
Aziraphale slumped back against the seat. “All right.”
Crowley released his wrist and started the car’s engine. Neither of them said a word until the Bentley pulled up alongside the bookshop.
Aziraphale opened the car door. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, ‘course.” Crowley shrugged. “Not like it’s the first time I’ve saved your heavenly arse, is it?”
Aziraphale snorted. “I suppose it’s lucky for me you’re always there in the nick of time.”
“I’m always there,” Crowley replied, grinning. “Sometimes you happen to need my help as well. Later, Angel.”
Aziraphale stood on the pavement and watched the Bentley drive away, winding through traffic with improbable ease.
Crowley was always there, wasn’t he? Aziraphale had seen more of him in the last decade than he had done in the last century. They’d barely gone a week without seeing each other of late, and most of those encounters had resulted from Crowley just showing up and stating they should “hang out.”
A flutter of something very much like hope rose in Aziraphale’s chest.
Despite the close call, it wasn’t too late. They still had time, a great deal of it, even. Crowley was clearly fond of him. Aziraphale just needed to provide them with an opportunity to express their feelings for one another. Humans did it all the time. It couldn’t be that difficult, surely?
*
Aziraphale had no actual, personal experience with romance, but as a being of love, he’d had plenty of opportunities to observe romance over the ages. He had a very good idea of what humans did to make other humans aware of their attraction and interest. Heavens, he was practically an expert!
He was also the owner of a bookshop with a rather large collection of romance novels, each of which he had read several times.
Aziraphale looked over the large floral arrangement once again. The roses had opened beautifully at the touch of his fingers. Even now, the rest of the flowers were leaning ever-so-slightly towards him, their petals nearly vibrating with excitement. In the center of the arrangement, a small card was prominently displayed: To Aziraphale; From A Secret Admirer.
“Lovely,” Aziraphale said, standing back to take in the sight of the flowers dwarfing the cash register. If he actually intended to sell anything, they’d be in the way.
The bell on the shop door gave a quick little tingle before silencing itself completely. It had learned the hard way that Crowley disliked bells announcing his arrival, but the dear thing was too loyal to Aziraphale to shut itself off entirely.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale leaned against the counter as casually as he could manage. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Crowley frowned. “You said to come by ‘round 10.”
“Ah. So I did.” The flower arrangement quivered beside him. It knew its purpose here, and it was trying very hard, bless it. “You look nice this morning.”
“Do I? Huh. Well, this shirt’s new.” Crowley hesitated a moment, looking slightly confused. “You said you had something to show me?”
Aziraphale glanced at the flowers, which gave him a half-hearted shrug, then back at Crowley. “Did I?”
“Wouldn’t mind a cup of tea first.” Crowley nodded toward the small kitchen in the back.
“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale nudged the flowers slightly, and they glimmered in the dim light of the shop.
Crowley shoved his fingertips into his very tight pockets. “So… should I put the kettle on? I mean, if it was just me, I’d miracle some up, but you always prefer to do it the human way.”
Aziraphale felt his face grow tight as he continued to try to smile. “Right. Kettle. I’ll just… Come on back.”
They spent the next two hours discussing whether or not to get involved in the whole Brexit mess, Aziraphale seated primly in his favorite armchair while Crowley sprawled across the sofa in that way Aziraphale always found devastating. He channeled his longing into tea and biscuits, and let his gaze wander over the long lines of Crowley’s form.
He’d barely glanced at the flowers. Aziraphale had never had so much as a succulent in the shop before. Surely the sight of such a huge display had piqued Crowley’s curiosity a tiny bit.
Or perhaps such details were insignificant enough to escape his notice. Aziraphale ate another biscuit to fill the pit that had suddenly made itself known in his stomach.
“Well, I’ve got to run. Have some things to attend to.” Crowley stood and stretched his arms upward, revealing a glimpse of skin where his shirt met his tight trousers.
Aziraphale clamped down on the desire to tuck his fingers under that shirt and test the warmth underneath. “Of course. Yes. I’m so glad you popped by.”
“We should do dinner again soon. It’s you turn to choose, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale brightened. “Yes, it is! I’ll let you know.”
Crowley was already heading to the front of the shop. “Later, angel.”
Aziraphale waited until he was out of sight, then sank down into his chair again. It had been a pleasant morning, but his attempt to make Crowley see him as someone with possible romantic intentions had failed completely. He’d have to come up with something much less subtle.
When he returned to the front of the shop, the flowers had wilted into a brown, dry mess. Aziraphale tried to coax them back into bloom, but their disappointment at having failed him must have overwhelmed them, poor dears. Aziraphale disappeared the lot with a snap of his fingers, and sighed.
**
“What is this place, anyway?” Crowley frowned up at the nondescript door.
“It’s apparently all the rage on the food scene.” Aziraphale opened the door and they stepped through into a dimly lit foyer. On the other side, a young woman stood at a podium, tapping on its glowing surface with one finger.
She looked up and them and smiled. “Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, welcome. Right this way.” She was dressed completely in black, blending into the background enough that she might appear as a disembodied head, if you squinted. She turned and nodded for them to follow.
Crowley’s eyebrows arched beneath his dark glasses. “Impressive.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “They stagger the reservations so that every guest gets a private, personalized experience.”
Private it was, for they didn’t see any other guests as they were led down a long, richly decorated corridor lined with doors.
“Bit like a horror film,” Crowley muttered.
“Oh, hush. I think it’s lovely.”
“That’s what you’d say, if you were in a horror film.”
The hostess opened one of the doors and gestured for them to walk through into the small room. There was a low table in the center, surrounded by what looked to be cushions. On the table was a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne with two glasses. Soft music filtered through hidden speakers.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s a fixed menu.” She handed them a tablet. “It’s all explained here. Anything you need, simply order it. All items will be delivered discreetly through the trolley system.” She gestured to a small door in the corner of the room. “Once I leave, the room is yours until midnight. No one will disturb you. Is there anything else I can provide?”
“No, thank you, my dear. I think we’ll be fine.” Aziraphale smiled at her, and she nodded. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
“What the Heaven?” Crowley poked at the cushioned floor with his foot. “Is the floor a giant bed?”
“Ah, it does appear to be.” Aziraphale frowned.
“And we’re supposed to lie on the floor and eat?”
“Roman style, yes. Brings back memories.”
Crowley crossed to a shelf on the far wall. There were extra blankets and sheets there, along with a few small wooden boxes. He plucked something from the shelf and held it up: it was a decadent-looking robe. “Are we supposed to wear these?”
“I suppose we could, if we liked.”
“And the selection of personal lubricant?” Crowley had opened one of the boxes and was rifling through it. “Oh, flavoured condoms. Nice touch for a restaurant.”
“Oh good lord.” Aziraphale pressed his hands over his face.
“So is it a sex club with a restaurant, or a restaurant at which diners have sex?”
“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale groaned. “I was under the impression that it was a special experience for couples.”
Crowley snorted. “Well, that much is obvious.”
“No, I mean — I’d heard that it was a unique dining experience, and since they required a reservation for two… oh dear.” He’d thought it might be romantic, would provide them a chance to explore their feelings for each other. He hadn’t intended to proposition Crowley outright. He dropped his hands and sighed. “I should have warned you, at least.”
“It works much better as a surprise, I think.” Crowley help up a large purple dildo. “D’ya reckon other people have used this? Ah no, it says here that all toys are brand new and we can take them with us when we leave. A souvenir, how thoughtful.”
“I need a drink.” Aziraphale sat next to the table and poured himself a glass of champagne. The floor did indeed appear to be made of mattress. It was exceedingly comfortable.
There was a buzzing sound from across the room. Crowley giggled. Aziraphale closed his eyes.
This really wasn’t going as he’d intended at all.
Aziraphale downed his champagne, then refilled the glass. “Should we call for the first course?”
“Yeah, why not? Oh! This is bouncy, isn’t it?” Crowley stood at the edge of the mattress and bounced a little. The table wobbled, along with Aziraphale’s glass.
“Oh, goodness! I suppose the table can be moved, can’t it?”
Crowley dropped into a seated position, bouncing a few times before he settled. “Angel, I’m impressed. This might be the most ridiculous restaurant you’ve ever invited me to, and that’s saying something.”
Aziraphale poured him a glass and handed it over. “Pass me the tablet, will you? I think we’re going to need a few more bottles of this.”
It was a pleasant evening, all embarrassment aside. They drank far more than would be advisable for humans, as they frequently did, and the food was genuinely good. It was the sort of molecular gastronomy that had been all the rage a few years back, which made the experience of eating playful and interesting. Many of the dishes were meant to be shared, or fed by hand to one’s partner, and so the courses did foster the sort of intimacy Aziraphale had expected.
They lay on the mattress-floor after the last course, heads together, both staring up at the mirrored ceiling. Aziraphale was pleasantly full, and just drunk enough for it to be enjoyable.
“Thass the most I’ve eaten in… I dunno. A decade.” Crowley gestured at their reflections on the ceiling. “Might need to wear the robe after all.”
“I think you can take it. They’ll just add it to the bill.”
“Nah. I’ll take the toys though.”
Aziraphale turned to look at him. The angle was awkward, and he couldn’t quite focus his vision, so he gave it up again and looked up at Crowley’s reflection. “Whatever for?” His brain caught up with his mouth a second too late. “Oh, no, never mind.”
Crowley snickered. “You’ve got a much dirtier mind now than you did before the apocalypse.”
“S’bout the same, honestly. I don’t feel as guilty about expressing it anymore, I s’pose.”
Crowley hummed and turned onto his side. He’d taken off his glasses at some point, which always pleased Aziraphale. His eyes were soft and wide now, almost looking hazel in the dim light, human-like but for the slitted pupils. Aziraphale loved them.
“I love them,” he said, staring at Crowley’s face.
“Wha, sex toys?”
“No, your eyes. They’re beautiful. Don’ get to see them so often.”
“Huh.”
Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute.
“Crowley—”
“This was fun, angel. Thanks for, for thinking, for—” He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling again. “Gonna have to sober up before we go.”
Aziraphale studied his profile: the line of his nose, the slope of his forehead. It was just a body, just a face he wore to blend in, as did Aziraphale, but the sight of it was so familiar that Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking of it as part of Crowley now. He thought of his own body the same way, the roundness and softness of it, in such stark contrast to Crowley’s angular form.
He went up on an elbow and stared down at Crowley. He touched his fingers to Crowley’s cheek. Crowley looked back up at him, his expression guarded.
“You are beautiful, y’know. I’ve always thought so. An’ you’re my friend. My best friend.”
“Your only friend,” Crowley retorted, but his tone sounded more wondrous than stinging.
“Mmm, so you are.” Aziraphale leaned down and kissed his cheek, as close to the corner of Crowley’s mouth as he dared. “Thank you.”
Crowley’s eyes closed, and he nodded. “Yeah, ‘course.”
Aziraphale sat up, his head spinning. “All right then. S’almost midnight.”
They both sobered up — never a particularly pleasant experience, but better than the alternative, Aziraphale had discovered on many occasions. The warmth in his chest remained even when the alcohol was gone, along with a tinge of regret.
Crowley stood and stretched, then headed for the shelves to pack up his prizes.
“You’re really taking them.” Aziraphale willed himself not to blush, but it was difficult, under the circumstances.
“Yep.” Crowley turned to face him, three very phallic toys tucked under his arm and a grin firmly in place. He snapped his fingers and his glasses flew into his free hand. He slid them on, then ran a hand over his hair, which obediently smoothed itself down into its customary style. “Ready?”
Aziraphale signed the bill on the tablet’s screen, then climbed to his feet.
“Here.” Crowley handed him the smallest of the three toys. “That one suits you.”
Aziraphale gaped after him as he opened the door and headed through it.
He put the toy in his pocket, though. He’d take a closer look at it later.
***
Aziraphale kept trying. He invited Crowley to accompany him to dinners at fine restaurants, to leisurely afternoon teas, to the occasional champagne brunch, and to several wine tastings. On each occasion, they had a marvelous time. Crowley smiled easily and laughed often, and never seemed as if there was anyplace else he’d rather be. Aziraphale attempted to flirt with him, with smiles and looks and the occasional double-entendre, but Crowley never seemed to notice.
It was fun, and Aziraphale enjoyed the time they spent together, of course. They were doing so many of his favorite things: enjoying sumptuous meals and fine wines, taking in art and theatre and other forms of human expression, and discussing all of it in intricate detail. He wouldn’t change a thing about it, really.
Except that he wanted to reach across the table and take Crowley’s hand on so many nights. To let that lingering, longing look turn into one that was smoldering. To lean against him and feel the heat of his body, to know the taste of his lips. That would be enough, he thought. If Crowley weren’t interested in sexual activity, Aziraphale wouldn’t mind.
Getting it all started was the part he couldn’t seem to manage, though.
After two months of having a wonderful time together, Aziraphale hatched one more plan. If this didn’t work — well, he’d have his answer, wouldn’t he?
****
“Barcelona?” Crowley looked thoughtful. “Haven’t been there in a while.”
“The gallery opening is on Thursday evening, then I thought we could wander up the Carrer Blai for tapas?”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. Wait, is this the same artist you were so keen on blessing a few years back?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He’s done some fantastic work over the last few years. He invited me specifically to attend this opening.”
Francisco was a talented artist, a visionary, even, He was also an incorrigible flirt who’d propositioned Aziraphale nearly every time they’d met. Assuming he’d behave the same this time, Crowley would have a front row seat to the spectacle of someone attempting to court Aziraphale. Jealousy, he’d read, could be a powerful motivator. And who knew jealousy better than demons?
There was a second part to the plan as well, one that had been the main plot point of many of his favorite romance novels. Aziraphale would keep that one a surprise for now.
“S’pose I could do a bit of freelance tempting while we’re there.” Crowley shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
Aziraphale clapped his hands together gleefully. “Oh, thank you! I know we’ll have so much fun.”
Crowley smiled in that enigmatic way that made Aziraphale’s insides feel all twisty.
*****
The plane ride down was short and would have been uneventful except for the odd pockets of turbulence they kept hitting.
“My apologies for the bumpy flight, everyone,” the pilot said over the intercom. “We’re going to have to suspend service and ask everyone to remain seated for the duration of the flight.”
Aziraphale leaned into Crowley. “Stop that!”
Crowley snickered. “No real harm done, just a bit of fun.”
“Fun for you, maybe. The woman two seats ahead of me looks as if she might be ill.”
“Look at it this way: when people are terrified on an airplane, they start praying, right? I’d think you would approve.”
“Fifty people suddenly praying on an airplane for no apparent reason would certainly attract someone’s attention.” Aziraphale gave him a hard look.
Crowley sighed and sank into his seat. “I see your point.”
Aziraphale patted his knee. “You meant well. Er, I mean, not well.”
“Are you actually comforting me right now?” Crowley smirked at him.
Aziraphale huffed. “I’m going to read my book.”
“I’m going to take a nap.” Crowley folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
Crowley’s ability to sleep anywhere was impressive. Aziraphale wondered if he napped like this because he was genuinely tired, or if he was simply bored and wanted time to pass more quickly.
The plane landed safely in Barcelona, not hitting any more turbulence along the way.
They hailed a taxi outside the airport and went first to their hotel, a charming little boutique inn in the Poble-Sec neighborhood. Crowley didn’t travel with a bag, simply miracling up anything he needed. Aziraphale had a small suitcase, though, and so they headed up to the room to settle in a bit.
“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale said as they opened the door.
The room was cozy and charming, with eclectic furnishings and white linens. A door opened onto a small balcony that overlooked the local area. Aziraphale set his suitcase on a rack placed in a corner and turned to see Crowley already stretched out on the room’s dominant piece of furniture, a large bed.
“There’s only one bed, though,” Aziraphale noted, as casually as he could manage. “I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Shouldn’t be,” Crowley replied, eyes hidden behind his glasses as usual. “Considering that you don’t sleep.”
“I have slept, on occasion. I don’t have a bed at the shop, so I don’t often have the opportunity.”
“You could miracle up a bed with a snap of your fingers.”
“I suppose. Anyway, if I fancy a snooze in the middle of the night, will it bother you?”
“Why should it?” Crowley yawned and stretched. “Oh, this is comfy. When is the opening again?”
“Not for several hours. I was thinking of going for a walk around the area. I’ve been meaning to check in on the Sagrada Familia. I haven’t been since it was consecrated.”
“Have fun with that.” Crowley gave a small wave.
“Right, well. Have a lovely nap, then.” Aziraphale closed the door behind him and headed down the stairs.
Crowley had seemed completely unconcerned about the bed situation. That had always been such a point of angst in the novels Aziraphale had read, so he wasn’t sure what to make of that. For now, he put it out of his mind. They had an eventful evening ahead of them.
******
“My dear Mister Fell!” Francisco leaned in and kissed Aziraphale on both cheeks. His clothing was as exuberant as his personality, all dramatic lines and bright colors. The thick frames of his glasses were asymmetrical, giving him a slightly wild-eyed look. “I am so pleased to see you again.”
“I was honored to be invited.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “Congratulations on the opening.”
Francisco waved a hand dismissively. “It is because of you that we are here tonight.”
“Not at all. Your work is stunning, my dear. You absolutely deserve it.” Aziraphale really did love Francisco’s style: sweeping color, sharp lines, abstract landscapes that seemed to contain more detail the closer you looked.
Francisco placed a well-manicured hand over his heart and beamed. “You are too kind. And look at you! As dapper as ever. Tell me you are here alone tonight, please. You must join me later, there is a private party, and very good wine.” He winked at this.
Aziraphale giggled. “Oh, you do know how to tempt me.”
“Thought that was my job,” Crowley said, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He smiled widely at Francisco. It was his I will eat you smile, but Francisco did not know that.
Francisco gasped and turned to give Crowley a full-body onceover. His smile flowed effortlessly into a leer. “And who is this delicious man? Mister Fell, you did not give me fair warning.”
A small flare of alarm rose in the back of Aziraphale’s head. “Oh, well, I— Please, let me introduce you. Francisco, this is Anthony Crowley. Crowley, this is Francisco, the artist whose work we’re celebrating here tonight.”
Francisco held out a hand in the manner of someone expecting it to be kissed. Crowley didn’t miss a beat; he raised Francisco’s hand to his lips. “Charmed, señor.” His smile was nearly reptilian.
“Ay, gracias.” Francisco seemed to shiver all over. “Mister Crowley, what a pleasure to meet you. I did not know Mister Fell was bringing such a handsome friend this evening.”
Aziraphale had a very bad feeling about this. “Ah, yes. My friend.”
“May I tell you about my work, Mister Crowley?” Francisco didn’t wait for an answer; he looped one arm through Crowley’s and began tugging him across the gallery toward one of the larger pieces.
Aziraphale watched them walk away. “I’ll just get us drinks, shall I?”
He headed to the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. Across the room, Francisco was talking animatedly about a large piece that Aziraphale was particularly fond of. Crowley was listening with uncharacteristic patience, occasionally nodding his head. Francisco leaned in to say something more, and they both laughed. Francisco did not move away again, but stayed very close to Crowley.
Aziraphale frowned. This was the opposite of what he’d expected to happen. Francisco was supposed to make Crowley jealous, not steal him right out from under Aziraphale.
Ah.. Aziraphale felt a wave of shame roll through him. This was how he’d planned to make Crowley feel, wasn’t it? It was an unpleasant mix of disappointment and defeat, and not at all the sort of feeling that made him want to march across the room and declare his feelings for the being he loved. On the contrary, he wanted to go back to the hotel and sulk for the rest of the evening, imagining the sordid things Crowley and Francisco might be getting up to without him.
Just as Aziraphale convinced himself he really should leave, Crowley turned and looked over his shoulder. Even through the sunglasses, Aziraphale knew the moment their eyes met. A shiver of sensation ran through his very core, even to the tips of his tucked-away wings. Crowley held his gaze, then gave a tiny, tense shrug. He nodded his head in the direction of Francisco, as if to say, I’ll set him and his artwork on fire if you don’t come over here and get me out of this.
Aziraphale’s spirits lifted immediately. Of course Crowley wasn’t going to let himself be seduced by Francisco! He felt ridiculous even for thinking it. Crowley was being as polite as he knew how to be, and he was doing it for Aziraphale. In any other circumstance, he would have set the entire place aflame by now, possibly cursed everyone here to boot. But no, instead he was currently clenching his jaw and restraining himself from violence, because he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t like it.
He does love me, Aziraphale thought, his heart dancing in his chest.
He picked up glasses of wine from the bar and walked across the gallery to where the two of them stood. Crowley was smoking very slightly now, but Francisco had not noticed.
“Darling, here you are!” Aziraphale held out a glass to Crowley and smiled warmly at him.
“Ah, thank you.” Crowley took the glass and slid an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, the gesture so natural that Aziraphale didn’t even blink. Crowley relaxed almost immediately, the smoke dissipated, and everything felt right with the world again.
It was all Aziraphale could do to contain his giddiness. “You must tell me what I missed. I’ve been admiring this piece all evening.”
Francisco’s expression spanned the seven stages of grief in about three seconds, then settled on a blend of disappointment and embarrassment. “Ah, yes. As I was telling Mister Crowley, it represents loneliness and the futility of life and love in this time of climate change.” He sighed heavily, then continued for a while, slipping occasionally into Catalan, which Aziraphale had never quite caught the hang of. It was fine, though, because as much as he admired and supported Francisco’s art, all could think about at this moment was the warmth of Crowley pressed alongside him and the slight pressure of his fingertips curled against the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat.
When they moved to the next piece, Crowley caught Aziraphale’s hand in his and squeezed it. Aziraphale intertwined their fingers together and held on tightly.
They stayed like that for most of the night, always close enough to touch. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just Crowley happily pretending they were a couple to continue fending off Francisco’s interest, but then Crowley leaned in to kiss his cheek before heading off to the bar to buy the next round. The spot where his lips had touched Aziraphale’s skin tingled as he walked away.
“He is very handsome, your friend,” Francisco said, once Crowley was out of earshot.
“Yes, he is,” Aziraphale replied, knowing full well that Crowley could still hear every word they said. “Devastatingly so.”
“He adores you,” Francisco said, sighing again. “How lucky for you.”
“I can assure you it’s mutual.”
The back of Crowley’s neck turned pink from across the room.
“The two of you must come to the party at my flat later. I insist.” Francisco’s tone indicated he would rather they not come, actually.
Aziraphale wanted nothing less at the moment. “Thank you. How kind.”
When Crowley returned with two new glasses of wine, Aziraphale didn’t bother hiding the adoration in his eyes. He’d been engineering all of these frankly ridiculous scenarios for months now, waiting for Crowley to say something. But he should have known better than to assume Crowley would be the one to come clean about his feelings. He was a demon, after all, and may not even be aware of what was so clearly in his heart. Yes, it was up to Aziraphale to make the first move. He’d wasted so much time!
They did not go to the party. They apologized to a still-glum Francisco, then went for tapas instead. It was something Aziraphale had been looking forward to, and the added bonus of sitting with Crowley at a small table on a cobblestone plaza, a small plate of cheese and olives between them and glasses of wine in hand, made it even better. They laughed and talked, just like they always did, and it was quite possibly the most perfect romantic evening Aziraphale could have imagined.
Eventually, and by a quiet sort of mutual agreement, they wandered in the direction of their hotel. They didn’t speak as they walked on, each of them lost in thought. It wasn’t until they stepped through the door of their hotel room that Aziraphale realized it was time to say what he’d been wanting to for so long.
He closed the door behind him with a small click, then turned to find Crowley standing right in front of him.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, staring up at him.
“Angel, I—” Crowley hesitated, then reached up to touch his fingers to Aziraphale’s cheek. He’d pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, and his eyes were clear, hiding nothing. He looked as if he couldn’t find the words at all.
Aziraphale had plenty of words for both of them. “Yes,” he said, and went up on his toes to kiss Crowley.
Crowley gasped against Aziraphale’s mouth, which made deepening the kiss rather easy. He stepped forward, pinning Aziraphale against the door, and kissed him back.
Aziraphale had read about kisses for millennia, about how a good kiss could lift you off your feet, melt your insides, make you see stars. This kiss was even better than that. It was all of those things and somehow more. Aziraphale could feel the intensity of Crowley’s emotions aimed toward him, and the echo chamber they created together was all-consuming. They lost themselves in each other for what seemed like hours, Aziraphale’s back pressed against the door and Crowley leaning against him.
“I was going to say,” Crowley said some time later, his voice soft and full of feeling, “that I apologize if I made you uncomfortable tonight.”
Aziraphale was still floating in a sea of angelic endorphins. “Yes. Wait. Sorry?”
“I’ve been trying so hard, for decades. Heaven, no, for centuries.”
“Trying what?” Aziraphale wanted to kiss him again, but Crowley seemed determined to say this first.
“Trying to protect you from this, from me.”
“Protect me from you? My dear.” Aziraphale took his hand and led him to sit on the bed. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re a being of love, surely you can sense it?” Crowley’s expression shifted into one of fear. “Unless that isn’t really what… no, that can’t be it.”
Aziraphale placed his hands on either side of Crowley’s face and kissed him softly. He touched his forehead to Crowley’s and sighed. “I love you. I have for a long time. I’ve sensed that you love me too, but I wasn’t sure if you might want this.”
“This? Oh.” Crowley took a shuddery breath. “Angel, this is exactly what I thought you wouldn’t want. Do you know how difficult it’s been for me to keep my hands off you? Especially lately.” He sat back, staring at Aziraphale with wide eyes. “Hang on. You’ve been doing it on purpose, haven’t you?”
Aziraphale felt a shiver of shame. “Well, yes. I suppose I have.”
“You’ve been tormenting me,” he continued, a note of something akin to wonder in his voice. “For weeks now.”
“Oh, my dear.”
“It was torture, angel. You’ve no idea how much I’ve suffered.”
Aziraphale’s heart sank. He opened his mouth to apologize again.
“You really do love me.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale against him and kissed him.
Aziraphale’s apology died on Crowley’s tongue with a whimper. The echo chamber fired up all over again, and it was glorious. More than glorious, actually — it wasn’t just Aziraphale’s ethereal being that was being affected, but his physical body as well. His generally unused human genitals were… well. That was new.
“I want you,” he said, feeling more and more certain about all of this with every passing minute. “I want all of you, please. I want to know what you feel like against me, over me— inside me.”
Crowley drew in a sharp breath. He pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck and said nothing.
Oh dear, had he come on too strong? He had to work out how to modulate this feeling. “Only if you do, I mean. It’s not necessary if you—”
“You’ve no idea how much I want you.” Crowley’s voice was a low rumble against Aziraphale’s skin, which made him shiver. “But could we, this first time— I mean, I want more than just—” He gestured between them.
He wanted reassurance, Aziraphale realized. He wanted to know this was more than a desire of the flesh. He wanted everything.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, “but I don’t think we’ve got room in here.”
Crowley’s smile was as genuine as Aziraphale had ever seen it. He held up one hand. “This one’s on me.”
He snapped his fingers and they were soaring above the city, wings outstretched. No one could see them like this, so no one noticed the way they wrapped around each other, and stayed that way for a long time.
*******
“Mmm, my dear.” Aziraphale stretched out against his bed —a recent addition to the flat above the bookshop— and sighed. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Crowley sat up from between Aziraphale’s thighs. “Not yet, I haven’t. Think you’ve got another one in you?”
Aziraphale squinted down at him. They’d been at it for hours, and each of them had climaxed half a dozen times by now. Aziraphale was getting a bit peckish, honestly. He considered suggesting they stop for a snack first. Crowley wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, and oh, he knew what that did to Aziraphale, damn him.
“What did you have in mind?”
Crowley grinned, then held something up: a large purple dildo.
Aziraphale tilted his head. “Is that from the restaurant?”
“Yes.” Crowley’s eyebrows did a thing.
Aziraphale had said on multiple occasions that he was up for any pleasures of the flesh Crowley might want to show him. He hadn’t meant all of them in the same weekend, but then again, he hadn’t been very specific. Crowley’s enthusiasm was commendable.
And infectious. Aziraphale loved him so much.
Aziraphale curled a finger at him in invitation, and Crowley obediently climbed up and settled over him. Aziraphale slid fingers into Crowley’s hair and pulled him down into a soft, decadent kiss. His other hand gripped Crowley’s arse. Crowley whimpered and ground against him, his cock growing hard against Aziraphale’s belly.
Yes, Aziraphale probably did have one more orgasm in him. He smiled against Crowley’s lips and whispered, “Show me.”
********
fin
Author: [Redacted]
Gift for: Wagnetic
Summary: Aziraphale is finally ready to act on his feelings for Crowley. He’s just not quite sure how to get started. However, he has read a great many romance novels.
Rating: M
Length: 6800 words
Tags: fluff, humor, mild angst, pining, romance tropes, vague descriptions of sex, post-Apocalypse realizations, they’re both idiots
Notes: Wagnetic, you requested Aziraphale POV, angst with pining and a happy ending, and I fell in love with an idea to satisfy that prompt. After I’d written the entire thing, I realized I’d gotten one of your liked story elements backwards — in this one, Aziraphale is the one who is foiled by his own plans. I hope that’s okay!
Thank you to Esterbrook for the beta!
+++
Aziraphale had frequently heard the human adage that one’s life flashes before one’s eyes just as death is imminent. Aziraphale had no reason to believe it to be untrue, nor had he, as an immortal being, given it much thought.
It turns out this adage is absolutely true.
One moment, Aziraphale was strolling along the pavement, thinking fondly of the scones at that lovely shop around the corner, and the next he stepped off the kerb and straight into the path of a vehicle moving at high speed. Fortunately for Aziraphale, this vehicle was a 1929 Bentley and its driver had quick reflexes.
The next thing Aziraphale knew, he was sprawled inelegantly in the passenger seat, heart pounding in his ears. The bebop playing over the car’s speakers was deafening, though not quite loud enough to drown out Crowley’s panicked screeching.
“What the bleeding Heaven were you thinking, stepping out into traffic like that without so much as a— You could’ve been discorporated! You’re damn lucky it was me who came along because you weren’t even aware enough to miracle yourself out of the way, you great, fucking nitwit!”
Crowley said all of this, but Aziraphale didn’t hear a word of it. His extraordinarily long life was still flashing in front of his eyes.
It was a very full life, he realized as the scenes flickered past like a television montage: that banquet in ancient Egypt where he’d had his first taste of oysters, the noodle stand in Xi’an three millennia ago, the scents of the market as he sipped coffee in Shibbam, combating the thinness of the air with coca tea in Cuzco. On and on the scenes came to him, whirling faster and faster, rendering him immobile and speechless. The patisserie in Marais where he’d convinced Crowley to help him devour an entire croquembouche; the day they’d sampled twelve distinct versions of bucatini all’Amatriciana in the cloistered streets of Trastevere; the week or so spent exploring the Barossa valley —performing a series of blessings and temptations, of course— and sampling the wine along the way.
As time wound forward in his head, there was more and more of Crowley. Crowley seated across from him in a restaurant, a wine glass dangling between his long fingers. Crowley looking mildly bored while sipping an espresso in a bustling square, people-watching behind his sunglasses. Crowley leaning against the Bentley, looking impatient, though they had nothing but time.
“Are you listening to me?”
Aziraphale blinked. He’d always thought they had all the time in the world, especially since the Apocalypse hadn’t happened. But did they, really? One careless mistake and one of them would be discorporated, and then where would they be? Neither of them were in any position to ask their respective headquarters for a replacement body. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he would be safe returning to Heaven even if he had to — so where would a discorporated angel go? What would he do?
All the most important memories of his life had centered around sensual experiences, and without a body, he’d have no more of those. The idea of eternity without food or wine or the warmth of a fire or the smell of old books — he couldn’t bear thinking of it.
“Angel?”
Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. The car was parked now — illegally, though the NO PARKING sign on the pavement next to them was doing its best to appear as if it had been misplaced. Crowley stared at him, his expression concerned.
“Sorry, I—” Aziraphale pressed his hands over his face for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what happened.”
“You stepped in front of the Bentley, is what happened.” Crowley sounded very much like he wanted to start his rant all over again, and was only barely restraining himself from doing so.
“And you, you—” Aziraphale gestured at Crowley and back at himself. “Thank you, my dear.”
“We’ve got to be careful,” Crowley continued after a moment.
“I know.”
“If something happened to you—”
“I know.”
Crowley pressed his lips together and looked away. “Well, anywhere I can drop you?”
Aziraphale wanted to be back in the safety of his bookshop this very moment, but he also wanted the comfort of Crowley’s presence for a bit longer. His appetite was gone, though, and it was too early in the day to invite Crowley for a drink. He took an unnecessary, soothing breath.
“Here is fine, actually. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”
“Angel—” Crowley’s fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrist.
Aziraphale froze. The pressure of Crowley’s hand, the feeling of fingers against his bare wrist, was grounding. It had been a while since Crowley had touched him at all, and he’d forgotten the feeling of it. Other images flashed across his mind then, images of things that hadn’t happened, but that he’d always thought would, some day. They had so much time that he’d never felt any urgency to act on it.
But this, now — this was different. It felt terrifyingly urgent, this sudden realization that something could happen to either of them at any time, and that would be the end of it. He looked up at Crowley, sure the desperation and longing were clear on his face.
Crowley frowned. “I can drop you at home, if you like. It’s no trouble.”
Aziraphale slumped back against the seat. “All right.”
Crowley released his wrist and started the car’s engine. Neither of them said a word until the Bentley pulled up alongside the bookshop.
Aziraphale opened the car door. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, ‘course.” Crowley shrugged. “Not like it’s the first time I’ve saved your heavenly arse, is it?”
Aziraphale snorted. “I suppose it’s lucky for me you’re always there in the nick of time.”
“I’m always there,” Crowley replied, grinning. “Sometimes you happen to need my help as well. Later, Angel.”
Aziraphale stood on the pavement and watched the Bentley drive away, winding through traffic with improbable ease.
Crowley was always there, wasn’t he? Aziraphale had seen more of him in the last decade than he had done in the last century. They’d barely gone a week without seeing each other of late, and most of those encounters had resulted from Crowley just showing up and stating they should “hang out.”
A flutter of something very much like hope rose in Aziraphale’s chest.
Despite the close call, it wasn’t too late. They still had time, a great deal of it, even. Crowley was clearly fond of him. Aziraphale just needed to provide them with an opportunity to express their feelings for one another. Humans did it all the time. It couldn’t be that difficult, surely?
*
Aziraphale had no actual, personal experience with romance, but as a being of love, he’d had plenty of opportunities to observe romance over the ages. He had a very good idea of what humans did to make other humans aware of their attraction and interest. Heavens, he was practically an expert!
He was also the owner of a bookshop with a rather large collection of romance novels, each of which he had read several times.
Aziraphale looked over the large floral arrangement once again. The roses had opened beautifully at the touch of his fingers. Even now, the rest of the flowers were leaning ever-so-slightly towards him, their petals nearly vibrating with excitement. In the center of the arrangement, a small card was prominently displayed: To Aziraphale; From A Secret Admirer.
“Lovely,” Aziraphale said, standing back to take in the sight of the flowers dwarfing the cash register. If he actually intended to sell anything, they’d be in the way.
The bell on the shop door gave a quick little tingle before silencing itself completely. It had learned the hard way that Crowley disliked bells announcing his arrival, but the dear thing was too loyal to Aziraphale to shut itself off entirely.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale leaned against the counter as casually as he could manage. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Crowley frowned. “You said to come by ‘round 10.”
“Ah. So I did.” The flower arrangement quivered beside him. It knew its purpose here, and it was trying very hard, bless it. “You look nice this morning.”
“Do I? Huh. Well, this shirt’s new.” Crowley hesitated a moment, looking slightly confused. “You said you had something to show me?”
Aziraphale glanced at the flowers, which gave him a half-hearted shrug, then back at Crowley. “Did I?”
“Wouldn’t mind a cup of tea first.” Crowley nodded toward the small kitchen in the back.
“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale nudged the flowers slightly, and they glimmered in the dim light of the shop.
Crowley shoved his fingertips into his very tight pockets. “So… should I put the kettle on? I mean, if it was just me, I’d miracle some up, but you always prefer to do it the human way.”
Aziraphale felt his face grow tight as he continued to try to smile. “Right. Kettle. I’ll just… Come on back.”
They spent the next two hours discussing whether or not to get involved in the whole Brexit mess, Aziraphale seated primly in his favorite armchair while Crowley sprawled across the sofa in that way Aziraphale always found devastating. He channeled his longing into tea and biscuits, and let his gaze wander over the long lines of Crowley’s form.
He’d barely glanced at the flowers. Aziraphale had never had so much as a succulent in the shop before. Surely the sight of such a huge display had piqued Crowley’s curiosity a tiny bit.
Or perhaps such details were insignificant enough to escape his notice. Aziraphale ate another biscuit to fill the pit that had suddenly made itself known in his stomach.
“Well, I’ve got to run. Have some things to attend to.” Crowley stood and stretched his arms upward, revealing a glimpse of skin where his shirt met his tight trousers.
Aziraphale clamped down on the desire to tuck his fingers under that shirt and test the warmth underneath. “Of course. Yes. I’m so glad you popped by.”
“We should do dinner again soon. It’s you turn to choose, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale brightened. “Yes, it is! I’ll let you know.”
Crowley was already heading to the front of the shop. “Later, angel.”
Aziraphale waited until he was out of sight, then sank down into his chair again. It had been a pleasant morning, but his attempt to make Crowley see him as someone with possible romantic intentions had failed completely. He’d have to come up with something much less subtle.
When he returned to the front of the shop, the flowers had wilted into a brown, dry mess. Aziraphale tried to coax them back into bloom, but their disappointment at having failed him must have overwhelmed them, poor dears. Aziraphale disappeared the lot with a snap of his fingers, and sighed.
**
“What is this place, anyway?” Crowley frowned up at the nondescript door.
“It’s apparently all the rage on the food scene.” Aziraphale opened the door and they stepped through into a dimly lit foyer. On the other side, a young woman stood at a podium, tapping on its glowing surface with one finger.
She looked up and them and smiled. “Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, welcome. Right this way.” She was dressed completely in black, blending into the background enough that she might appear as a disembodied head, if you squinted. She turned and nodded for them to follow.
Crowley’s eyebrows arched beneath his dark glasses. “Impressive.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “They stagger the reservations so that every guest gets a private, personalized experience.”
Private it was, for they didn’t see any other guests as they were led down a long, richly decorated corridor lined with doors.
“Bit like a horror film,” Crowley muttered.
“Oh, hush. I think it’s lovely.”
“That’s what you’d say, if you were in a horror film.”
The hostess opened one of the doors and gestured for them to walk through into the small room. There was a low table in the center, surrounded by what looked to be cushions. On the table was a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne with two glasses. Soft music filtered through hidden speakers.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s a fixed menu.” She handed them a tablet. “It’s all explained here. Anything you need, simply order it. All items will be delivered discreetly through the trolley system.” She gestured to a small door in the corner of the room. “Once I leave, the room is yours until midnight. No one will disturb you. Is there anything else I can provide?”
“No, thank you, my dear. I think we’ll be fine.” Aziraphale smiled at her, and she nodded. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
“What the Heaven?” Crowley poked at the cushioned floor with his foot. “Is the floor a giant bed?”
“Ah, it does appear to be.” Aziraphale frowned.
“And we’re supposed to lie on the floor and eat?”
“Roman style, yes. Brings back memories.”
Crowley crossed to a shelf on the far wall. There were extra blankets and sheets there, along with a few small wooden boxes. He plucked something from the shelf and held it up: it was a decadent-looking robe. “Are we supposed to wear these?”
“I suppose we could, if we liked.”
“And the selection of personal lubricant?” Crowley had opened one of the boxes and was rifling through it. “Oh, flavoured condoms. Nice touch for a restaurant.”
“Oh good lord.” Aziraphale pressed his hands over his face.
“So is it a sex club with a restaurant, or a restaurant at which diners have sex?”
“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale groaned. “I was under the impression that it was a special experience for couples.”
Crowley snorted. “Well, that much is obvious.”
“No, I mean — I’d heard that it was a unique dining experience, and since they required a reservation for two… oh dear.” He’d thought it might be romantic, would provide them a chance to explore their feelings for each other. He hadn’t intended to proposition Crowley outright. He dropped his hands and sighed. “I should have warned you, at least.”
“It works much better as a surprise, I think.” Crowley help up a large purple dildo. “D’ya reckon other people have used this? Ah no, it says here that all toys are brand new and we can take them with us when we leave. A souvenir, how thoughtful.”
“I need a drink.” Aziraphale sat next to the table and poured himself a glass of champagne. The floor did indeed appear to be made of mattress. It was exceedingly comfortable.
There was a buzzing sound from across the room. Crowley giggled. Aziraphale closed his eyes.
This really wasn’t going as he’d intended at all.
Aziraphale downed his champagne, then refilled the glass. “Should we call for the first course?”
“Yeah, why not? Oh! This is bouncy, isn’t it?” Crowley stood at the edge of the mattress and bounced a little. The table wobbled, along with Aziraphale’s glass.
“Oh, goodness! I suppose the table can be moved, can’t it?”
Crowley dropped into a seated position, bouncing a few times before he settled. “Angel, I’m impressed. This might be the most ridiculous restaurant you’ve ever invited me to, and that’s saying something.”
Aziraphale poured him a glass and handed it over. “Pass me the tablet, will you? I think we’re going to need a few more bottles of this.”
It was a pleasant evening, all embarrassment aside. They drank far more than would be advisable for humans, as they frequently did, and the food was genuinely good. It was the sort of molecular gastronomy that had been all the rage a few years back, which made the experience of eating playful and interesting. Many of the dishes were meant to be shared, or fed by hand to one’s partner, and so the courses did foster the sort of intimacy Aziraphale had expected.
They lay on the mattress-floor after the last course, heads together, both staring up at the mirrored ceiling. Aziraphale was pleasantly full, and just drunk enough for it to be enjoyable.
“Thass the most I’ve eaten in… I dunno. A decade.” Crowley gestured at their reflections on the ceiling. “Might need to wear the robe after all.”
“I think you can take it. They’ll just add it to the bill.”
“Nah. I’ll take the toys though.”
Aziraphale turned to look at him. The angle was awkward, and he couldn’t quite focus his vision, so he gave it up again and looked up at Crowley’s reflection. “Whatever for?” His brain caught up with his mouth a second too late. “Oh, no, never mind.”
Crowley snickered. “You’ve got a much dirtier mind now than you did before the apocalypse.”
“S’bout the same, honestly. I don’t feel as guilty about expressing it anymore, I s’pose.”
Crowley hummed and turned onto his side. He’d taken off his glasses at some point, which always pleased Aziraphale. His eyes were soft and wide now, almost looking hazel in the dim light, human-like but for the slitted pupils. Aziraphale loved them.
“I love them,” he said, staring at Crowley’s face.
“Wha, sex toys?”
“No, your eyes. They’re beautiful. Don’ get to see them so often.”
“Huh.”
Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute.
“Crowley—”
“This was fun, angel. Thanks for, for thinking, for—” He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling again. “Gonna have to sober up before we go.”
Aziraphale studied his profile: the line of his nose, the slope of his forehead. It was just a body, just a face he wore to blend in, as did Aziraphale, but the sight of it was so familiar that Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking of it as part of Crowley now. He thought of his own body the same way, the roundness and softness of it, in such stark contrast to Crowley’s angular form.
He went up on an elbow and stared down at Crowley. He touched his fingers to Crowley’s cheek. Crowley looked back up at him, his expression guarded.
“You are beautiful, y’know. I’ve always thought so. An’ you’re my friend. My best friend.”
“Your only friend,” Crowley retorted, but his tone sounded more wondrous than stinging.
“Mmm, so you are.” Aziraphale leaned down and kissed his cheek, as close to the corner of Crowley’s mouth as he dared. “Thank you.”
Crowley’s eyes closed, and he nodded. “Yeah, ‘course.”
Aziraphale sat up, his head spinning. “All right then. S’almost midnight.”
They both sobered up — never a particularly pleasant experience, but better than the alternative, Aziraphale had discovered on many occasions. The warmth in his chest remained even when the alcohol was gone, along with a tinge of regret.
Crowley stood and stretched, then headed for the shelves to pack up his prizes.
“You’re really taking them.” Aziraphale willed himself not to blush, but it was difficult, under the circumstances.
“Yep.” Crowley turned to face him, three very phallic toys tucked under his arm and a grin firmly in place. He snapped his fingers and his glasses flew into his free hand. He slid them on, then ran a hand over his hair, which obediently smoothed itself down into its customary style. “Ready?”
Aziraphale signed the bill on the tablet’s screen, then climbed to his feet.
“Here.” Crowley handed him the smallest of the three toys. “That one suits you.”
Aziraphale gaped after him as he opened the door and headed through it.
He put the toy in his pocket, though. He’d take a closer look at it later.
***
Aziraphale kept trying. He invited Crowley to accompany him to dinners at fine restaurants, to leisurely afternoon teas, to the occasional champagne brunch, and to several wine tastings. On each occasion, they had a marvelous time. Crowley smiled easily and laughed often, and never seemed as if there was anyplace else he’d rather be. Aziraphale attempted to flirt with him, with smiles and looks and the occasional double-entendre, but Crowley never seemed to notice.
It was fun, and Aziraphale enjoyed the time they spent together, of course. They were doing so many of his favorite things: enjoying sumptuous meals and fine wines, taking in art and theatre and other forms of human expression, and discussing all of it in intricate detail. He wouldn’t change a thing about it, really.
Except that he wanted to reach across the table and take Crowley’s hand on so many nights. To let that lingering, longing look turn into one that was smoldering. To lean against him and feel the heat of his body, to know the taste of his lips. That would be enough, he thought. If Crowley weren’t interested in sexual activity, Aziraphale wouldn’t mind.
Getting it all started was the part he couldn’t seem to manage, though.
After two months of having a wonderful time together, Aziraphale hatched one more plan. If this didn’t work — well, he’d have his answer, wouldn’t he?
****
“Barcelona?” Crowley looked thoughtful. “Haven’t been there in a while.”
“The gallery opening is on Thursday evening, then I thought we could wander up the Carrer Blai for tapas?”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. Wait, is this the same artist you were so keen on blessing a few years back?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He’s done some fantastic work over the last few years. He invited me specifically to attend this opening.”
Francisco was a talented artist, a visionary, even, He was also an incorrigible flirt who’d propositioned Aziraphale nearly every time they’d met. Assuming he’d behave the same this time, Crowley would have a front row seat to the spectacle of someone attempting to court Aziraphale. Jealousy, he’d read, could be a powerful motivator. And who knew jealousy better than demons?
There was a second part to the plan as well, one that had been the main plot point of many of his favorite romance novels. Aziraphale would keep that one a surprise for now.
“S’pose I could do a bit of freelance tempting while we’re there.” Crowley shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
Aziraphale clapped his hands together gleefully. “Oh, thank you! I know we’ll have so much fun.”
Crowley smiled in that enigmatic way that made Aziraphale’s insides feel all twisty.
*****
The plane ride down was short and would have been uneventful except for the odd pockets of turbulence they kept hitting.
“My apologies for the bumpy flight, everyone,” the pilot said over the intercom. “We’re going to have to suspend service and ask everyone to remain seated for the duration of the flight.”
Aziraphale leaned into Crowley. “Stop that!”
Crowley snickered. “No real harm done, just a bit of fun.”
“Fun for you, maybe. The woman two seats ahead of me looks as if she might be ill.”
“Look at it this way: when people are terrified on an airplane, they start praying, right? I’d think you would approve.”
“Fifty people suddenly praying on an airplane for no apparent reason would certainly attract someone’s attention.” Aziraphale gave him a hard look.
Crowley sighed and sank into his seat. “I see your point.”
Aziraphale patted his knee. “You meant well. Er, I mean, not well.”
“Are you actually comforting me right now?” Crowley smirked at him.
Aziraphale huffed. “I’m going to read my book.”
“I’m going to take a nap.” Crowley folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
Crowley’s ability to sleep anywhere was impressive. Aziraphale wondered if he napped like this because he was genuinely tired, or if he was simply bored and wanted time to pass more quickly.
The plane landed safely in Barcelona, not hitting any more turbulence along the way.
They hailed a taxi outside the airport and went first to their hotel, a charming little boutique inn in the Poble-Sec neighborhood. Crowley didn’t travel with a bag, simply miracling up anything he needed. Aziraphale had a small suitcase, though, and so they headed up to the room to settle in a bit.
“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale said as they opened the door.
The room was cozy and charming, with eclectic furnishings and white linens. A door opened onto a small balcony that overlooked the local area. Aziraphale set his suitcase on a rack placed in a corner and turned to see Crowley already stretched out on the room’s dominant piece of furniture, a large bed.
“There’s only one bed, though,” Aziraphale noted, as casually as he could manage. “I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Shouldn’t be,” Crowley replied, eyes hidden behind his glasses as usual. “Considering that you don’t sleep.”
“I have slept, on occasion. I don’t have a bed at the shop, so I don’t often have the opportunity.”
“You could miracle up a bed with a snap of your fingers.”
“I suppose. Anyway, if I fancy a snooze in the middle of the night, will it bother you?”
“Why should it?” Crowley yawned and stretched. “Oh, this is comfy. When is the opening again?”
“Not for several hours. I was thinking of going for a walk around the area. I’ve been meaning to check in on the Sagrada Familia. I haven’t been since it was consecrated.”
“Have fun with that.” Crowley gave a small wave.
“Right, well. Have a lovely nap, then.” Aziraphale closed the door behind him and headed down the stairs.
Crowley had seemed completely unconcerned about the bed situation. That had always been such a point of angst in the novels Aziraphale had read, so he wasn’t sure what to make of that. For now, he put it out of his mind. They had an eventful evening ahead of them.
******
“My dear Mister Fell!” Francisco leaned in and kissed Aziraphale on both cheeks. His clothing was as exuberant as his personality, all dramatic lines and bright colors. The thick frames of his glasses were asymmetrical, giving him a slightly wild-eyed look. “I am so pleased to see you again.”
“I was honored to be invited.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “Congratulations on the opening.”
Francisco waved a hand dismissively. “It is because of you that we are here tonight.”
“Not at all. Your work is stunning, my dear. You absolutely deserve it.” Aziraphale really did love Francisco’s style: sweeping color, sharp lines, abstract landscapes that seemed to contain more detail the closer you looked.
Francisco placed a well-manicured hand over his heart and beamed. “You are too kind. And look at you! As dapper as ever. Tell me you are here alone tonight, please. You must join me later, there is a private party, and very good wine.” He winked at this.
Aziraphale giggled. “Oh, you do know how to tempt me.”
“Thought that was my job,” Crowley said, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He smiled widely at Francisco. It was his I will eat you smile, but Francisco did not know that.
Francisco gasped and turned to give Crowley a full-body onceover. His smile flowed effortlessly into a leer. “And who is this delicious man? Mister Fell, you did not give me fair warning.”
A small flare of alarm rose in the back of Aziraphale’s head. “Oh, well, I— Please, let me introduce you. Francisco, this is Anthony Crowley. Crowley, this is Francisco, the artist whose work we’re celebrating here tonight.”
Francisco held out a hand in the manner of someone expecting it to be kissed. Crowley didn’t miss a beat; he raised Francisco’s hand to his lips. “Charmed, señor.” His smile was nearly reptilian.
“Ay, gracias.” Francisco seemed to shiver all over. “Mister Crowley, what a pleasure to meet you. I did not know Mister Fell was bringing such a handsome friend this evening.”
Aziraphale had a very bad feeling about this. “Ah, yes. My friend.”
“May I tell you about my work, Mister Crowley?” Francisco didn’t wait for an answer; he looped one arm through Crowley’s and began tugging him across the gallery toward one of the larger pieces.
Aziraphale watched them walk away. “I’ll just get us drinks, shall I?”
He headed to the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. Across the room, Francisco was talking animatedly about a large piece that Aziraphale was particularly fond of. Crowley was listening with uncharacteristic patience, occasionally nodding his head. Francisco leaned in to say something more, and they both laughed. Francisco did not move away again, but stayed very close to Crowley.
Aziraphale frowned. This was the opposite of what he’d expected to happen. Francisco was supposed to make Crowley jealous, not steal him right out from under Aziraphale.
Ah.. Aziraphale felt a wave of shame roll through him. This was how he’d planned to make Crowley feel, wasn’t it? It was an unpleasant mix of disappointment and defeat, and not at all the sort of feeling that made him want to march across the room and declare his feelings for the being he loved. On the contrary, he wanted to go back to the hotel and sulk for the rest of the evening, imagining the sordid things Crowley and Francisco might be getting up to without him.
Just as Aziraphale convinced himself he really should leave, Crowley turned and looked over his shoulder. Even through the sunglasses, Aziraphale knew the moment their eyes met. A shiver of sensation ran through his very core, even to the tips of his tucked-away wings. Crowley held his gaze, then gave a tiny, tense shrug. He nodded his head in the direction of Francisco, as if to say, I’ll set him and his artwork on fire if you don’t come over here and get me out of this.
Aziraphale’s spirits lifted immediately. Of course Crowley wasn’t going to let himself be seduced by Francisco! He felt ridiculous even for thinking it. Crowley was being as polite as he knew how to be, and he was doing it for Aziraphale. In any other circumstance, he would have set the entire place aflame by now, possibly cursed everyone here to boot. But no, instead he was currently clenching his jaw and restraining himself from violence, because he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t like it.
He does love me, Aziraphale thought, his heart dancing in his chest.
He picked up glasses of wine from the bar and walked across the gallery to where the two of them stood. Crowley was smoking very slightly now, but Francisco had not noticed.
“Darling, here you are!” Aziraphale held out a glass to Crowley and smiled warmly at him.
“Ah, thank you.” Crowley took the glass and slid an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, the gesture so natural that Aziraphale didn’t even blink. Crowley relaxed almost immediately, the smoke dissipated, and everything felt right with the world again.
It was all Aziraphale could do to contain his giddiness. “You must tell me what I missed. I’ve been admiring this piece all evening.”
Francisco’s expression spanned the seven stages of grief in about three seconds, then settled on a blend of disappointment and embarrassment. “Ah, yes. As I was telling Mister Crowley, it represents loneliness and the futility of life and love in this time of climate change.” He sighed heavily, then continued for a while, slipping occasionally into Catalan, which Aziraphale had never quite caught the hang of. It was fine, though, because as much as he admired and supported Francisco’s art, all could think about at this moment was the warmth of Crowley pressed alongside him and the slight pressure of his fingertips curled against the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat.
When they moved to the next piece, Crowley caught Aziraphale’s hand in his and squeezed it. Aziraphale intertwined their fingers together and held on tightly.
They stayed like that for most of the night, always close enough to touch. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just Crowley happily pretending they were a couple to continue fending off Francisco’s interest, but then Crowley leaned in to kiss his cheek before heading off to the bar to buy the next round. The spot where his lips had touched Aziraphale’s skin tingled as he walked away.
“He is very handsome, your friend,” Francisco said, once Crowley was out of earshot.
“Yes, he is,” Aziraphale replied, knowing full well that Crowley could still hear every word they said. “Devastatingly so.”
“He adores you,” Francisco said, sighing again. “How lucky for you.”
“I can assure you it’s mutual.”
The back of Crowley’s neck turned pink from across the room.
“The two of you must come to the party at my flat later. I insist.” Francisco’s tone indicated he would rather they not come, actually.
Aziraphale wanted nothing less at the moment. “Thank you. How kind.”
When Crowley returned with two new glasses of wine, Aziraphale didn’t bother hiding the adoration in his eyes. He’d been engineering all of these frankly ridiculous scenarios for months now, waiting for Crowley to say something. But he should have known better than to assume Crowley would be the one to come clean about his feelings. He was a demon, after all, and may not even be aware of what was so clearly in his heart. Yes, it was up to Aziraphale to make the first move. He’d wasted so much time!
They did not go to the party. They apologized to a still-glum Francisco, then went for tapas instead. It was something Aziraphale had been looking forward to, and the added bonus of sitting with Crowley at a small table on a cobblestone plaza, a small plate of cheese and olives between them and glasses of wine in hand, made it even better. They laughed and talked, just like they always did, and it was quite possibly the most perfect romantic evening Aziraphale could have imagined.
Eventually, and by a quiet sort of mutual agreement, they wandered in the direction of their hotel. They didn’t speak as they walked on, each of them lost in thought. It wasn’t until they stepped through the door of their hotel room that Aziraphale realized it was time to say what he’d been wanting to for so long.
He closed the door behind him with a small click, then turned to find Crowley standing right in front of him.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, staring up at him.
“Angel, I—” Crowley hesitated, then reached up to touch his fingers to Aziraphale’s cheek. He’d pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, and his eyes were clear, hiding nothing. He looked as if he couldn’t find the words at all.
Aziraphale had plenty of words for both of them. “Yes,” he said, and went up on his toes to kiss Crowley.
Crowley gasped against Aziraphale’s mouth, which made deepening the kiss rather easy. He stepped forward, pinning Aziraphale against the door, and kissed him back.
Aziraphale had read about kisses for millennia, about how a good kiss could lift you off your feet, melt your insides, make you see stars. This kiss was even better than that. It was all of those things and somehow more. Aziraphale could feel the intensity of Crowley’s emotions aimed toward him, and the echo chamber they created together was all-consuming. They lost themselves in each other for what seemed like hours, Aziraphale’s back pressed against the door and Crowley leaning against him.
“I was going to say,” Crowley said some time later, his voice soft and full of feeling, “that I apologize if I made you uncomfortable tonight.”
Aziraphale was still floating in a sea of angelic endorphins. “Yes. Wait. Sorry?”
“I’ve been trying so hard, for decades. Heaven, no, for centuries.”
“Trying what?” Aziraphale wanted to kiss him again, but Crowley seemed determined to say this first.
“Trying to protect you from this, from me.”
“Protect me from you? My dear.” Aziraphale took his hand and led him to sit on the bed. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re a being of love, surely you can sense it?” Crowley’s expression shifted into one of fear. “Unless that isn’t really what… no, that can’t be it.”
Aziraphale placed his hands on either side of Crowley’s face and kissed him softly. He touched his forehead to Crowley’s and sighed. “I love you. I have for a long time. I’ve sensed that you love me too, but I wasn’t sure if you might want this.”
“This? Oh.” Crowley took a shuddery breath. “Angel, this is exactly what I thought you wouldn’t want. Do you know how difficult it’s been for me to keep my hands off you? Especially lately.” He sat back, staring at Aziraphale with wide eyes. “Hang on. You’ve been doing it on purpose, haven’t you?”
Aziraphale felt a shiver of shame. “Well, yes. I suppose I have.”
“You’ve been tormenting me,” he continued, a note of something akin to wonder in his voice. “For weeks now.”
“Oh, my dear.”
“It was torture, angel. You’ve no idea how much I’ve suffered.”
Aziraphale’s heart sank. He opened his mouth to apologize again.
“You really do love me.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale against him and kissed him.
Aziraphale’s apology died on Crowley’s tongue with a whimper. The echo chamber fired up all over again, and it was glorious. More than glorious, actually — it wasn’t just Aziraphale’s ethereal being that was being affected, but his physical body as well. His generally unused human genitals were… well. That was new.
“I want you,” he said, feeling more and more certain about all of this with every passing minute. “I want all of you, please. I want to know what you feel like against me, over me— inside me.”
Crowley drew in a sharp breath. He pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck and said nothing.
Oh dear, had he come on too strong? He had to work out how to modulate this feeling. “Only if you do, I mean. It’s not necessary if you—”
“You’ve no idea how much I want you.” Crowley’s voice was a low rumble against Aziraphale’s skin, which made him shiver. “But could we, this first time— I mean, I want more than just—” He gestured between them.
He wanted reassurance, Aziraphale realized. He wanted to know this was more than a desire of the flesh. He wanted everything.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, “but I don’t think we’ve got room in here.”
Crowley’s smile was as genuine as Aziraphale had ever seen it. He held up one hand. “This one’s on me.”
He snapped his fingers and they were soaring above the city, wings outstretched. No one could see them like this, so no one noticed the way they wrapped around each other, and stayed that way for a long time.
*******
“Mmm, my dear.” Aziraphale stretched out against his bed —a recent addition to the flat above the bookshop— and sighed. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Crowley sat up from between Aziraphale’s thighs. “Not yet, I haven’t. Think you’ve got another one in you?”
Aziraphale squinted down at him. They’d been at it for hours, and each of them had climaxed half a dozen times by now. Aziraphale was getting a bit peckish, honestly. He considered suggesting they stop for a snack first. Crowley wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, and oh, he knew what that did to Aziraphale, damn him.
“What did you have in mind?”
Crowley grinned, then held something up: a large purple dildo.
Aziraphale tilted his head. “Is that from the restaurant?”
“Yes.” Crowley’s eyebrows did a thing.
Aziraphale had said on multiple occasions that he was up for any pleasures of the flesh Crowley might want to show him. He hadn’t meant all of them in the same weekend, but then again, he hadn’t been very specific. Crowley’s enthusiasm was commendable.
And infectious. Aziraphale loved him so much.
Aziraphale curled a finger at him in invitation, and Crowley obediently climbed up and settled over him. Aziraphale slid fingers into Crowley’s hair and pulled him down into a soft, decadent kiss. His other hand gripped Crowley’s arse. Crowley whimpered and ground against him, his cock growing hard against Aziraphale’s belly.
Yes, Aziraphale probably did have one more orgasm in him. He smiled against Crowley’s lips and whispered, “Show me.”
********
fin
comicgeekery
(Anonymous) 2019-12-22 01:39 am (UTC)(link)Anyway, great work!
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I am so curious about that “couples” restaurant and whether it’s a real thing. I never know with you. :D I amused myself by imagining a little sushi conveyor belt running through the sex dining rooms.
And either Crowley miracled that giant purple dildo there, or he was, uh, wearing it the whole time. Travelling light indeed.
Lovely from start to finish!
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Private it was, for they didn’t see any other guests as they were led down a long, richly decorated corridor lined with doors.
“Bit like a horror film,” Crowley muttered.
“Oh, hush. I think it’s lovely.”
“That’s what you’d say, if you were in a horror film.”
Such good, fond, bickering! You really captured the playful affection they have for each other. The whole sextaurant scene was hilarious. I also really love Aziraphale's total lack of guilt about enjoying physical comforts and Crowley being able to ask for reassurance!
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This really wasn’t going as he’d intended at all.
Well, that was a coffee-all-over-the-keyboard moment!
Francisco’s expression spanned the seven stages of grief in about three seconds, then settled on a blend of disappointment and embarrassment.
After all, which of us can honestly say we have never been there? It encapsulated the feeling entirely!!
I loved this whole piece. The idea of Crowley trying to protect Aziraphale from him and his hidden feelings was quite poignant. It strikes me as just the sort of thing that Crowley would do. Beautifully written and nicely atmospheric.
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“I love them,” he said, staring at Crowley’s face.” AH
“It was his I will eat you smile, but Francisco did not know that.” RIP Francisco
Okay, no, RIP AZIRAPHALE.
Nope, nope, still Francisco. Poor guy.
At least the others get a happy ending XD This was sweet!
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