Chapter Text
When Crowley wakes, it’s daylight, the sun shining through the window with hazy rays. He stretches, finding himself untangled from Aziraphale—not that he’s gone far, sitting up in the bed with his back against the headboard. Crowley is near enough to Aziraphale’s legs to throw an arm over them.
“Oh!” says Aziraphale with pleasant surprise. “You’re awake!”
“Hrm,” Crowley says. “‘Awake’.”
A hand settles in his hair, after a couple of misses, with affection that floods Crowley with contentment. “Good morning, my dear.”
He knows his responding grunt doesn’t betray his happiness at waking with Aziraphale, so he reaches up and grabs the hand on his head, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it. He watches Aziraphale blush from his vantage point near his hip and feels pleased. “Did you sleep well?”
“I’ve never slept better than I have with you by my side,” Aziraphale says in repartee, and Crowley groans, releasing his hand and sitting up. “It was the best sleep I’ve had since I first got into the habit, and all because of you.”
“Stop it. Shut up. You’re a menace.”
“Make me.”
Crowley’s watched enough films to know what this means. “Alright. I will.” He shuffles over in the bed, takes a surprised Aziraphale’s head in both hands and kisses him on the lips. Twice. Three times, the third lasting longer, a warm and insistent press. There may be a mischievous smile in there somewhere, and it doesn’t belong to Crowley.
“It’s not working,” Aziraphale mutters smugly between the fourth kiss and the fifth. “I can still talk.”
Crowley growls and climbs fully into Aziraphale’s lap, bracing against the headboard and claiming him properly. Aziraphale’s own hands immediately move to Crowley’s sides, caressing down to his waist as they kiss open-mouthed, exchanging groans, tongues meeting like old lovers.
Oh, God. Crowley wants to do this until they’re both drunk with it, until they have to lie down together for days or even weeks. The soft press of Aziraphale’s body, and the long-familiar scent of him combined with the brand new taste, it’s intoxicating. Nothing on Earth, or Heaven or Hell, has ever felt like this. Nothing else ever could.
So enraptured is Crowley, and equally so Aziraphale, that neither of them notice the door opening until a voice says “I've got your—oh, f—oh God.”
“Oh!” says a second female voice, as Crowley snarls over his shoulder, scandalised. “Nope, there's no God here.”
It's Nina and Maggie, the former carrying a tray laden with food and standing frozen in the doorway, head turned away. Maggie is peering over her shoulder, looking scandalised and holding two coffee cups.
“What the hell did we just walk in on,” Nina groans.
Crowley climbs off Aziraphale and clutches the duvet to his chest, even though he’s not indecent, feeling exposed and glaring hard enough to set the two of them alight (but only metaphorically, for now). “Don’t act like it’s our fault! You can’t just walk into people’s bedrooms! How did you even get in here?!”
“Muriel let us in. Mr Fell said asked if I’d deliver you two a breakfast from the coffee shop.” Nina sets down the tray and folds her arms. “I am not in the habit of this sort of thing but I made a special exception after what you two have been through. Though I’ve half a mind to take it back after you subjected me to that sight. I need to go and bleach my eyeballs.”
“Settle down, drama queen, it’s just kissing.”
“‘Just’, he says. I didn’t come here to see two middle aged men eating each others’ faces, thanks.”
But Crowley’s not listening; he’s just digested what Nina said before the part about bleaching her eyeballs. He turns to address Aziraphale. “You ordered us breakfast in bed?”
“Mm. I wanted to do something nice for you, after everything you’ve done for me. And it’s not as though I could cook you breakfast myself, as you’ve seen.”
Crowley can’t help the fond smile that spreads across his face at this. So thoughtful, and to have swallowed his pride and asked someone else to do it, too. From the corner of his eye, he catches Maggie smiling at his expression, and quickly turns it into a scowl.
“Angel, I told you, you don’t need to worry. I’m happy to take care of you—”
Nina tsks. “Ugh. Do I have to stay for this?”
“You don’t need our permission to leave!”
“I was waiting for a ‘thank you’, actually!”
“Sorry, Nina,” Aziraphale says. “Thank you, truly. I promise I didn’t mean to cause you any, erm, discomfort; I didn’t realise you’d come round so quickly. What did you bring?”
“There’s toast, pancakes, eggs and bacon. A pot of tea for you and a 6 espressos in a big mug for that smarmy bastard who, for the record, is currently looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale turns in Crowley’s direction to give him a smile, dark eyes glittering as they wander. “No, actually, that was his job.”
Crowley rolls his own eyes and gives him a nudge for being clever. “Thanks, Nina,” he says grudgingly, despite being rudely interrupted.
“Lock your damn door next time,” she says before marching out.
Maggie hangs back for a moment. “Actually, I think you two are really cute,” she says, somewhat bravely for a defenceless human calling two demonic entities ‘cute’. “I saw you two dancing at the ball and I kind of knew you liked each other. It’s nice that you’re together now.” She pauses. “Um. Sorry. I shouldn’t… just assume you’re...”
“It’s quite all right, Maggie,” Aziraphale placates. “You’re right. We are together now.”
He holds out his hand to his left, trusting Crowley to take it, and that unquestioning faith makes Crowley feel a stab of something that makes him almost flinch. Without hesitation, he takes the waiting hand and laces their fingers together. They have nothing to fear now.
*
After their breakfast, Crowley rummages through Aziraphale's drawers, ignoring his protests, until he finds both of their usual outfits neatly folded away; he had indeed already owned the pyjamas and simply swapped their clothes over.
After making much of this—“admit it, you had pyjamas for me, just in case!”—Crowley gets dressed and piles Aziraphale’s own clothes in his lap.
“Right, come on, get dressed. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“Wait and see.”
“Actually, I won’t—”
“Don’t you dare say you won’t see, you insufferable prat. Wait and find out. That better?” He doesn’t give Aziraphale chance to reply. “I’m going to go and fetch the Bentley from Mayfair, so take your time. Won’t be long.”
Muriel is in the bookshop downstairs, reading, and brightens when they see Crowley. They’re full of delight that he and Aziraphale are both okay. Apparently it’d been Muriel who Aziraphale had dispatched to ask Nina to make and bring over a breakfast for them.
“Sneaky bastard,” Crowley says fondly after she’s explained.
It takes only a handful of minutes to fetch the Bentley and drive back, apologising for abandoning her in the snow. She doesn’t seem to mind, and in fact is obligingly nice and toasty inside by the time Crowley gets back to the bookshop.
“Right then,” Crowley says to Muriel. “We’re going out for the day, so watch over the shop, will you? No selling any of the books.”
“Yes sir!”
“I’m surprised you’re still here, actually. You… you do know that you don’t work for Aziraphale any more, don’t you? Since he’s not an angel any longer.”
“Oh, I know. But I’m still here, doing Earth reconnaissance for Heaven. Very important stuff.”
“You’re not reporting to them about us, are you?”
Muriel looks crestfallen. “You’re my friends. Why would I do that?”
“Well, you seem the type to do as you’re told, that’s all.”
“Well, now you’ve told me not to report to Heaven about you and Aziraphale. So I can do as I’m told.” Muriel beams. “Anyway, Aziraphale said I might want to distance myself from them. He thinks there may be some institutional problems and it’d be good for me to try and stay down here amongst the humans if I can.”
“He’s right. Keep away from that lot as much as you’re able to.”
Hiding behind her book, Muriel says with a small voice, “Do you think it’s a bad thing, being an angel?”
“Not necessarily. It’s just… best to form your own opinions about things sometimes, rather than just blindly believing the doctrine.”
“Won’t I Fall if I disagree with what the archangels think?”
“No, I don’t think anybody’s fallen for disagreeing with anything since… well, since me. Since Lucifer’s lot.”
Muriel pouts in thought. “Then how did Aziraphale fall?”
“Uh...”
“I jumped,” interrupts Aziraphale’s voice from the balcony above. “It was my own choice.”
“But—that’s…” Muriel bites their lip, wide-eyed, reluctant to continue the sentence.
“Crazy, yes,” Crowley says.
“Undoubtedly,” Aziraphale agrees, gingerly making his way down the stairs to them. He’s a little quicker now, beginning to find his footing. He’s immaculately dressed; a miracle may have been involved. “I wouldn’t recommend it. It was foolish and rash of me.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“I was under the impression I was cornered. I didn’t know whether Crowley was still alive, as they’d told me the Metatron had intercepted him. As far as I could tell, my choice was between making the decision to Fall, or… extreme sanctions. The Book of Life.”
Crowley looks at him, thinks about how desperate and afraid he must have been. Choked by overwhelming love and agonising sympathy, he walks to the bottom of the stairs and takes Aziraphale’s hand, guiding him down the last few steps and into his arms. Muriel makes a small sound of embarrassment or surprise as they embrace tightly, but Crowley doesn’t care.
Aziraphale apparently does, as he gently extricates himself, clearing his throat. “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“I’m not. I told you: wait and find out. Come on.”
Crowley steps out first, still holding his hand, and guides him down onto the street, which isn’t too busy since there are still remnants of slush around and some are wisely choosing to stay indoors. Aziraphale is bundled carefully into the Bentley after a tentative walk to the other side of the road, full of hesitance and clearly uncomfortable. Crowley hopes there will be less of that where they’re headed. But first, he has to make another stop.
After a short drive (at slightly less break-neck speeds than usual, to spare Aziraphale, who now can’t even see the road ahead), Crowley parks haphazardly on double yellows next to a row of shops. He’s never really seen the point of double yellow lines, which mean ‘no parking’ but are summarily ignored by most of the population anyway. But the thought reminds him of his yellow pinstripe suggestion from the other day, and he resolves to have a discussion with the Bentley about it sometime in the near future.
“Okay, be right back. You wait there.”
“Where are you going?”
“Don't worry, I'll be back in two—uh, what is it? Two… the one about lambs.”
“Two shakes of a—”
“Lambs tail, got it. Right. Sit tight.”
He smiles to himself as he leaves the car, and is surprised to find himself still smiling when he returns to it a few minutes later, placing a large brown paper bag into a confused Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley had been unusually polite to the staff in the best bakery in London, and is dangerously close to humming.
“What’s this… oh! It smells absolutely scrumptious.”
“Don’t you get eating any of that. It’s for later.”
“Oh, but it smells like—”
“No!” Crowley bats Aziraphale’s hand away from the bag, exasperated. He should have known better than to put Aziraphale in charge of the food. “Actually, here.” He takes the bag back and places it behind his seat, out of reach.
Aziraphale sulks for the rest of the journey, claiming to be starving, and how could he be so cruel as to make Aziraphale wait, and when was he going to tell him where they were going, and were they nearly there yet?
“We’re here,” Crowley announces after a couple of hours. He hops out of the driver’s seat before Aziraphale can ask any questions, and hot-foots it around the bonnet to the passenger side door, so he can open it like a chauffeur. “Out you get.”
“Where are—”
“Shh-shh-shh. Not another word.” He guides Aziraphale out of his seat to stand beside him, taking a deep breath of country air, his face tilted up towards the watery sunlight. “Why don’t you try and guess?”
“You just said ‘not a word’. Can I not guess out loud?”
Crowley tuts, rolls his eyes, and concedes the point.
Aziraphale’s feet crunch on the gravel of the dirt track. Around them, the sun smiles weakly down on grassy fields and the nearby woodland, touched by orange and brown, separated from the fields by a slow-moving river. Various birds chatter from every direction, trilling and calling to each other. Aziraphale’s snow hadn’t reached this far out, and it still feels like sleepy autumn.
“We’re not in the city any more,” Aziraphale comments.
“Mmhm.” Crowley reaches for the brown bag, also grabbing a tartan blanket from the back seat. He pats the Bentley fondly on the roof, and then circles back to Aziraphale, smirking at his frown of concentration. “You’re going to have to get more specific than that. Here, put your arm through mine. That’s it. If I go slowly, we can walk in step, and nobody will know which of us is leading the other.”
“Nobody? Are there people here?”
“No, nobody’s here. Nobody ’cept us. But I thought you might like to get some practise in before we make our demonic debut in polite society.”
“Aw, Crowley. That’s very—”
“Oh, stop it, will you?”
They begin to walk, Aziraphale hesitant, following each footstep a heartbeat late.
“What if I was going to say it’s very silly?”
“I’m—I am absolutely not silly. I may be many things, but not that.”
Aziraphale is smiling now, which is exactly what Crowley wanted. They walk slowly into the grass, amidst birdsong and sunshine, Aziraphale beginning to gain confidence. “Are we in a park?”
“Nope.”
“A nature reserve?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A field, then?”
“Yeah. There’s a big old tree in the middle of it. I want to sit underneath it, on a blanket, and we can eat the food from the bakery.”
“A picnic,” Aziraphale concludes, delighted. “Crowley.”
Yes, a picnic: surrounded by all things Earthly, not a single reminder of Heaven or Hell to bother them. No people to worry about, with their judging looks and Aziraphale’s self-consciousness. “Thought you might find it relaxing.”
“Oh, my dear. You do know how to spoil me.”
The food from the bakery is indeed delicious. Aziraphale’s noises of pleasure manage to coerce him into trying some of almost everything, bites of croissant and pain-au-chocolat and various other pastries, laughing when Crowley playfully nips at his fingers.
The day passes easily, chatting about various things, reminiscing about old times, and people they’ve both known. They have an excellent argument about Jack the Ripper. Crowley likes to bait Aziraphale by pretending to believe the misinformation that ended up being spread about both the man and his victims, but Aziraphale is too pleased and full of good food to be goaded into proper irritation, and simply shakes his head with a huff.
As evening approaches, Aziraphale shivers slightly in the cool air. Crowley cajoles him to his feet, snaps the blanket clean from dirt and wraps it around Aziraphale’s shoulders, rubbing his upper arms heartily to make him smile.
“Want to go somewhere else, or would you prefer to go home?”
“Oh? Well if you’re offering to take me out, how could I say no?”
“Quite.”
“But will you tell me where we’re going this time?”
Crowley looks at the furrow of Aziraphale’s brow, emphasised in the red-toned sunset light, casting shadows in the dear wrinkle lines of his face.
“I want to take you to the symphony hall. But if you don’t feel up to that, we could always go to a smaller venue?”
Aziraphale’s face relaxes into a smile. “Perhaps a smaller venue would be ideal, for today. After all, you don’t want to go spoiling me too much. I’ll become insatiable.”
“You are insatiable.”
“I mean, properly. A real drama queen.”
“You are a—”
“Oh, do give over, you swine.” Aziraphale pushes at Crowley’s shoulder with his own, and then slips an arm from under the blanket to tug him closer. “Although if we’re going somewhere downmarket, there’d best be champagne, at the very least.”
Crowley shakes his head and loops their arms together once more. “See! So demanding.”
As they walk, Aziraphale says, “I was thinking, you know, maybe I should change into my crow form for a bit, so I can see where you’ve taken me?”
“Huh. Why not?”
Why is Aziraphale a crow, anyway, Crowley wonders? Of all creatures, it doesn’t seem very like him. There must be a connection somewhere; maybe he’ll ask Aziraphale later.
“I could even stay like that way all the way to London. I could fly alongside the car. Hmm… do you think they’d allow me into the symphony hall like that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Whether or not they’d allow a crow in there, which I doubt, I'm not hanging around with a bird.”
“But I can see, so I won’t be having to trouble you all the time.” He trips over a tuft of grass, grasping Crowley for balance, almost dropping the blanket. With a huff, he gestures with his free arm. “You see?”
“I don’t care about that. I’m not embarrassed by you, Aziraphale. What makes you think I'd rather be the guy hanging out with his weird pet crow than the guy hanging out with his b-boyfriend—partner—or—whatever?”
“Husband,” Aziraphale corrects with affected nonchalance.
“Husband,” Crowley amends automatically, and then, after a moment of silence, “wait. Hold on—are you—is th—oi!”
But Aziraphale is giggling and slipping away before Crowley can even form a full question; transforming joyfully and soaring into the crimson sky, silhouetted and glorious, free, free, and yet somehow still Crowley’s.
“Husband?” Crowley whispers as he watches Aziraphale fly.
Perhaps the term has some merit to it after all.