Chapter Text
--- 3 years after the wedding ---
--- 3 years and 2 months after the wedding ---
Aziraphale clutched his phone so tightly that he could almost feel the screen cracking.
It had been almost six weeks since his last, rather disastrous, conversation with Crowley, and he had been extremely worried.
Not necessarily about his whereabouts — Anathema and her arsenal of social media accounts had been able to keep tabs on Aziraphale's runaway husband by analysing his sporadic online presence in the form of posts, snaps and stories in excruciating detail.
No, Aziraphale was more concerned about the state of their friendship and how to move forward after their disagreement.
Above Crowley's newest messages, sent this evening, or more precisely, morning according to Crowley's time, sat the unanswered message from too long ago.
At the time, seeing this message hadn't been enough to wash away Aziraphale's anger. He had been tempted to simply react with a thumbs-up emoji or a nasty, "That's too bad."
But deep down, he wasn't a spiteful person, especially when it came to Crowley.
Yet, contrary to what Crowley might think, he wasn't angelic enough to go right back to normal.
No, he was still very angry with Crowley and knew he deserved an apology. Or at least an explanation.
So, Aziraphale hadn't known anything better to say than . . . nothing.
Normally, he would have shared every convenience or inconvenience in life with Crowley to bring order to the carousel of thoughts in his mind. Which had proven to be difficult when this time, it was Crowley who had crashed through Aziraphale's mind like a tornado, leaving him feeling confused and anxious.
This had led to the rather awkward situation of him sitting in a bar on one side of the table with Anathema and Newt sitting opposite him, staring at him owlishly and scrutinising him so intensely that he started to shiver.
“I don't know what's going on with Crowley,” he had said, having just concluded his lengthy report. He had barely caught the subtle glance that Anathema and Newt had exchanged.
"You really have no idea?" Anathema had asked, but it sounded more like a statement, and a disappointed one at that.
"How could I?" Aziraphale had retorted indignantly, which just had caused Anathema and Newt to shake their heads in synchronised disbelief.
“Oh, brother,” Anathema had sighed.
Newt had tilted his head towards her. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt if we—"
“No!” Anathema had shook her head vehemently again. "No interfering. That would just make it worse, and besides, we promised.” She had tried to hiss quietly, but not quietly enough for Aziraphale not to hear it.
Aside from lots of emotional support during the past six weeks, that had been all the help he had gotten from them in order to understand Crowley's behaviour.
Unfortunately, Barry hadn't been much help, either. His only comments had been variations of “Seems typically like Crowley to me” and “Don't worry about it, babe.”
Aziraphale didn't like this advice. Or the nickname.
Well, now it had been six weeks. Six very concerned and confused weeks.
Finally, there was a sign of Crowley. Almost like a peace offering.
Aziraphale's confusion turned to disdain again.
Who did Crowley think he was?
How could he think he could just come back to Aziraphale after all this time?
No explanation, no apology — just trying to pick up where they left off?
Aziraphale huffed and pressed his lips tightly together to stop himself from muttering aloud in front of Barry, who was busy creating a catastrophe in Aziraphale's kitchen and calling it dinner.
But it wasn't just indignation, Aziraphale recognised, as he carefully unclenched his fingers from the phone.
Again, he felt a tiny spark of happiness blooming in his chest upon seeing Crowley's messages.
He couldn't lie; he had missed that irritating person so damn much, and it was ridiculous how, despite it all, he suppressed the urge to answer Crowley right away, even if it would just be a sharp comment.
Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself to look at the pictures Crowley had sent, feeling equally excited and afraid.
Crowley's rare Instagram stories even more rarely contained a selfie.
Mostly, he posted pictures of plants and drinks, or the most random impressions from his travels.
Unsurprisingly, he particularly liked documenting his various transport vehicles.
Perhaps in their private chat, though, Crowley would send Aziraphale something more personal. Perhaps a goofy selfie like the ones he used to send from his classes or lab seminars. Even though that time was long gone. Or maybe a 'fit check' with a new piece of clothing he had found in a thrift store (which was mostly scandalous). Or maybe even a close-up, like when Crowley tried out eyeliner and asked Aziraphale for his opinion.
Aziraphale sighed and tried to relax his shoulders. He couldn't deny it. The unresolved argument between them was essentially hanging by a thread of pride.
He wanted nothing more than to put it behind them and regain the easy comfort they had enjoyed before.
He tapped on the gallery and immediately had to fight his disappointment.
The first two images were just pictures of scenery: an old temple and a mountain range. The photos objectively were really impressive, even though he'd prefer to marvel at a different view.
The third one brought a bright smile to his face again. It was a picture of an old, slightly shabby-looking car in the middle of a crowded street, and it bore a striking resemblance to Bentley.
Aziraphale scrolled down and stopped.
The fourth picture took his breath away. At first glance, it was just a sunset panorama over the ocean. A stunning sight.
But as he looked closely at the shadowed bottom part of the picture, he could just about make out Crowley's long leg stretching over the sand.
And a hand resting on his thigh.
It was definitely not Crowley's hand.
“What?” whispered Aziraphale, probably not as quietly as he intended because Barry turned around. In his hand was a spoon from which a dark brown substance dripped that was supposed to be tomato sauce.
“What is it, babe?”
Aziraphale deserved an award for suppressing his feelings about that annoying nickname so well. He hurried to say: “Nothing, dear. Just...politics again.”
Barry turned around again, mildly calmed and said something that Aziraphale didn't pay attention to. He left Aziraphale to sulk and process his distress in peace.
Aziraphale's eyes were glued to his phone as he stared at the last picture.
He had a tight feeling in his chest; perhaps he should loosen his bowtie to breathe more easily. His stomach was churning, probably in response to the repugnant smell of the culinary disaster. Yes, that had to be the reason.
It definitely could not be the sight of a large, elegant hand with a smattering of golden hair.
A hand that rested on a lean thigh with an easy kind of possessiveness.
A hand that knew the feel of tan skin and the slight tickle of auburn hair underneath.
Aziraphale shuddered, trying to shake off these thoughts, no matter where they came from. He turned his phone around energetically in an even more useless attempt to erase these thoughts from existence.
He would give his stomach time to digest the culinary abomination unfolding before him, allowing the painful knot in his stomach to ease enough for him to write a genuinely cheerful reply.
For now, he was too upset. Too upset about Crowley. About Barry. About the hand he suspected belonged to Luke. He was also upset with himself, caught up in a rollercoaster of conflicting emotions that made absolutely no sense.
He was aware enough to recognise that it was something like jealousy.
Maybe he just craved a romantic beach holiday, too.
Later, when he was lying in bed, unable to sleep, he had mentally replied to Crowley's messages in at least 273 different ways.
A 'thumbs up' emoji still seemed to be the worst option, while a sharp and lengthy lecture about Crowley's incomprehensible behaviour (and asking more questions about Luke) marked the other end of the spectrum of unusable solutions.
In the end, though, he decided to stick to his guns. He would give a polite yet subtly passive-aggressive response, ignoring the obvious bait of the hand-on-thigh picture.
Aziraphale was already turning his phone away when his screen flashed with an incoming message.
That really wasn’t the answer that Aziraphale had been expecting. Helplessly, he blinked at his phone. There was no teasing, no humble (or not so humble) bragging about the great time he had had with his current conquest (named Luke), and no subtle (or not so subtle) insults.
Instead, genuine interest. The unspoken wish for connection. It was almost as if Crowley truly missed him.
This wasn't the jealousy bait that Aziraphale had expected. This was an olive branch. A few months might have passed, but he still knew Crowley well enough to know that he couldn't fake being nice or interested in something he wasn't.
As clumsy as it was, Crowley was trying to restore their friendship.
The tight knot of anger that had sat in Aziraphale's stomach for hours began to uncoil slowly and carefully.
He wasn't one to hold grudges; forgiveness was one of his favourite things. However, he also didn't easily forget how awful he had felt. Perhaps he had to acknowledge that he could hold Crowley accountable for Aziraphale's need for a summer holiday with his partner.
Aziraphale shifted around in bed, trying to think of a good reply. Although he was willing to accept this gesture of goodwill — and he yearned for his best friend/husband to be back — it would take time to find that comfortable rhythm again, when he wouldn't need to think twice, or even three times, about what to say to Crowley and could just let his fingers do the talking. Metaphorically speaking.
Not that he wanted to actually talk to Crowley by drawing circles lazily over his stomach with his fingertips, tracing the trail of auburn hair below his waistband, and leaving little half-moon marks on his star-freckled skin.
No, not at all. What a ridiculous thought.
Where was he?
Ah, yes. Reply. He should be using his fingers. On the keyboard!
Only Crowley had the ability to give Aziraphale an emotional whiplash from annoyance to worry to (and Aziraphale hated to admit it) relief that this Luke person was gone, to dissatisfaction with Crowley's nonchalance again.
Before he could ask Crowley if his refusal of long-term commitment really was a permanent decision, a new message popped up.
Obviously, it was not okay. Hopefully, though, it would be with time, thought Aziraphale. At least it felt like there was still hope of getting his friend back — infuriating, menacing and... sweet as he was.
--- 3 years and four months after the wedding ---
Now, it was next week, precisely 10:34 a.m. on Tuesday, and Aziraphale cycled through staring at Crowley's last messages, putting his phone away and getting it back out again.
"There's no need to be nervous, Az. It's all going to be fine. And I know for a fact that the cards never lie,” said Anathema, who was sitting next to him, lightly bumping his shoulder.
"I'm not nervous,'" Aziraphale protested weakly, even hearing how pathetic he sounded.
There was no denying it. He was nervous. Hopeful, excited and joyous about Crowley coming back. But he was equally anxious.
Over the past week, he had had far too much time to think about how their friendship might have changed in recent months, and whether he would get his old friend back or if the awkwardness between them would linger.
While Crowley had been away, Aziraphale had been able to shove the tension aside, ignoring the slow texting and the time difference. But as soon as Crowley returned, he could no longer deny how bad things might be.
In Aziraphale's mind, everything boiled down to today, their first meeting after six months. Everything would depend on the first few seconds and moments.
Would Crowley smile, wink and tease him again? Would it be easy, comfortable and familiar, like the steps of a dance they had known forever?
Or would there be noticeable reluctance in the air, tense smiles, and a strained conversation between two people careful not to step on the sharp edges of something already broken?
Crowley hadn't said much since dropping this bomb in their chat, yet Aziraphale had managed to find out at which airport and time Crowley would land.
That was why he had booked the day off and got up at 4:30 a.m. to pick Crowley up from the airport in Houston.
Which would be extremely awkward if Crowley preferred to be left alone.
Goodness, what a fool he had been!
Aziraphale jumped up from his uncomfortable seat, ready to pace around the arrival hall again, when Anathema gently stopped him and handed him a breakfast bagel.
A week ago, he had told Anathema, he had no idea why he was doing this to himself, jumping mindlessly into this awkward situation instead of waiting for the reunion at home.
Anathema had given him her infuriatingly knowing look and said something about invisible strings and Mercury bringing back lost things.
Then she had clasped her hands together and exclaimed: "We should all go and pick up Crowley together!"
"We all?"
“Yes, the three of us are going on a road trip together! It'll be such a surprise for Crowley. He's terrible at reading signs from the future.”
Besides, it wasn't as if Aziraphale could have argued with anything Anathema said.
The roadtrip plans had been made, and when Newt had offered to drive his miniature Toyota that barely fit even four people, Aziraphale had realised that he had even considered to ask Barry to come along. Well, things like that could happen.
Secretly, he was quite happy to have his friends with him today in case he and Crowley ran out of things to talk about.
But that only helped so much against his stomach dropping at the sight of the big monitor announcing that Crowley's flight had landed.
There were a few more minutes left.
"Maybe I should get us some coffees. Would you like an iced caramel latte with cream?” he blubbered. Before he could sneak away, Anathema linked their arms together.
"I think you've had enough caffeine today," she smiled gently but firmly.
So, with his heart racing and beating faster every time he spotted a flash of red hair among the arriving passengers making their way from the baggage claim to the exit, all Aziraphale could do was wait.
He really couldn't do this anymore. Seeing another black leather jacket might send him into cardiac arrest. Maybe Aziraphale should just —
—there he was.
Amidst the dull sea of people, Crowley, with his flaming red hair, black t-shirt and yoga pants, and green backpack on his shoulders, stood out like a beacon of light. At least to Aziraphale.
Crowley looked good, sunkissed and tired, but healthy, which eased some of Aziraphale's worries.
For a moment, Aziraphale forgot to breathe as he watched his friend saunter in their general direction, looking tired from a long-haul flight but still with that undeniably tempting swing in his hips.
Tempting?
Where had this suddenly come from?
Collecting himself, Aziraphale stood and watched as Anathema jumped forwards and made a beeline towards Crowley.
"Hey, Crowley! Crowley! We're here!" Her voice carried effortlessly over the noise of the busy crowd, and Crowley's head shot up.
When he finally spotted his friends, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open in disbelief. He froze, shaking his head, before breaking into the widest, brightest smile that Aziraphale had ever seen. It nearly knocked Aziraphale off his feet, and he was thankful that Newt pulled him and his thundering heart forwards.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Crowley yelled, and then his searching gaze found Aziraphale behind Anathema and Newt. Crowley's facial features derailed again as he spotted Aziraphale, and Aziraphale flinched.
“We're picking you up, you idiot!”, Anathema answered, almost closing the distance between them.
“Y'all came for me?” Crowley's eyes were still fixed on Aziraphale, and he could have sworn they were a bit glossy.
Anathema stopped close to Crowley, putting her hands on her hips. “Of course, sillybilly. We love you!”
In a matter of seconds, Aziraphale heard the heavy thud of a backpack being dropped, saw a flash of black and red, and suddenly found himself enveloped in strong arms that squished him tightly against a lithe body.
Like an instinct, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley's shoulders, pressing him even tighter, not understanding what was happening, but desperate to keep Crowley so close as long as possible. Their bodies slotted together as if they had never done anything else.
There was a sob of relief, but he couldn't quite tell whose it was. He clenched the fabric of Crowley's T-shirt in his fists, worried he might leave a bruise on the skin underneath, and began to gently sway them from side to side. Another sob broke free between them, followed by a burst of laughter.
Before he knew it, Crowley was swirling them around until they were both laughing so hard they couldn't breathe.
"I love you, too," he answered Anathema, his voice muffled as he nuzzled his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck.
Luckily, Crowley held Aziraphale upright as his knees involuntarily buckled at this words, and Aziraphale chided himself for being silly to think that these four words could mean anything other than Crowley's joy at seeing his friends.
They stood still again, breathing in unison as they calmed down. Aziraphale thought he could feel Crowley's heart beating steadily against his chest.
"Thank you," Crowley murmured almost inaudibly.
"Well, we couldn't risk you getting lost again, could we?" Aziraphale quipped with familiar ease.
"'s good to be back.”
Aziraphale paused for a second. "Took you long enough."
Crowley grunted and, if possible, relaxed even more into the embrace.
The warm, smoky scent enveloped Aziraphale's senses, and all the tension of the past days and weeks left his body.
The hug anchored him in the moment, and the worries that had shadowed his mind were forgotten.
He had his friend back, not quite as he had imagined, but Crowley's mere presence was a balm for his soul.
Aziraphale had hoped that everything would return to normal, but this new development — a hug — was anything but normal. It was so much better.
All he could feel was the warmth and strength of Crowley's body, his breath ghosting over the skin of his neck, voices and noise fading into the background.
He wouldn't have minded if they could have stood there forever, holding each other, forgetting the rest of the world and revelling in how good and just right it felt to be so close.
Maybe it was forever; maybe it was just a minute. In any case, it was too short.
Newt carefully tapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. Something about the car and parking costs, and having to leave. The words drifted vaguely to Aziraphale, but he grasped the gist.
Crowley was just as reluctant to let go, sighing deeply as he did so. Aziraphale squeezed him once more before slowly releasing his hold on Crowley, who, in turn, reluctantly eased his boa constrictor-like grip on Aziraphale.
Stepping back, Aziraphale turned his face towards Crowley, who must have had the same idea, as suddenly his face was so close to Aziraphale's.
It was just a fraction of a second, but Aziraphale could feel it so clearly. Crowley's nose ghosting over his cheekbone. His lips, soft and warm, brushing over Aziraphale's cheek. They lingered there, barely noticeable, but enough to send sparks down Aziraphale's spine.
That... That was unexpected.
Before he could process this feeling, reality caught up with him and he took a shaky breath. Thank goodness he was going to be too busy to dwell on that.
He smiled as he watched Crowley give Anathema and Newt a quick hug, before Anathema swatted him lightly and lectured him not to run away for so long ever again, while Newt desperately urged the group to move towards the park deck.
Rolling his eyes and grunting, Crowley tried to deflect Anathema's tirade, but Aziraphale noticed the fond little smile tugging at Crowley's lips.
Finally, Newt managed to get the small group moving, taking Anathema's hand and heading towards the exit.
Despite Crowley's protests, Aziraphale grabbed his backpack and was surprised by its weight, and even more so by the fact that Crowley had managed to carry it on his own without complaining.
Noticing the appreciative glance with which Crowley admired how easily Aziraphale flung the backpack over one shoulder, Aziraphale felt downright giddy.
He politely gestured for Crowley to move on, and they followed their friends.
They almost reached the door when Crowley suddenly grabbed Aziraphale's hand, careful but insitant enough to make him stop again. Or maybe he was just taken aback by the sudden, but definitely not unpleasant, feeling of Crowley's skin on his own, and how their fingers slotted together.
Oh boy!
A few moments too late, Aziraphale realised that Crowley is talking.
“…not quite the right moment, but, dunno. Just need to get it out, okay. Because. I'm. You know. That thing. Sorry. I'm sorry. For being a jerk. So, yeah. There's that.”
Aziraphale blinked slowly at Crowley, whose lips were pressed tightly together in an obvious display of distress, and whose gaze flickered towards the ceiling.
“It's fine,” Aziraphale said quietly.
Vehemently, Crowley shook his head, eyes finding Aziraphale's. “No. No, it's not fine.”
Aziraphale would have liked to skip this unpleasant part now that everything felt so good, but he knew rationally that Crowley was right. He nodded slowly.
“I guess we have a few things to talk about.”
“I was…I dunno. I- I don't think I can explain it. Not now at least. I just.. something just snapped in me and I had to go and…” Crowley ran his hand over his face. “‘s no excuse tho. Shouldn't have put you through this.”
Without thinking, Aziraphale laid his hand on Crowley's shoulder. “We've got all the time to sort this out later. Let us get you home first, okay?”
Before he could react, Aziraphale was pulled into another hug — shorter this time, but no less heartfelt. Two hugs in five minutes — exactly two more than in all the years of their friendship combined.
It was almost a shock to the system for Aziraphale, with all these new developments. But he could get used to it, he mused. And probably Crowley as well.
“Home sounds awesome,” Crowley mumbled, straightening up and arranging his long limbs in an effortlessly cool way.
“Even so, I suppose home in this case means crashing on people's sofas until I get a flat again.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation. “You know, if this is your way of asking if you can stay at me place, you can just do that directly.”
“I know, but this is more fun.”
“You're a menace.”
“Oh, c'mon, you missed that.”
“I did,” said Aziraphale, raising his chin. “That doesn't mean I'll tolerate any shenanigans you have planned for my books. Don't even think about sorting them according to the Dewey Decimal System.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” Crowley drawled, a twinkle in his eye.
Aziraphale was just about to protest when Newt appeared in front of them with a red face and waved impatiently. “Would you two just get a move on?”
--- 3.5 years after the wedding ---