Chapter Text
“You gonna do somethin’, or just stand there and bleed?”
-Wyatt Earp, Tombstone
Part Two - Aziraphale
Grizzlies East, Ambarino. One Monday Later, 1899.
Like most things Aziraphale had managed to accomplish thus far in America, meeting Hamish Sinclair had been an accident. Aziraphale wouldn’t call himself incapable by any means, but he would have to admit to being at least bumbling lately.
In its bare bones, his current assignment was to provide the outlaw Arthur Morgan with a number of opportunities to choose to do good. Aziraphale figured the best way to go about that was to arrange for Arthur to have regular “chance” meetings with persons in need. And the most effective way to ensure that these opportunities were, if you’ll excuse him, as temptingly sympathetic as possible, was for he himself to usually be those persons.
After all, he liked a bit of fancy dress anyway.
On the way to America, Aziraphale had developed a few key characters for Arthur to have recurring incidents with, each with separate rewards for Arthur should he reliably choose to do the Right Thing. “Norbert”, for example, had been bitten by not one but three snakes so far! Arthur had never failed to assist.
The Blind Prophet was also a good one. Aziraphale would dress in horrible grey rags and stand at the side of a dusty road someplace he was fairly sure Arthur would pass by soon. Then, for a single dollar, Aziraphale would tell Arthur something startlingly prophetic and wise to make him think critically about his life. Problem was, Arthur was hardly ever where he was due to be when he was due to be there, which had been making for increasingly awkward encounters with the locals.
(On the upside, he’d been getting better at talking himself out of sticky situations. Crowley really was going to be impressed by some of these stories whenever they got together next. If, well, if Aziraphale’s apology went well.)
Aziraphale had been here in the Grizzly Mountains dressed as the wildlife photographer (Albert Mason, he called himself) waiting to “run into” Arthur when he’d heard Hamish Sinclair shouting all those weeks ago.
“Hey! You there! Can you help?”
And for Goodness’ sake, of course he could.
What Aziraphale found when he followed the voice was an older man sitting on the ground, leaning up against a large boulder. He’d lost his horse and, consequently, his wooden leg which had stuck fast in the stirrup when he’d been thrown from the saddle. Aziraphale was about as likely to consider himself a horse wrangler as he was to take up smoking to collect cigarette cards, but it wasn’t any trouble to miracle the horse into docility once he’d found it.
After that first meeting, Aziraphale had made a point to pop round to Mr. Sinclair’s little homestead in the mountains every now and again for a coffee and a chat. Especially when Arthur seemed scarce and he couldn’t think of what else to do with himself so far away from Soho, and the comforts of what he’d begun to think of as home.
It turned out, Mr. Sinclair was a veteran of the American civil war and more than happy to share his appreciation of nature and speak his piece on a slice of human history that Aziraphale had paid embarrassingly little attention to, apparently. On one memorable occasion, he’d even insisted on teaching Aziraphale to fish. It certainly wasn’t the depth of, of acquaintanceship that he’d stumbled into with Crowley, but it was nice. Had been nice.
The air here in the Grizzlies was always crisp and bracing, but today it felt especially so.
Aziraphale’s eyes lit upon a nice, palm-sized stone in the grass and he picked it up. He settled it delicately in the crook of his arm atop the small collection of similar stones he held cradled there and then started back down the hill to finish making the marker for Mr. Sinclair’s grave.
Aziraphale hadn’t dug the grave himself. It would have been a slightly ridiculous way to spend his time and besides, the rocky earth was largely frozen, much too hard for something as mundane as a shovel to shift it. He hadn’t placed the body or filled the hole in again by hand either. The marker, though, that had felt different. Aziraphale knelt down next to the neat mound of dirt, never mind his trousers, and started to assemble his stones into an S shape.
He was, frankly, at a bit of a loss.
When he’d arrived at Mr. Sinclair’s cabin that morning, he opened the door without knocking. Hamish had insisted on the previous visit that they were past such formalities, and Aziraphale couldn’t deny that he’d found it charming. Human friendship in its various forms really was sweet, when you broke it down and acknowledged all the little gestures they offered to make space for one another to feel welcome.
Sometimes he thought that it wasn’t terribly unlike the way he and Crowley had started to make space for one another, slowly but surely, in those times before 1862. Sometimes it was best not to think it.
Hamish hadn’t been home, but there was a small fire still giving its best in the hearth, so Aziraphale busied himself building it back up and putting the kettle on. By midday, he’d started to worry.
It probably wasn’t impossible for Aziraphale to find out how long Mr. Sinclair had been dead by the time Aziraphale found his corporation some ways away in the woods, apparently gored by a wild beast. It wouldn’t have done to dwell though. Humans died all the time.
This was good practice, Aziraphale had finally decided to think, for when he would have to leave the continent in a few days and let Arthur succumb to his tuberculosis without comment. Because Arthur didn’t know it yet, but he was terminally ill. That was the point of Her test for him after all.
Aziraphale had known the West was not going to be fun. He wasn’t an idiot.
Even if he hadn’t been aware of the general goings-on in the colonies, the manner in which Gabriel had approached him about the project was telling. Gabriel was about as likely to show genuine interest in human affairs as he was to ask Aziraphale where he might find a good public house in town, but he’d had a particular glimmer in his eye as he entered the bookshop that blustery afternoon. He’d smiled, looking like a cat making eye contact right before it nudged a water glass off the table, then he’d handed over the file for one Arthur Morgan .
What a file it was, too.
“This seems awfully...” Aziraphale trailed off as he read on.
“Brilliant?” Gabriel finished for him. “I know.”
Aziraphale had been about to say ‘cruel’, but of course that wouldn’t have done. Anyway, She wasn’t cruel . Aziraphale couldn’t think of implying such a thing aloud. He flashed a weak smile instead and then closed the file back up.
“Her creativity never ceases to amaze me,” Gabriel continued conversationally. “I mean, of course it doesn’t.” His smile was toothy and handsome and didn’t particularly invite Aziraphale to join in on his fun. They stood in that moment for a beat too long before Aziraphale cleared his throat and tapped the file with a finger.
“I didn’t see a starting date on--”
“Oh, you’re to go immediately.”
“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Goodness.”
When Gabriel left, the little bell up above the door twinkled violently as it closed behind him with more slam than usual. A handful of leaves had taken the opportunity to swirl inside with the wind, and Aziraphale sighed. He went to get his broom.
It wasn’t until he was sat at his desk, mentally getting things in order for the journey, that he remembered Crowley.
That made it sound like he had forgotten Crowley, which was ludicrous. He’d spent the last 37 years trying to think up ways to forget about Crowley that didn’t devolve into some kind of preposterous confession of. Of, well, if you made him put a word to it, Love (which was completely unacceptable). So, trust him, if there had been a way to forget about Crowley, he would have done it.
Aziraphale couldn’t deny that he’d been keeping himself pathetically predictable, though, ever since their spat in the park. They were both better off apart, obviously. Just, what if Crowley decided that he wanted to talk, but Aziraphale was nowhere to be found?
The short answer was that he’d always found Aziraphale before, so he could find him again if he wanted to. He just didn’t want to lately.
This was bitter medicine to swallow, but Aziraphale took care to make himself commit to the fact that it was indeed medicine. It didn’t matter how dear Crowley was to him, it was for the best that they’d parted ways, and perhaps even better that this new assignment should take him away from his routine for a while. Friends were for other beings. Temptation was for other beings.
Aziraphale stared down at Mr. Sinclair’s grave. It really was foolish to be upset. Hamish had been a good man. He wasn’t sure that he’d been particularly Godly, but if Aziraphale had found such good in him, then surely… Surely he was at home with Her now. Life out here was tough, and Hamish was much better off. He just couldn’t put a finger on why he felt so melancholy about it.
Mr. Sinclair’s horse, Buell, had been nearby when Aziraphale found the man’s body. The way the dwindling sunlight caught and danced across the pale gold of the stallion’s coat had made him impossible to miss. While Aziraphale said his goodbyes in the descending twilight, Buell stuck close and placidly grazed on the bits of grass tough enough to poke up through the rocky soil. He’d honestly been a bad-tempered and mulish horse in Aziraphale’s experience, but he couldn’t very well just leave him out here to fend for himself.
That didn’t mean Aziraphale was going to ride him though.
“Right then,” he said as he gathered up Buell’s reins from where they’d been dragging along the ground and gave him a firm but awkward pat on the shoulder, “I suppose it’s just you and I now, dear fellow. Isn’t it?”
Aziraphale took a moment to feel grateful that horses weren’t equipped to judge the sincerity of a smile.
The wind whistled through the trees and as they trembled, a fine dusting of snow shook loose from the branches overhead to whirl through the air on it's way to the ground. For the first time since he saw him in Valentine the week before, Aziraphale let himself wonder how this wilderness was treating Crowley.
He didn’t have to wonder for very long.
Aziraphale lead Buell through the woods until they found what passed for the road this far out, and no sooner had they begun to walk down it than the sound of galloping hooves started up in the distance, sudden and loud and heading their way.
Aziraphale tutted and took Buell more firmly by the reins just under the chin. He quickly ushered the horse toward the side of the narrow mountain road, back into the trees and out of the way. As strong as the poetic symmetry might have been for Buell to spook and dart off into the woods just as soon as he was in Aziraphale’s care, Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood for another wilderness hike. This time of evening, there were wolves and all sorts.
The first rider didn’t slow his horse as they came around the bend and the poor thing nearly lost its footing. It stumbled through the abrupt turn, and that split-second of pause was enough for them to lose their lead. The second rider rounded the corner, lasso at the ready. As they got closer, Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth. It was Arthur Morgan.
In the space of a stride, Arthur swung his rope, lassoed the other rider around the middle, and yanked him right out of the saddle. He landed on the ground with a muffled ‘oof!’ and his horse loped off a few more paces before it seemed to realise it had lost its rider in all the drama and came to uneasy halt.
“What kinda dumbass move was that?” Arthur hopped down from his horse, keeping the rope taught, and strode over to the man who was trying to flail himself to his feet. He wasn’t having much luck with his arms pinned to his sides.
“Let me go!” He wailed as Arthur reached him.
“Fella, you’re lucky I’m the one who caught you first.”
“You cain’t turn me in!”
Arthur bound the man’s feet and hands with so little effort that it was clear he’d been doing this kind of thing a fair sight more often than Aziraphale would’ve approved of. Aziraphale frowned.
“Trust me, safest place for you’s behind bars now,” Arthur said drily. Then Aziraphale noticed the sound of someone else approaching quickly on foot, the loose, rocky path crunching under their boots.
“Who! Steals! A man’s! Bloody! Horse!” Crowley shouted, sounding out of breath as he jogged up the road toward them. He looked sweaty and dusty and absolutely livid. His hat was nowhere to be found, and he was clean-shaven, which was something Aziraphale shouldn’t have been noticing at the moment.
“C’mon, Angel!” He called, and Aziraphale rode a sharp wave of panic before Crowley whistled and Aziraphale realised he had been talking to the horse , of all things.
“Look at this! She’s filthy now.”
Aziraphale wished he couldn’t name the feelings that washed over him at seeing Crowley again twice in as many weeks. It was strange and unhelpful and probably somehow immoral, but just the reminder of their shared existence lifted a weight from Aziraphale’s shoulders.
“And here! Look at that!” Crowley was still ranting. He pointed at a scuff on one of the horse’s hooves. “That wasn’t there before.” He turned and jabbed a finger at the man on the ground. “If I find a rock in any of those feet, I’ll come to that jailhouse in the night and I’ll--!”
“He’s crazy!”
“Sure is,” Arthur agreed, and then he hefted the struggling man up off the ground and onto the rump of his horse, behind the saddle. “And that bounty on your head is for dead or alive, Laghless. I’d shut my damn mouth if I were you.”
Right about then, Buell decided he was done being patient. He tossed his head and, as tall as he was, ripped the reins right out of Aziraphale’s distracted grip. Then, he let loose the loudest, most unnecessary whinny Aziraphale had ever heard before trotting right out into the road.
“ Buell! ” Aziraphale hissed after him, but it was no good. He swallowed down a curse and followed the horse.
They all turned to look at him. Even the man lying across the back of Arthur’s horse was straining his neck to try and see what was going on. Crowley seemed both taken aback and vaguely offended, as if Aziraphale had just marched out of the woods and loudly proclaimed that form-fitting trousers were for dullards. Arthur was quicker to recover.
“Mr. Fell. Now, this is a surprise,” he said. Then he must have noticed Aziraphale's general air of dishevelment. “Everything alright?”
There wasn’t anything for it. Aziraphale took a deep breath, straightened his waistcoat, and did his very best at a relieved smile.
“Mr. Morgan! Goodness , am I ever glad to have run into you,” he said, perhaps a touch too theatrically if the expression on Crowley’s face was anything to go by. He soldiered on. “Could you believe that I’ve managed to get myself lost out here?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You know what? I think I could.”
Crowley wouldn’t look at him. It actually took Aziraphale rather too long to notice that that was what was going on.
Whether any of them liked it or not, it had been swiftly decided that Aziraphale should ride with them down off the mountain for his own safety.
The bounty hunters waiting to collect the man who’d tried to make off with Crowley’s horse weren’t too far away. They had fixed their wagon that had broken and allowed the bandit to make his escape in the first place and were overjoyed to have their prisoner back. After they returned him and collected Arthur’s share of the payment for his assistance, they agreed that it would be best if they camped for the night.
Arthur chose a spot south of Moonstone pond which met some mysterious criteria of his that Aziraphale couldn’t parse. As Arthur and Crowley set up their little canvas tents, Aziraphale dragged a cold, somewhat soggy log over to the campfire and sat on it to lean in and warm his hands.
Eventually the other two joined him around the fire. Arthur chose to sit on the ground, but Crowley brought his saddle over to use as a pillow and sprawled out over the grass, keeping his gaze upward at the twinkling night sky. Aziraphale wondered if he could even make out any of the constellations with those glossy black spectacles on.
It was cold enough that their breaths ghosted out before them in short-lived little puffs, but the heat of the fire was cozy enough all things considered. Aziraphale would readily admit to preferring his own home to camping any day, but there was something quaint about the still night air and the hushed activity of all those creatures whose days started after dusk.
The longer they sat there in silence, though, the closer Aziraphale got to the realisation that Crowley really, truly was avoiding him. But then of course, Arthur got up and pulled a book out of his saddlebag. The book. Aziraphale felt himself go positively stock-still with dread, like a rabbit who’d heard the snap of a twig in the darkness.
Obviously Arthur had the book, and obviously he would be giving Aziraphale back the book. He was supposed to mail it when he finished with it, because ‘Ezra’ would presumably have left the country already. But ‘Ezra’ was here now, because Arthur had clocked him as Ezra Fell earlier because Aziraphale had taken off his photographer disguise when he’d realised that Hamish had gone to Peter.
Bother.
The book had seemed like such a clever idea when Aziraphale had thought of it. What was that horrible idiom? Killing two birds with one stone.
The first bird was obvious. Ezra Fell was his easiest character. He was a Londoner here on business and, as he’d told Arthur, his wife very dearly wanted to see the exotic plants of the American wilds. Of course, Ezra had weak lungs and therefore no business being out in all that wilderness. If only Arthur would take the time to collect the specimens he came across in his travels and press them neatly between the pages of her favorite book, Persuasion by Jane Austen... It was a good deed if Aziraphale had ever heard one.
The second bird was a more slippery beast. In some roundabout way, Aziraphale had been going to work that book into his apology to Crowley. There was no wife, after all, but there was a Crowley. Aziraphale had been sure he would like to see the plants. It was a far cry from holy water, but it was a gesture.
Aziraphale wasn’t even sure what he truly meant by it.
It was hard, sometimes, to be completely honest with himself about his intentions, especially when he wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t technically sins. He was at least self-aware enough to know that. What he also knew was that it was a lovely book, and he wanted Crowley to have it.
Maybe he also hoped that Crowley would notice that Aziraphale specifically chose a lovely book to gift him because Aziraphale thought that Crowley, too, was lovely. Maybe he hoped that Crowley would even read it someday, and near the end he would notice the words that Aziraphale had underlined, and… Well, anyway, it was hard to say.
Regardless, now here they were. Here Crowley was. Here was the book and the fictional errand that went along with it. As if he could read Aziraphale’s mind, Arthur held it up as he sat back down.
“So,” he said. “Your wife likes plants.”
Just like that, Crowley was looking at him again. He sat up on his elbows to stare at Aziraphale across the fire.
“ Wife? ” He asked, eyebrows raised. He sounded almost offensively incredulous. Aziraphale cleared his throat.
“I could have a wife,” He said, then shot Arthur a quick glance. “Do have.”
“What’s her name, then?” Crowley asked.
“Er.” Aziraphale fished around in his memory for an appropriately contemporary name, “Eliza," he said.
"And yes , she’s very fond of, of horticulture.” This he aimed at Arthur, trying to sound very proud. “She has quite the greenhouse back home. She’s going to be delighted when she sees the specimens you’ve helped me gather for her. You really are such a kind man, Mr. Morgan.”
Arthur snorted. Crowley continued to stare at him. At this point, Aziraphale wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t just going to decide to throw the whole book in the fire. There was no way he could give it to Crowley now.
“What’s she look like?” Crowley demanded. Aziraphale didn’t pause before he answered.
“She has red--” Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t say hair. “Lips.” Aziraphale winced. “And she’s a brunette,” he added hurriedly.
Crowley sat up further crossed his arms over his chest.
“You’ve married a red-lipped brunette, have you?” He drawled.
Aziraphale couldn’t believe that just earlier today he’d been proud of himself for getting better at talking his way out of awkward situations. He cleared his throat again. Best turn this around.
“Yes,” he said. “Er, I remember that you’re unmarried, Mr. Morgan. Mr. Crowley, do you have someone special at home?” He asked, a portrait of geniality. “A wife?”
Cowley finally looked away.
“Not a wife, as such,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Oh,” Crowley agreed drily, and Aziraphale didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.
They were looking at one another again, but it was terribly unfair. Knowing himself, Aziraphale was sure Crowley could read every little thing in his expression. Aziraphale just had the set of Crowley’s mouth and the orange flicker of the campfire’s reflection in his dark spectacles to go on. The moment lasted too long, perhaps.
“Fellas,” Arthur sighed, “I think I’m gonna hit the hay.”
Aziraphale couldn’t blame him.
For all their awkwardness, it seemed that Aziraphale and Crowley were able to come to an unspoken agreement that they should wait for Arthur to fall asleep before they spoke any further. In the fresh silence, Aziraphale tried to find exactly what he wanted to say first.
“I didn’t mean that you needed to shave the mustache,” is what came out.
Crowley rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t shave it for you , Angel,” he said, and that slice of banter felt so normal that some of the tension practically melted out of Aziraphale’s body.
Crowley turned around and fished a bottle of honey-brown liquor out of his saddlebag. He stood and made his way over. “Budge up,” he said, and when Aziraphale did, he plopped down next to him against the log, long legs kicked out in front of him.
Crowley worked at the cork of the dusty bottle of bourbon with his teeth until it came loose with a squeaky little pop. He offered the bottle to Aziraphale. “Awful stuff,” he warned.
Aziraphale took a swig and grimaced. “Oh, that is not nice at all.”
Crowley grinned and took a drink himself. “No,” he agreed with a wince and then passed it back over. They continued in that fashion until a soft, pleasant warmth had begun to bleed its way through Aziraphale’s bones.
“Where’ve you been?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley took a moment to respond.
“I had a kip,” he said eventually and very nearly succeeded in sounding nonchalant.
“A kip?” Aziraphale asked. “For, what? 30, 30-something years?”
“Are you angry with me?”
“Why should I be? Sleep as long as you like.” It came out more petulantly than he should have let it, and Crowley eyed him quizzically.
“Not about that,” he said. “You know, about the…” He mimed leaning in a slipping Aziraphale a bit of paper. “The park.”
“Oh, that. No.” Aziraphale said with a dismissive flap of his hand. He reached over for the bottle of bourbon, then he frowned. “But aren’t you angry with me?”
“What? Why? Whatever for?”
“Because I wouldn’t give you the,” Aziraphale floundered. “What you wanted. In the park.”
“Oh,” Crowley started, “Well--” but now that they were here, Aziraphale couldn’t help but to interrupt. The drink may have had something to do with it.
“And I still won’t, ” he insisted, which was perhaps the opposite of the apology he’d been planning for the better part of three decades. It came out too loudly also and they both glanced over at Arthur’s tent, but he didn’t appear to stir.
“Look,” Crowley started in a hushed voice. He set down the bottle. “You’ve made it abundantly clear how you feel about our ‘fraternization’, but I can be discreet, have been discreet. Why don’t you trust me?”
He’d sounded genuinely curious, but seemed to catch himself right after the words were out. His expression closed off like a door slammed shut. That just wouldn’t do.
“I do actually. Trust you,” Aziraphale blurted, surprising even himself.
“You do?”
“Not about everything,” Aziraphale quickly amended. “You are a demon after all, and, well, the thing is.” Aziraphale paused. He took a swig of whiskey and made a face at the taste. “The thing is , Crowley, It’s not all about getting caught.”
“Then whatever is it about?”
Crowley took off his glasses and absently tucked them into his vest pocket. Aziraphale looked into his eyes for the first time in years and they were just so very gold. Some might feel caught by those eyes, hunted. Lesser beings, Aziraphale decided, because while he might occasionally admit to being caught by them, it was only because he got to see them so rarely and they were so startlingly pretty. He had to look away.
Whatever was it about indeed .
“I know we don’t see one another often,” Aziraphale started, “but I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t a great comfort to me that, that you’re out there somewhere. Even if you’re up to no good.”
“Angel--”
“And I know you wouldn’t understand, and It’s very selfish of me, but.” He was rambling, he knew he was, but if he didn’t get it out now, when would he?
“Aziraphale--”
Something about this place had emboldened Aziraphale lately. It was the vastness and the seclusion, perhaps. It was the bright, forbidding cold that lurked just beyond the fond intimacy of the campfire. It was the unrelenting demands made of lives which were expected to only find value in their fragility. He glanced up at Crowley and managed to hold his gaze.
“If you destroy yourself, Crowley, you must know that it would destroy me also.”
Such a statement had the unfortunate quality of sounding loud at any volume. The words hung in the air like an arrow at its zenith, stalled in that split second before it descended to hit home. Crowley blinked at him.
“That’s. That sounded very. Well.” Aziraphale’s hands trembled in his lap, which felt absurdly human. He stared at them as he pushed forward, because apparently now was better than never. “Anyway, I suppose it’s no great surprise, but Crowley, I care about you.”
When he looked over, Crowley was watching him, as still as a statue. Then, Crowley kissed him.
Aziraphale could never have seen it coming. In one moment he was feverishly embarrassed, having awkwardly bared his soul, and in the next he felt feverish for an entirely different reason.
Crowley had one hand on Aziraphale’s cheek and the other gripped tightly at his shirtfront, as if Aziraphale might float away if Crowley released him. His eyes were closed, and finally Aziraphale thought to close his own.
It was a simple kiss, surely it only lasted a moment, but Aziraphale felt all at once so flattered and embarrassed and dizzy and lovely. He sighed a little helplessly against Crowley’s lips.
They parted and Crowley looked at least as startled as Aziraphale felt. He swallowed, looked away and then back into Aziraphale’s eyes.
“I apologise. I wasn’t sure how else to...” He seemed to search for the answer in Aziraphale’s face.
“Shut me up?” Aziraphale volunteered.
“What? No,” Crowley said. “Well, I guess technically, but, no.” He cleared his throat. “More like. More like agree with you.”
Aziraphale’s heart was hammering inconveniently loudly in his chest. He was sure Crowley would be able to feel it where his hand still gripped lightly at his shirt collar.
“Agree with me? About the...?”
“About the caring, yes, unfortunately.”
And, goodness. Aziraphale hadn’t the slightest what to do with that information. T hey sat there, side by side, listening to the fire pop and crack and hiss.
Somewhere in the distant darkness, a single wolf howled a long, questioning note that his brethren picked up and returned even further up the mountains.
A quiet wind shivered through the trees and ruffled Aziraphale's hair.
"That wasn't a smart thing to have done,” Crowley said eventually, his tone inescapably neutral.
“No,” Aziraphale agreed. The ever-present fear that haunted the hallways of his mind threatened to peak out. He closed his eyes and pleaded with himself to keep it buried for just a moment longer.
Choosing not to hesitate, he turned and pressed another kiss to Crowley’s mouth because he found that he wanted to.
Crowley made a soft, involuntary noise and brought his hand back up to cup Aziraphale's cheek.
Being tactile with one another wasn’t entirely foreign, but it also certainly wasn’t usual. As they parted anew, Aziraphale felt warm and strangely aware of himself where Crowley’s hand trailed from his jaw down his neck and onto his shoulder where he squeezed gently.
“You’re so soft,” he said, almost as if he hadn’t meant to. “I’m all edges, me.”
Aziraphale looked at him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about Crowley’s body before. Actually, maybe that was precisely it. Aziraphale was very attached to the soul, you see. He hadn’t thought much about the wrapping, as it were.
He let his gaze follow the sharp planes of Crowley’s cheekbones up to the curve of his ear, then down the length of him. Crowley was trim and handsome and throughout Aziraphale’s observation, he’d begun to curl into himself just a little as if this casual scrutiny held an unexpected weight.
“I like your edges,” Aziraphale said, and he did. “I feel like we must be complimentary.”
“Do you?”
The longer they looked at one another, the more it seemed as though the gravity of the situation had decided to settle in for good.
Aziraphale gave him a wane smile, and Crowley popped his glasses back on with shakey hands. It felt like they were coming to an agreement to table the discussion, whatever discussion it would turn into, for the night.
“Time for bed, Angel."
Crowley stood and ran a hand through his hair. He looked up at the twinkling night sky with a sigh.
“Will you ride with me tomorrow? To Saint Denis?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly desperate not to part again so soon. Crowley looked back down at him.
“Anything you like,” he said, and Aziraphale could feel that he meant it.
Aziraphale smiled.
Crowley went to his tent, whether for appearances or to actually sleep, Aziraphale didn't know. Either way, Aziraphale chose to sit up with the fire and keep an eye out.
It was difficult to tell what the future would bring, but they were on the tip of something new here. Aziraphale closed his eyes and felt the heat of the campfire flush against his face.
He replayed their kiss in his mind and just the memory of it, the connotations held within such an act, felt like a campfire had taken root in his heart, filling him with warmth and comfort and a beacon of safety against the surrounding cold.
Yes, they were on the tip of something new here.
Aziraphale wanted to keep it.