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i.
Crowley steps into the bookshop and sheds his coat. The books have grown accustomed to him over the years, regarding him warily as they should. But they don't do that, not anymore. He feels fondness seeping through them and Crowley can only guess that it is somehow Aziraphale's doing. When he moves to hang his coat, the coat rack is right where he needs it. The books make way so he doesn't bump into them.
"Crowley," Aziraphale calls him as he looks up from his desk, glasses sitting skewed on his nose. He doesn't really need them but he appreciates the aesthetics.
"Dearest." When Crowley comes to rest his hands on the angel's shoulders.
Crowley soaks it in, the way Aziraphale calls him. How his voice deepens and caresses the vowels, an intimacy Crowley had not expected.
ii.
They don't often sleep together. Aziraphale is still uncomfortable with the notion of staying unaware of the world for so long.
He does, however, indulge Crowley. Aziraphale climbs into bed with him, a book in hand. Let's Crowley press against him however he likes-- his back against Aziraphale or an arm and a leg flung over him. His head on Aziraphale's chest, with Aziraphale trailing his hand along the side, sliding lower.
"Dearest," Aziraphale will whisper just as Crowley is drifting off. He will murmur passages from the book, call him things such as brave and wonderful and blessing and-- Crowley shivers-- mine. He apologizes: for not having realized sooner, for being so slow and for refusing to take a leap of faith.
Nooo , Crowley wants to protest. You weren't ready then.
"'s okay 'gel," he starts but Aziraphale always freezes and leans away when he does, so Crowley has learned to let him deliver his apologies.
iii.
They've taken to driving around aimlessly. For once, they are not in a hurry to be anywhere. Nothing to thwart, nothing to get started. Crowley shows up at the bookshop, honks his horn twice. Regardless of the time, Aziraphale closes the shop and joins him, sometimes with a thermos of coffee, sometimes with a bottle of wine.
They cruise in between other vehicles and passersby, Crowley snapping at them to get out of the way. He only slows as they exit the city. Beside him, Aziraphale visibly relaxes and thanks him, patting Crowley's knee.
Eventually, Aziraphale does not pull away, keeps his hand on Crowley's knee, as he slips into a conversation.
"Oh, there's this lovely spot--" Aziraphale often suggests and directs him where to turn. Sometimes they end up somewhere that will overlook the city. Sometimes they end up at a questionable motel with surprisingly good food.
Their trips last for hours or days, depending on their mood. But they always return to the city in the dead of night. By then, the only lights left open come from the streetlamps and the occasional window.
"Stay for the night," Aziraphale insists, his hand cupping Crowley's elbow. "It's too late for you to drive. Come to bed, where it's cozy." Crowley laughs.
"Why, angel, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were tempting me."
"Dearest," Aziraphale says, his lips teasing a smile. He moves his hand up, pressing his thumb against Crowley's lips. "It's you who continues to tempt me so."
iv.i
Sometimes he wakes up and Aziraphale is still there, on his side of the bed. He doesn’t notice the passage of time, keeps the lamp on. His glasses tip close to the edge of his nose. Crowley shifts and Aziraphale looks up from his book.
“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,” he says in hushed tones. He reaches out to push back Crowley’s hair from his face. “For I have put my trust in you.”
“Mmm. Too early,” Crowley grumbles, rolling to his side and burying his face against Aziraphale’s hip.
“Not really. It’s nearly noon.” Aziraphale laughs and moves to get up.
iv.ii
Sometimes he wakes up alone. Crowley lingers, straining to hear the angel waking up his shop downstairs. The faint whistle of the kettle, the rustle of pages, the ringing of the bell. As always, Crowley is in no rush to get up. He pulls down the duvet and rolls over Aziraphale’s side, basking in the morning sun that has reached the bed. He could stay here all day, he thinks, and just wait for the angel to return every evening.
From downstairs, he hears Aziraphale talk to him. “I believe it's time for you to get up, my dear. The world is spinning and you’re missing every moment of it.”
iv.iii
On the rare occasions that Aziraphale sleeps, Crowley makes sure to wake up first. A hard feat to accomplish because Aziraphale is an early riser. It’s still dark, barely any light in the room.
No matter, Crowley can still make the shape of Aziraphale, the convex curve of his body facing Crowley. Aziraphale is not a consistent sleeper. Sometimes, such as now, he is restless, with his eyebrows twitching and lips mouthing words. Crowley does not dream, but it seems that Aziraphale does.
Other times, he is as still as the dead, unmoving with hands clasped on his chest. Moments like this, Crowley will take a hand and kiss each knuckle. There are words he wishes he could convey in each kiss. I have you, don’t worry. We won and I dare not lose you. And because he refuses to quote biblical verses: Do not go where I cannot follow.
Always, Aziraphale will wake the same way. He blinks his eyes open, perhaps a few hundred times. His lips wake up first, smiling the moment he sees Crowley. "Dearest mine," Aziraphale says, like a satisfied sigh. Crowley reaches out to trace that smile, first with his finger and then, with his lips.
v.
His plants adore Aziraphale. Of course. Of course .
They bloom under Aziraphale’s touch— quite literally. Crowley would like to think that he’s instilled the perfect amount of fear and discipline for them to grow at optimum capacity.
And then they meet Aziraphale and flowers unfurl to reveal their presence to him. Crowley’s sure none of them are supposed to do that. Yet here they are and Aziraphale calls them all amazing.
“They need a bigger space to grow,” Aziraphale comments as they walk down the park. “You can’t just keep them confined in one room.”
“’S all the space I have.”
Aziraphale stops him, fingers circling Crowley’s wrist.
“Give them your entire place.”
“Sure, and I’ll just move in with you, won’t I?”
“Yes.”
Crowley stills. He takes off his sunglasses so he can look Aziraphale directly in the eye. He is vaguely aware of a mother spying them and quickening her pace, pulling her child close to her.
“Angel.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are.”
“Yes. You’ve been staying with me every night. We’re almost always together— it would make sense to live under one roof.” Aziraphale looks back at him. This is the calmest Crowley has seen him. Also the tensest. Crowley swallows but he doesn’t really have to think about it does he? Just like that, the tension melts from his body and he throws his head back, laughing.
“So you have been tempting me!”
Shock paints Aziraphale’s face, but only for a second. He joins Crowley in laughter and lets himself be pulled close. Crowley slings an arm around his shoulder.
“I thought I’d give it a try.” A joke because Aziraphale could not tempt a log if he tried. “Worked rather well, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale looks rather pleased with himself. Crowley snorts.
“Dearest,” he laces it with sarcasm but brings down his arm so he can take hold of Aziraphale’s hand. “Continue to tempt me so.”
vi.
They have mornings and evenings and every possible thing in between. Arguing over the fossil that is Aziraphale’s computer. Installing a proper television. Going out for lunch, over and over, fingers slipping in between fingers while sipping wine. Taking turns visiting the plants-- Aziraphale coming home with a bouquet they house in a pitcher. Aziraphale answering the crossword with a pen, Crowley grabbing one of the angel’s ties on his way out. Aziraphale leaving a book in the Bentley’s glove compartment, Crowley pulling Aziraphale for a kiss-- in the Ritz, in the park, outside the bookshop, under the duvet. Aziraphale calling Crowley divine and Crowley calling Aziraphale a temptation.
Crowley leans against the doorframe, watching Aziraphale wake up his shop. He takes comfort in knowing that they can have this life, that this is their pace. That the distance between them is only defined by the physical stretch of space-- by ten steps, in this precise instance-- rather than otherworldly forces.