Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Underneath it all, at the heart of him (if, after all, demons turn out to posess such a thing) Crowley has always been a creature of habit.

Of course, when you’re a demon, it won’t do to admit this. Eternal temptation and all that. Accuse him of being a litte too fond of his favorite wines, his habit of dressing fashionably in all black, even the company he keeps – you might find yourself the sudden recipient of a demonic-transformation-induced coma.

Optics is so important when you’re working towards the greater evil.  More so when you’re not actually working all that hard, but need head office to believe that you are.

Once you’ve been around for a couple of centuries, well, you start to realize that temptation isn’t nearly as much about infinite variety as the shiny corporate training video would have you believe. Sure, you could spend all your time coming up with new ways to lure humans away from their virtuous plans, or devising new ways for them to torture each other. You could also dedicate your life to shoveling buckets of water into the ocean.

Crowley may have been driving the same car for decades now, but humans have been committing the same sins ever since he invented the concept of dessert, and look, isn’t that funny, there’s an apple tree right there. All you have to do, really, is give them a little nudge every now and then, and the evil deeds will follow.

Well, at least, the slightly annoying to downright revolting deeds. Give a human a hierarchy to exploit, a partner to cheat on, some wealth to hoard while passing judgment on the poor – they’ll be all over that, all you have to do is write up the report.

It’s that last habit that has always seemed particularly pointless to Crowley. Following your passions, even when it hurts others, the rage, the lust, the indulgence? Sure. Amassing things you don’t need, and cherishing the deprivation of others? It’s not a good look for a demon, but that just makes him sick.

Anyway, the habits. While Crowley has never been particularly hardworking at any of his scheming, it does feel odd, to wake up one Monday morning and realise there is no more reason to do any of the things you used to fill your days with.

Cause a moderately to definitely expected delay to people’s morning commutes? Meh. Schedule dentists‘ appointments for a handful of teachers who will subsequently be annoyed and yell at their students? So what? Turn into a mosquito and ruin the sleep of several political leaders the night before an important cabinet meeting? Sure, you could do that, but in the words of that insufferable home organizer Aziraphale keeps pushing on him does it spark joy?

Nevertheless, not doing any of this feels off, too.

Sure, there was a certain appeal to just hanging out in a movie theater and slacking off when you were supposed to do evil deeds, but now that hell has removed him from the team calendar? Where’s the demonic energy in that? For someone who was kicked out of heaven for asking too many inconvenient questions, Crowley suddenly has to admit that he quite enjoys a bit of structure in his days.

So, in the absence of anything better to do, he mostly just paces the streets. Occasionally, his fingertips will pracitally itch with the possibility of ruining someone’s day, or at least someone’s morning run. But mostly, he tosses the feeling aside. What’s the point anymore?

Not entirely by accident, and more often than not, he usually ends up pausing in front of a certain bookshop. Reliably closed these days. „Closed while on extended sabbatical,“ reads the sign. „Don’t expect to see me back here any time soon,“ the relevant message in Crowley’s mind.

Aziraphale, much to his astonishment, has taken to the new situation rather enthusiastically, once the initial shock wore off. Judging by the occasional postcard Crowley has received, he’s currently on a tour of South America.

Wa-fucking-hoo for him.

This time, it’s more of an urge than an itch, and as soon as Crowley’s fingers brush against the door handle, the door swings open with a barely audible click.

There is an unsettling atmosphere to the place. Well, not unsettling exactly, more… the opposite. Definitely a little concerning, though, to feel that the knot he’s been carrying around in his stomach these last few weeks has suddenly… disappeared. He is still wandering around, still aimless, but any restlessness has disappeared once his fingers started trailing over the spines of the innumerable ancient books. It’s like the place has poured him a glass of wine, and he is suddenly sinking into a comfortable, very familiar couch. Is that what the angel was going on about with all his talks about places feeling loved?

„May I ask what it is that you are doing?“

Lowering a volume of 19th century illustrations of tropical plants, Crowley slowly turns around. The figure in the doorway is only visible as an outline, illuminated dust floating around him like some fucking magic trick. It doesn’t matter, not like Crowley needed any confirmation, anyway.

„… Don’t… ask for permission, beg for forgiveness?“ he tries.

Aziraphale closes the door behind him and in the changing light, Crowley is finally able to make out his features. There is a tiny smile tugging at the corners of the angel‘s mouth, and a sparkle hinting at just how hard he is trying to keep his eyes looking serious.

„I see. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually known you to do that.“

„Beg for forgiveness? Let’s just say I’ve never actually known anyone who deserved it.“

The bookshop is so dimly lit, it seems impossible that more of a shadow fell on Aziraphale’s face. And yet.

„I see. Well, anything in particular you were looking for?“

Fuck.

„Nah, not really. Just… a way to kill some time? Now that you’re here, how about we get some dinner?“

---

If Aziraphale was initially annoyed about Crowley’s unannounced invasion of his property, he certainly seems to get over it very quickly. His suitcase (why does he even have that? Unnecessary human inconvenience, where Crowley is concerned) quickly unpacks itself, and the two of them make their way into the back room. Aziraphale makes a half-hearted suggestion at going somewhere to eat, but he looks so tired at the thought, Crowley quickly diverts some delivery drivers from their usual route. Tricky, those apps, one typo in the address…

A baffling, but none the less delicious, mixture of bibimbap, pasta and sish kebab spread out on the table between them, it doesn’t take them long to get settled in. There was some wine, with the pasta, but Aziraphale insisted on swapping it for one of his pricier bottles from the basement. Along with the alcohol, stories begin to flow – and this might be the first time, actually, that the angel definitely has the upper hand when it comes to anecdotes.

He’s seen half the bloody world, it seems. Ancient ruins. Gourmet restaurants. Theatres, art galleries. Museums. One of them, apparently, a particularly gruesome exhibition on the history of witch hunting. Did he send the crazy American a postcard from there? Crowley almost finds himself tempted to ask, but looking at the anguish on Aziraphale’s face, as he recounts the torture devices on display, he really cannot bring himself to make the joke.

„Really, I suppose, after all this time, it shouldn’t shock me anymore, the demonic things humans are willing to…“

„Really, angel? Demonic? How many times do I have to tell you, humanity doesn’t exactly need our help when it comes to being cruel.“

Not that he’s particularly upset. It’s just part of their dance, really. Aziraphale goes on some long moralistic tangent, so it must be time for Crowley to interrupt with a sarcastic comment, right?

„Of course. Quite. My apologies.“

„Ah, ’s alright… guess I can’t deny that some of us liked to play along with that game. Ligur really had a thing for witch burnings, back in the day.“

What is that strange, sideway glance the angel is suddenly shooting at him?

„Ah, yes, Ligur. I never did give you my condolences about him, did I? I really was sorry to hear… well, I could see that his death was quite a loss to you.“

„Wha…?“ It is one of those moments where words make so little sense, it feels as though Crowley has to puzzle his face back together as he tries to make sense of what the angel just said.

„What on earth… what in the universe would give you the idea that I would miss Ligur, of all people? You do know that I killed him, right? Because he was going to kill me, otherwise.“

Aziraphale appears flustered, and at the same time concerned. Like he didn’t mean to make Crowley admit to something embarrassing, but he doesn’t have a choice.

„Well… yes. That really was terribly… it must have been a very hard call to make. But it is all Right to grieve, you know. Even if… if you know you made the right choice.“

Now, granted, this is not the weirdest conversation they have ever had. But it is quickly becoming a strong contender.

„I know that. I mean I would, if I had any reason to grieve. But I don’t. Ligur was a dirtbag, even for a demon. The only thing I possibly regret is that I took out him, when it could have been Hastur instead.“

The concern on Aziraphale’s face only grows stronger. If he didn’t know better (and he isn’t quite sure he does, all things considered), Crowley would say his face was glowing with it.

„It’s all right, dear friend. I promise I won’t tell anyone. But you don’t have to pretend, you already told me, remember?“

Okay. Now it really is one of the weirdest conversations they have ever had. Time for more alcohol. That way, at least there is a reason for Crowley feeling like the world is tilting on its axis. Are they actually remembering the same events?

„Listen, I know there was a substantial amount of… reality reconfiguration involved in our little adventure,“ he starts as he pours himself some Scotch from a bottle that, moments ago, was still standing in his house bar. „But I’m pretty sure no version of me, ever, would have told you I am crying any tears over Ligur. When was this supposed to be?“

The angel appears puzzled, and apparently, his instincts for dealing with the feeling are the same as Crowley’s. He reaches for the bottle and fills a glass for himself.

„Right before… before what wasn’t the end, I suppose. Remember? After I’d been discorporated, I found you in that little pub. You told me you had lost your best friend.“

Things are beginning to click into place. Well. At least Crowley is no longer frantically trying to find a picture in the meaningless scribbles put before him. No, now he can see pretty clearly that it’s just an abyssmal drawing.

„Oh, for- you stupid, embarrassing, celestial feather-duster, I was talking about you. I thought you burned down with your entire blessed bookstore, remember?“

The silence stretches out between them, as colour slowly rises in Aziraphale’s cheeks.

„Oh.“

„Yeah.“

Both at a loss for words, they just sit there for a while, sipping their whiskey. At last, Aziraphale starts to shift in his armchair, clearing his throat, and finally manages: „You… I hope you know you are also my best friend. I’m really… really quite fond of you. In case there was any misunderstanding about that.“

There wasn’t, not really. And still, the next sip of alcohol slips into his stomach with an extra burn, far less enjoyable than it ought to be. Quite fond, huh? Not that Crowley had had any illusions, but still… it hurts, just a bit, to hear the angel put it that way. As if he was referring to the cherry pie at his favorite corner café.

Actually, he’s pretty sure Aziraphale has spoken more enthusiastically about cherry pie.

Well, that’s one way to clear things up. Just in case he had any lingering illusions that some of the after-effects of the almost-apocalypse had affected their relationship… This puts them firmly back in their places. Angel. Demon. Occasional drinking buddies. Friends.

Crowley forces himself to twist his mouth into a smile. „Nah. ’ve known you long enough, remember? Doesn’t mean I’m going to let this go easy, though. Ligur my best friend, angel, that may be the second dumbest thing I have ever known you to believe.“

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows he’s made a mistake. They sound casual enough, but… well, perhaps Aziraphale hasn’t noticed. He has already moved on to his second glass of Scotch, after all.

No such luck. Over the rim of his glass, carefully raised to allow him to smell the slight peaty notes of their drink, the angel’s eyebrows twitch upwards a notch.

„Second most?“

Eternally warbeling heavenly choirs, he couldn’t have just let that go.

„Eh-gn…“ he tries. Nothing.

„What made it to the top of the list?“

The fact that, after six thousand years, you still haven’t figured out I’m in love with you.

„I- eh, if I told you that, I’d be giving away all my ammunition in one evening, wouldn’t I?“

It sounds hollow to his ears, but if anything seems off to Aziraphale, the angel doesn’t show it. He only chuckles, and turns around in his seat to reach for a beautiful crystal bowl, suddenly miraculously filled with crisps. A smaller dish, filled with sour cream dip, materialises next to it.

„Well, I suppose I couldn’t ask you to do that. Besides. Maybe there is something to be said for a little mystery in a friendship. I’ll just have to make sure we keep seeing each other. Might figure it out, eventually.“

Ah, yes. Seems like there is one habit, at least, for which there won’t be any need in breaking it. There is a certain reassurance in that. And as habits go, hiding the overwhelming love you feel for your ethereal counterpart isn’t the worst, probably.

Heaven or hell, let there be at least one that is worse.

„Good luck with that. Cheers.“

Chapter Text

In the weeks after his return, life settles into a pleasant rhythm of normalcy. A.Z. Fell and Co. return to operating a business with notoriously erratic opening hours, although Aziraphale notes with some disappointment that the Co. remains elusive. Three weeks in, he still hasn’t seen Crowley again.

Of course, something like this was expected, he tells himself. It’s not unusual at all, in the grand scheme of their relationship, that they don’t see each other for years, sometimes even decades at a time. If he foolishly assumed this pattern has changed, perhaps that’s on him. After all, there is no more reason for frequent, secret meetings.

Besides, isn’t there a human expression about – what was it? Needing space? Yes. It’s only too natural, Aziraphale supposes, to need space from someone you’ve seen so regularly for the last… six years and three very intense days. Still, he can’t help but be disappointed.

How silly.

It’s not as though he lacks company.

Although he may no longer be on heaven’s payroll, so to speak, the perks of being an angel seem to have carried over into this new life. Among them, the absolute ease with which humans trust and engage with him, should he wish them to do so. And for all the inconvenient aspects of running a business – chiefly among them, having to actually sell books – it does guarantee a steady stream of human visitors.

Occasionally, there is even a familiar face among them. A stressed PhD student, the only class of customers who never seem to mind Aziraphale’s strong dislike against selling his wares, but who practically begs him to never go on such a long holiday, ever, again. Does he know how impossible to find some of his volumes are in a regular library? (Aziraphale does know, of course. He has had to track down every last one of them, after all.) The shopkeeper from Intimate Books next door, who seems delighted to stop by for a cup of tea every now and then. This particular acquaintance almost comes to an abrupt end once Aziraphale chases the much younger man out of his store for the crime of bringing a cone of ice cream from the shop across the street dangerously close to some priceless old bibles. However, a day or two to placate Aziraphale’s wrath, and a tin of biscuits as a gesture of apology serve to smooth things over.

Most notable among the familiar faces, however, has been Anathema Device. She stumbled into his store a mere hour after opening on the day after his return, and swears it’s a coincidence. Aziraphale is only half inclined to believe her, after all, the woman has a history with supernaturally acquired intelligence.

However she has ended up there, the young woman turns out to be a welcome addition to the visitors’ roster. In the course of this first and several follow-up visits, Aziraphale learns that yes, she does remember the events leading up to, and ultimately preventing, the end-that-wasn’t. Yes, she still has the cottage in Tadfield. Since her duties as a descendant are officially fulfilled, however, Anathema has decided to move to London in order to enrol in university. “History, I think. I’d quite like to study people who were always defined by their family histories, you know? Seems appropriate.”

And then, of course there’s her young man. Aziraphale did not get much of an impression of him, but privately he can’t help but think it must be an unfortunate individual who ended up working for Mr. Shadwell, of all people. Well, that’s all over now, Shadwell being retired and anyway, both former army men occupied with their new romances. He isn’t one to pry, but Anathema is so obviously newly in love, that some details just spill out of her. These young people… human relationships have always moved at a pace that Aziraphale can’t quite comprehend. At least with those two, there hasn’t been any of this new technology involved. Surely, that must be an invention in which Crowley or his former associates had a hand or two. Although perhaps Aziraphale shouldn’t be so dismissive about it all, not when he is currently engaged in the process of figuring out just this technology.

Which is exactly the state in which Anathema finds him on her latest visit.

“Mr. Fell!” The astonishment is apparent in her voice, and Aziraphale can’t help but look a little guilty as he lets his newly acquired cell phone sink down on the counter. “I would not have taken you for a man of technology. Are you giving the twenty-first century a try, now that it’s here to stay?”

He can’t help but glance down nervously. Yes, the display seems to be off. At least she won’t be able to tell what he was doing. “Er, yes… quite. How lovely to see you, my dear. How is the enrolment going?”

“Just came from the university, dropped off all my papers.”

It’s always so lovely to see a young person beaming with enthusiasm at the pursuit of knowledge. Better, even, when you know they won’t suffer the fate of some of their historical counterparts, whose thirst for enlightenment was less appreciated.

“Wonderful, wonderful. Can I help you with anything today?”

Anathema shakes her head. “Just passing by on my way home. But, uhm… If you don’t mind me saying, you looked a bit lost just now. New phone? Anything I can help you with?”

Aziraphale remains silent for a moment, weighing his options. On the one hand, it seems decidedly… undignified to admit how much trouble this device is causing him, let alone, what purpose he was intending to use it for. On the other hand, this young woman has probably read more about his minor embarrassments than he would ever care to explore. And asking somebody who is offering their help so nicely certainly sounds preferable to spending hours on that blasted computer he has previously only used for shop-related tasks.

“Yes, actually. If you don’t mind.” Even with the resolution made, the words take a moment to form. “I was actually trying… to get a better understanding of this ‘tinder’ application.”

For a human who is probably not able to unhinge it, Anathema’s jaw drops an impressive amount. (As somebody used to Crowley’s more non-human capabilities, Aziraphale is probably one of the few people on this earth able to tell what this amount of surprise does look like for someone who is able to unhook his jaw. But that is a thought he quickly banishes to the back of his mind, along with any other friend/demon related thoughts of the last hour or so.)

“You are… on tinder? As in, the dating app?”

A tiny, embarrassed nod.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – obviously I know that people of your age – well, perhaps not exactly your age, but.” She still looks utterly bewildered. “All I meant to say is, I was under the impression that you already had a, uhm. I don’t know what the right word would be in your circumstances? Partner?”

It’s not that she is the first person to make this mistake, far from it. It’s just that in this particular circumstance, it hurts in new and unexpected ways.

“Well, I’m afraid that was a misconception, dear. At least… in the way in which I suspect you mean it.”

The way in which humans, and occasionally angels (possibly even demons) have meant it for the past, oh, give or take four thousand years. At least, that’s how long Aziraphale would have been paying attention to it.

“Forgive me, Miss Device, I did not mean to snap. Maybe this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have imposed…”

But Anathema is having none of that. “Nonsense, no imposition. Tell you what.” There is a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and suddenly, she seems much younger than usual. “I help you with this, and just so you don’t have to feel like an imposition, I get to be a little nosy while we’re at it.”

Well, it probably won’t hurt. He gives a reluctant nod.

“Alright. So you and Mr., ah, Crawly?”

“Crowley.” He can’t help but flinch a little at the old name. Surely, that was not part of one of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies…?

“We are… very dear friends.”

“And were you ever…?”

“No. No, the truth is…”

The truth is, I’ve been madly in love with him for a time longer than your history books probably cover? Feeling that way about him may have been my first hint that I was turning far more human than anyone ever expected, and other human pleasures were something I found out of a need to distract me from the fact?

Probably best not to put all this on the poor young woman, she was just looking for some gossip. Hardly for an old angel’s sob story.

“The truth is, we have known each other forever, and in this case, that may not even be much of an exaggeration. And we are… very fond of each other. In fact, lately, I have been feeling… like my feelings might be going in the direction you suggest.” Lately may be stretching the truth a little. “But, well, you see…” It’s harder to put into words than Aziraphale expected. “By my very, ah, nature, I am used to experiencing quite strong feelings  of love and affection. The significant difference, I suppose, between Crowley and any other person… is that we know each other much, much better. In fact, I haven’t usually allowed myself much of a relationship with any human, since it might have interfered with my responsibilities. Therefore it seems… logical, that whatever I am feeling for him, may feel much more significant simply because of the connection we already share. And, as I’m sure you will understand, I would not wish to disturb a millennia-old friendship without making sure there is a good reason for it.”

What an experienced liar he is becoming! But how to say I’ve been feeling him love me for all these thousands of years, and I know how much effort that must have been, so how can I risk hurting him by misinterpreting my own feelings?

Luckily, Anathema is a witch, not a mind reader.

“Alright, you want my advice? I guess you asked for it already so… I think that’s fucking stupid. Just because there’s a history there, doesn’t mean your feelings are less significant. I’d think it was the opposite, actually. But whatever, it’s your life, so if you’re sure you’re doing this… You don’t strike me as a casual hookup kind of guy, though. So maybe let’s find you a different dating platform, with a little less swiping and a little more talking. Shall we?”

Chapter Text

Six weeks is all the moping Crowley has in him.

Alright, so you got your hopes up. You’ve been shot down. Doesn’t mean you’re not still friends.

As he’s listening to the dial tone, he ponders what, exactly, he should be inviting Aziraphale to. Concert? Tea? No, he’s not in the mood to wait until the afternoon. Besides…

“Aziraphale, hi. Listen, it’s been a while, and it’s such a nice day, I was thinking… I believe you still owe me a picnic. How about it? For lunch?”

Let it never be said that the demon Crowley has lost his ability to wring every last bit of misery out of a situation. Even if the only person he’s currently torturing is himself.

~~~

Of all the sights he’s prepared himself for, this is definitely not one. Luckily, Aziraphale’s back is turned when Crowley pushes open the bookshop doors, so he couldn’t possibly have seen how his throat dries up. There’s just… so much skin.

“I’m sorry, I think perhaps I have the wrong shop.”

The effect is instantaneous, and radiant as always. “Crowley!”

Aziraphale turns, his face lit up with sheer, unfiltered joy. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t quite expecting you yet.” Only now, he seems to be processing the greeting. “The wrong shop? What do you mean?”

At least, the confusion has given Crowley the time to collect himself, clear his throat.

“I was looking for my friend. But it seems he’s missing his exoskeleton.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks mildly embarrassed, but simultaneously pleased, as he tugs at his uncharacteristically short-sleeved button-up. At least the colour is still his style, a rich, creamy beige, although it looks considerably more modern than usual through the addition of… red polka dots?

“Yes, well…”

The angel finishes putting away a book he’d been reshelving, and heads for the door, obviously ready to leave. As he passes, Crowley can’t help but sneak a closeup glance at the shirt. Those aren’t polka dots. They’re apples. Bastard.

“I thought if we’re going out in this weather, I might as well adopt a somewhat more seasonal wardrobe. After all, I wouldn’t want to ruin a lovely picnic by sweating through my suit.”

“Angel, you,” He has to pause inelegantly to clear his throat again. “You don’t sweat.”

“Oh, I know, it isn’t something our bodies were built to do, necessarily. It’s just that our recent… adventure reminded me how many small aspects of the human condition I haven’t experienced yet. And who’s to say what I am missing out on? So I figured, you know, when in Rome…” He gestures vaguely at his getup. “All right, I can see what you’re thinking. Go ahead. Call me daft.”

What possible answer is there to this, that would be more accurate than throwing your hands in the air and rolling your eyes? They’ll be quite the pair, Crowley, in his usual too-cool-for-this-weather, black-from-head-to-toe getup, and Aziraphale, looking like the archetypal sweet, gay uncle on his way to a tropical cruise. Well. Let people try to puzzle that one out, they’ve been doing that for long enough.

“Just… get in the car. Hampstead Heath okay?”

~~~

The drive is a companionable affair. Crowley manages to get in a few more jibes regarding Aziraphale’s new wardrobe – but pointedly does not ask about the print of his shirt. (And really, what way is there to ask, without sounding bitter, So, any specific reason you’re dressing yourself up as the literal forbidden fruit that you are, or did you just see food and had to buy it?)

In return, Aziraphale blushes some more, and deflects the conversation by talking about the little witch and her university plans, and her new relationship, and Isn’t it wonderful, all those human lives not ending?

Wa-fucking-hoo. Maybe this meeting wasn’t the best idea, after all. Maybe he should have taken a few decades to nap, first.

But, once they’ve parked the car and are wandering through the park, Aziraphale still chattering about all those wonderful humans – he can slowly feel his shoulders relax. This is what they’ve always had in common, isn’t it? Standing in a garden, observing the mortals. Rooting for them, against all odds. Maybe, at some point, he’ll be able to start over. Just appreciate what is there.

It takes them almost two hours to choose a picnic spot. Without the help of a little demonic miracle, there might be concerns about the egg salad sandwiches by now. As it is, the only concern Crowley has is why, for the love of somebody, he got a picnic basket that looks exactly like the one in which he once received a certain newborn antichrist. It seemed funny at the time. Now it just seems weird. Luckily, Aziraphale won’t be able to tell either way.

Not least of all, because he has happily settled in on the huge, flannel blanket and is currently pouring champagne into two ridiculously 1920s-looking glasses.

„So, tell me. I feel like I’ve been talking your ear off with all my travels and my visitors, what have you been up to?“

If there has ever been a time before when Crowley has been this invested in food, he must have forgotten it. That’s usually Aziraphales’ domain. Now, however, he’s staring at the finger sandwiches with an intensity that suggests whatever he chooses, it will be the only thing he’ll be allowed to eat for the rest of his… well. Forever.

„Errrrghh… nothing much, really.“

It’s not like Aziraphale has never known him to disappear for a few months, even years at a time. He’s explained about the hundred years nap, though Aziraphale still seems to partially think that was a joke. In any case, a bit of well-earned sloth should not be inviting any questions. And yet.  

“Really? I would have thought, without an antichrist to supervise or any assignments to complete… you’d be able to enjoy yourself. It has been an awfully long time since you’ve taken a holiday, my dear.”

Crowley winces at the term of endearment.

“Don’t call me that, for –  don’t call me that. You’re no longer one of their minions, you don’t have to act so holy all the time.”

Letting lose some of the petty, unnecessary frustration that has spent the past six weeks curled up in his chest feels way too good. For about half a second, before he registers how Aziraphale flinches as though physically attacked, and pieces of tomato tumble into his lap as he almost drops his bruschetta.

“Look, I’m sorry, a-“ Can’t very well justify his outburst if he’s going to keep using transparent pet-names now, can he? “Aziraphale. I’m just. Look, it’s weird, this new situation that we’re in, right? Not really any use for me to keep doing all that demonic interference shit, and, uh. Not really any need for you to act that nice around me.”

He knows, even as he’s speaking, that these are not convincing arguments. But it’s the best he can do. Second, perhaps, to You ripped my heart to shreds with that ‘best friend’ nonsense and look, I’ll get over it, but I have to be dramatic about it first. But that seems even less appropriate for the occasion.

And just like that, Aziraphale’s expression becomes soft, so unbearably soft, he might as well have taken a mister of holy water to Crowley’s insides.

“Oh, dear. First of all, I will always want to be nice to you. Remember? You’re my best friend.” He pauses, seemingly savouring the taste of this last sentence. Is that perhaps an amused twinkle in the eye of a man who has had to listen to Queen’s Greatest Hits one too many times? No, must just be Crowley’s old habit of grasping for any tiny promise. “Secondly… I did not know you felt like that about this new life. How silly of me, it never occurred to me to ask… Well, I simply assumed that like me, you would take advantage of your new freedoms. I really should have checked on you sooner.”

“’s okay.” It really should not be possible for a demon to feel this guilty. He wonders briefly, if this is too public a place to temporarily transform into a snake. So much easier to explain why he suddenly feels the need to curl in on himself. But, with all those families around, probably better not risk it. Wouldn’t want to scare any children.

So, instead, he just sits there, slumped over and arms gathering his knees tightly to his chest, as his brain is desperately grasping for a topic, any topic, to steer the conversation to. And, reliably, coming up empty. Meanwhile, Aziraphale just continues staring at him, with that bloody mix of concern, compassion and… something he won’t allow himself to name.

“Well? Dear?” As if expecting further pushback, this last word is accompanied by the gentle press of a hand grasping Crowley’s forearm.

Logically, since angels do not, ordinarily, sweat, neither do demons. Crowley isn’t usually one to blindly follow a hypothesis, but in this case, he also has the empirics to back him up. Namely, several centuries of never wearing anything but long-sleeved black clothes, no matter the weather. Fine, maybe that business with the burning Bentley was a bit of an exception, but honestly, an hour-long ride in a blazing ball of metal and flames could make anyone break a bit of a sweat.

A barely perceptible squeeze of the arm, on the other hand? Should not make you feel as if you’d just elected to get a repeat treatment of trial-by-hellfire, and gotten a side of butterflies in the stomach. Nor should it make your heart start beating in your throat, where it certainly doesn’t belong, even according to demonic anatomy.

For a moment or two, Crowley allows himself to soak up the sensation, before leaning over to the basket and retrieving two mason jars full of chocolate mousse, and the spoons that go with them. Better give those hands something to do. Still, the question requires an answer.

“Well,” he pointedly echoes Aziraphale’s words. “Your situation and mine aren’t the same, are they? Of course it would be fun for you to just take your powers and run with them. You’ve always enjoyed being the good guy.” That came out wrong. “And look, I won’t pretend I haven’t had my fun doing mine but… ‘s not exactly fun admitting you’re just that asshole that likes seeing people unhappy.”

Humming thoughtfully into a mouth of chocolate mousse, Aziraphale lets this sink in for a moment.

“But you’re not, are you?”

All right. Here we go.

It’s never been easy listening to Aziraphale’s little delusions about how deep-down kind-hearted and actually-not-that-bad Crowley is. At least, until now, he’s had the very plausible threat of displeasing the higher-ups as a go-to way to deflect these things. With that out of the way… there really isn’t any way around admitting why it is this hurts so much.

It’s not me he likes. It’s some tragic misunderstood fallen angel figure, and once he figures out that’s just a figment of his imagination, that’ll be it.

Crowley briefly eyes his champagne glass, wondering what the chances are of Aziraphale noticing if he miracles this into something stronger. Much, much stronger. But then he’ll have to get through this discussion drunk, and that spells its own kind of disaster.

“Sure I am. Look, I know you like to pretend that all of this…” He gestures at his demonic getup, “is just a style choice but. Let’s be honest. I’ve always liked messing with people. You could say it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, really. Can’t pretend I’m some cosmic messenger of peace, any more than I can pretend to be human.”

So maybe you should just go find yourself a new friend. Save us both the drama of what’s bound to happen when you realize I’m not a reformed angel all of a sudden.

To his surprise, Aziraphale looks immensely amused.

“Well, of course not, my dear. That would be absurd. And quite a waste, if I’m being honest. Rather disrespectful to the Almighty, too, I might add.”

What?

Oh, screw it.

“What?”

„Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? The Almighty made humans, and They also made angels and demons. If it was Their will for every human to be good and holy all the time, there wouldn’t be any need for any of us. They could have just made humans fundamentally good in all things. Easily so, because the Almighty is, well. The Almighty.“

„Yes, yes, I get it, angel,“ Crowley snaps. „Words have meanings. Does your tangent have one? Or are you just trying to annoy me into doing something productive with my life, because I can tell you, if that worked-“

„Obviously not.“ Aziraphale discards his napkin and leans back on his elbows, eyes closed, smiling at the warm rays of afternoon sun. „I am never trying to annoy anyone.“

Aren’t you? I could cite several centuries worth of evidence to the contrary.

„I am an angel. That’s not what I do. It is, however, what you do. Because as a demon, that is your place in the universe. You bring out the negative emotions in humans. And yes, in terms of what hell wants from you, or should I say wanted, the purpose of this is to make them sin, and create a downwards spiral of worse and worse actions and emotions. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Sometimes it is just necessary to feel… pain, and anger, and jealousy, and all those other negative, human emotions. It wouldn’t be healthy to bottle them all up.“

Oh.

Suddenly, he can hear Brother Francis, giving one of his little lectures to Warlock while Nanny was admiring (read: emergency miracle-ing) the plants and pretending not to listen. All creatures, great and small, are God’s children. They all have their purpose, and you must respect them all, and learn to love them for the precious things they are.

Privately, Crowley has always wondered whether living as one of nature’s more disgusting pests is just the price he pays for no longer being one of its beautiful, ruthless predators. Of course, knowing Aziraphale, loving Aziraphale somewhat complicates that analogy. But it’s not like there is any shortage of examples for why he could not possibly see himself remaining an angel. For every fierce and protective lioness, heaven has entire packs of hyenas in store. No thank you.

In any case, it would never have occurred to him to paint being a demon as a great alternative. The lesser evil, if anything. But, it seems, it has occurred to Aziraphale.

He can feel the lump forming in his throat. Bless those tears, yet another secretion a demonic body should not have any need for.

“So what…” Bloody heaven, you’d really think he would have better control of his vocal cords. Only been using them for about six thousand years. Thankfully, Aziraphale does not comment on how thick with tears his voice sounds. “What are you saying? I should just… continue trying to cancel you out, for the balance of it all?”

“Not exactly.” Two butterflies have settled on Aziraphale’s shoulders, brilliant blue wings opening and closing lazily in the afternoon sunlight. Show-off. “For one thing, I only intend to perform miracles I believe in, from now on. So I would object if you just made it your goal to ruin all my hard work. But more importantly…” His eyes zero in on Crowley’s face, their shade exactly the same as the butterfly wings. “The reason why our arrangement has worked so well, so far, is because we’ve made it our business to divide the work between us, so we wouldn’t have to both visit the same places. But now that we’re no longer bound to what our superiors expect from us… I would much prefer it if we can make sure to be in the same place more often.”

Bless… damn… FUCK… well, whatever, that bastard angel! Crowley can hear his own teeth grinding together, so strong is the effort it takes to bite back several inappropriate reactions. Part of him just wants to break into the widest, goofiest grin. Whatever you want, angel. There’s nothing I would like better than that, actually. Another part wants to cover it all up with a harsh, sardonic laugh. You don’t mean that, angel. I’d get on your nerves quicker than you can say 'immortal'. He doesn’t say any of it, of course, just reaches for his champagne glass and gulps down a few large mouthfuls, before asking: “So, what, then?”

Aziraphale gives off a thoughtful hum. At the sound, the butterflies on his shoulders take off an flutter around his head, apparently disoriented by this strange, musical sunflower they’ve landed on.

“Well, I suppose what I’m saying is, ask yourself why you really enjoy the things you used to do. I’m sure they can be put to good use. Take a frustrated single mother, as an example. Wouldn’t it be much better if you led her to scream at a cat-calling co-worker, instead of her going home to her kids and unloading the pressure there? Or, well, temptation in a more… carnal sense, I suppose. Yes, there are thousands of humans who only bring misery to their families by indulging in soulless affairs, but there are at least as many lonely, isolated people out there who could only benefit from a little nudge in that direction.”

It’s not a bad idea, actually. Before Crowley can answer, though, he can feel a few drops of rain land on his face. “Guess we should get going. What do you say we move this inside, get some wine? We could even stop by that new Vietnamese place and get some takeout, and you’ll finally let me introduce you to musical films? Stage productions are all well and good, angel, but you really should learn to appreciate some more accessible art forms.”

Hard to say what the expression on Aziraphale’s face is, because he’s suddenly very invested in collecting all the little containers, placing them carefully inside the picnic basket. From this angle, though, Crowley could have sworn it looks like guilt, almost.

“I… I can’t, actually. I have plans already. I am going to the Vietnamese place, but. Not for takeout.”

Huh, that is new.

“Since when do you go on dinner dates without me, angel?” Crowley’s tone is intentionally suggestive. Hey, a little flirtation must still be allowed, right? It would be practically disrespectful to the history of their friendship to suddenly drop that nice tradition they have.

There it is again, though. That flicker on Aziraphale’s face, and a little too much force in how he slams the picnic basket shut. “Don’t be absurd, Crowley. I’m simply. Meeting a friend.”

He looks up and seems to catch the surprise on Crowley’s face, because his expression immediately softens into a smile. “We’ll do it another night. How about Friday? Whichever film you like. I can’t promise I will like it, but I will give it a chance.”

And though he can’t put a finger on it, Crowley can’t help but feel that the tables have turned. In what direction, exactly, purgatory knows.

~~~

After dropping off Aziraphale at his store, he makes an effort not to go back home immediately. The evening suddenly feels empty in an unexpected way, an I can’t believe you’d just cancel our plans on such short notice kind of way, though if he’s being honest, Aziraphale never said they’d be spending it together. Crowley never even bothered to ask.

Never mind. He’s a fully grown demon, surely, he can keep himself entertained. And anyway, there are enough errands to be run. Who even needs a fussy angel taking up all their time?

It’s been ages since his plants have actually been fertilized, this seems like the perfect time to pick up some supplies. And, come to think of it, they passed a very nice greenhouse on their way back from Tadfield. Maybe today is the time to introduce some new plants to his flat. Aziraphale has commented on how minimalistic his interior design is, with that barely concealed unease of someone who doesn’t really understand minimalism and just sees sadness. If he’s coming over Friday, Crowley really should make an effort to make him feel more at home. It’s only polite.

By the time he returns home, it’s almost eight o’clock. Not really in the mood to yell at any plants, he just places the newcomers with the others. “Show them the ropes, guys. Tomorrow, we start orientation.”

He slumps into his desk chair, wondering what to do with the half-gone evening. Might as well give Aziraphale’s recommendation a try, right? Pissing off gross predatory guys on dating sites should be a nice start. Perhaps not the ‘healthy release of negative emotions’ Aziraphale had in mind… but at the very least it’ll keep them occupied and spare a few women the fifth unsolicited dick pic of the evening.

Almost automatically, Crowley’s fingers type in various web addresses. Lilly A. has profiles on all the major dating websites, and most of them contain some sort of nod to her extremely cool aunt. Not that anybody aside from Crowley will enjoy the humour in that, but you have to keep yourself entertained.

There is an inbox full of messages waiting for him, he could just start there. But, somehow, it seems more fun to flip through the profiles himself. Give the demonic instincts a little workout, spot-the-dick, so to speak.

Let’s see… tragic piercing… topless mirror selfie… pretentious coffee house pic… portrait of the artist holding a guitar (which he almost certainly can’t play)… nothing that immediately stands out. Except.

Self-conscious armchair pose, halo of blond curls, embarrassed little smile. No age specified.

What the FUCK, angel.

Aziraphale’s words from this morning echo in his ears.

So many parts of the human condition I haven’t experienced…

Crowley feels acid rising in his throat at the thought of Aziraphale’s dinner date and the many, many gaps in his experience he could be filling right now. Just a friend, huh?

How could he have been so stupid? Hundreds of years of reading into a few throwaway words.

If they knew I’d been fraternizing…

You go too fast for me.

I’ve always said that deep down you are quite a nice person.

I really am quite fond of you.

Yes, fine, he’s beginning to understand (which, for the record, does not translate to ‘accept’), that all of this may have been wishful thinking. Aziraphale clearly has no romantic intentions, otherwise, wouldn’t he have said something by now? He is supposedly a powerful celestial being of love, and always going on about how he can feel it when someone – or something – is being loved.

And as such, it probably makes sense that he wouldn’t experience the emotion himself. Professional hazard, or something. Got to keep yourself objective. All-encompassing divine love probably doesn’t leave much room for the sort of pedestrian approximation humans, or, say, a very sorry excuse for a demon might be feeling.

One thing Crowley has never, ever considered, however, is the possibility that Aziraphale’s reluctance has nothing to do with a general disinterest in romance. And everything to do with Crowley. The sudden realization feels like a punch in the gut. Which, for a demon with considerable talents for arranging reality in a way in which he expects it to work, is not much of an overstatement.

Well, fuck.

Chapter Text

“And then, of course, she… they. Sorry. I’m still getting used to it. They wouldn’t give up until I agreed to come to Pride with them. I felt a little like a time traveller. It was lovely, of course, to see how happy it made Toni but… I’m really not one for such crowds. You like it?”

Aziraphale ponders the question for a moment. He has attended his fair share of Pride marches, and does enjoy it, but probably not for the reasons his date is enquiring about. There really isn’t anything like seeing a recently out person’s eyes lit up when they gather up the courage to join in their first chant. Or knowing the nervous teenager on the last train got home safe, because you had a hand in diverting the attention of any homophobes that might have glanced their way. But how to explain that to his very human companion?

“I do.” He finally says. “I understand what you mean, though. It can be quite overwhelming. Usually, I have a few smaller events at my bookshop during the season, readings and the like… maybe you would like to stop by some time?”

Oh no. Maybe that was too forward. Would this constitute an invitation to another date, in this case, almost a year from now? Or is he simply a businessowner promoting his shop? Hard to tell. His date doesn’t seem to mind.

“Now that sounds more like my cup of tea. And I bet my niece would be very happy to come along, too. They and their friends are extremely interested in small, local businesses at the moment. Especially if they are… I suppose the word they’d use is ‘queer-owned.’”

He himself seems to flinch at the term, but doesn’t elaborate. So instead, Aziraphale leans forward to reach for the wine, and asks: “If you don’t mind… you spoke of your niece, but corrected yourself when you said ‘she’…?”

“Ah.” His dining companion has a fond twinkle in his eye when he takes another sip of wine. Regardless of gender, clearly, he treasures this young relative. “Well, they explained that they identify as genderfluid, and do prefer gender neutral pronouns, but with other terms, since they fluctuate from day to day, they are usually fine with the female form. When discussing them, I mean. Since I don’t actually know what kind of a day is today. Although I’m sure I’d get a lecture about calling it the ‘female’ form.” He shrugs, apparently self-conscious, and thoughtfully turns his wine glass in his hands. “I’m still learning. I mean… I know how people used to talk about being gay, sometimes still talk about us. Seems only logical that just like we didn’t suddenly show up out of thin air, people like Toni have been around for a while, but I certainly can’t remember ever knowing anyone in our generation…”

Aziraphale can’t help but smile at that term. As lovely as he is, the man sitting across from him certainly does not qualify as part of his generation. But again, mentioning this would be hard to explain. Instead, he ventures:

“Oh, yes. I do believe I have a… friend. About as old as me, who might share your niece’s identity.”

And name, apparently.

But before he can make up his mind on how much, exactly, he should mention about Crowley, they are interrupted by the alarming sound of screeching tyres outside on the street. Their table is far enough from the windows to make it impossible to see what is happening. Still, the sound was dramatic enough that both of them have instinctively turned towards the door - which, in turn, makes it impossible to pretend not to notice the tall redhead now bursting into the restaurant. The intruder blatantly ignores the waiter who tries to approach him with a conciliatory expression, and evidently scans the room, though his sunglasses make it hard to tell.

Speak of the devil.

Aziraphale tries, half-heartedly, to shrink back behind the large indoor palm tree next to his seat, but of course, it is much too late for any attempt at hiding.

“Angel, what the FUCK?”

Crowley is now striding towards them, wrenching his arm from the still distraught waiter, who is clearly trying to hold him back, and Aziraphale can see confusion and – fear? form on his dining companion’s face as he realises what is happening. Or, well. Part of it, at least.

“THIS is what you were talking about? You didn’t think it could be worth mentioning that you’re going on a DATE?”

Oh no. Oh no no no. Crowley’s face is red with rage, but underneath, Aziraphale can feel another emotion, something sharp and sinister, though very much human. Hurt. Betrayal.

And something not entirely dissimilar, though much, much more confused, from across the table.

“Joseph, would you excuse us for a moment, please? I’m terribly sorry, I will be right back.”

Better to deal with them separately. The polite thing, if something like that could be found in this situation, would certainly be to deal with his poor, confused online acquaintance first. But as things are, he doesn’t see a chance of Crowley considerately waiting his turn.

Disappearing towards the toilets seems like an uncomfortable message to send, so he settles for pulling Crowley by his elbow into the farthest, still unoccupied corner of the restaurant.

“Would you please explain why you think it is appropriate to interrupt my dinner like this?”

Wrong opener. Crowley’s glasses have slid down his nose just a little bit too far, so Aziraphale instantly catches his eyes narrowing at the words.

“Appropriate? Really? Do I look like I care?”

The answer to that question has never been yes. It has also hardly ever so clearly been no. However, Aziraphale is not going to admit defeat so easily.

“Well. I care very much. I understand that you have… questions, but we could easily have addressed them another time. There was no need to burst in here and be rude!”

His heart twists at the words, although not precisely a lie, they are certainly not what he would like to say right now. But, first of all, as much as this is not the time and place for an enraged argument, it is also not the one for a hug and an apology, or even a proper explanation. Secondly, and he tries to hold on to that as much as he can, just to keep up his own resolve: It really was frightfully rude for Crowley to burst in like this just as they were waiting for dessert. The coconut ice cream is supposed to be divine.

“Ru-rude? Oh, I’m sorry, am I the one being rude? Bloody heaven, angel, I get it, old habits and all that, but do not pretend like you don’t know why I’m upset right now.” People are still staring, but Crowley is clearly beyond noticing. “For somebody’s sake! Stringing me along as long as it was never even an option for us to be… anything, that was one thing. But that’s over! Don’t you think you owe me at least a proper No before you go around dating humans?”

From his tone, Crowley clearly means this to come across as aggressive, entitled, even. But his face only looks tired, desperate.

“You’re right.” With a defeated sigh, Aziraphale runs a hand across his face, thinking. “I do owe you something. But not this. And not here. Please, Crowley, just give me… Let me send him home. Let’s go back to the bookstore. Or to your apartment, if it would make you more comfortable. I promise I’ll explain.”

~~~

When he finally exits the restaurant, Crowley is leaning against the doorpost. Poor Joseph, on top of everything, it cannot have been pleasant to pass him on the way out. At least the glasses are hiding the glare Aziraphale knows to be there, but everything about his posture does a stellar job at communicating the essence of it anyway.

“So, what did you tell him?”

Aziraphale pauses, taking the time to button his coat, though truth be told, it is too warm to be wearing it in the first place.

“That I am very sorry, which I am. That I have not been entirely open with him, and that I will no longer be able to see him, because, as it turns out, there are some issues to be resolved in another relationship. Please, dear. Home?”

He makes a hopeful gesture towards the car.

There’s something off about Crowley’s walk. He seems to hold himself forcibly straight, nothing at all like his usual, carefully careless saunter. Once they reach the Bentley, he wordlessly yanks open the passenger door for Aziraphale, then marches over to the driver’s side and throws himself behind the wheel.

As the motor starts, the stereo flickers to life. For a second or two, Aziraphale can read the words ‘Love of My Life’ run across the dashboard in bright blue letters, but they are abruptly extinguished by an angry jab of Crowley’s finger. He doesn’t bother putting on anything else, so aside from the usual screeching and honking, the drive passes in charged silence.

Nor does Crowley make any attempt at breaking the silence once they’ve reached the bookstore. Instead, he throws himself on the couch, staring pointedly at the wall and very definitely not making eye contact with Aziraphale.

“Would you like a drink?”

Aziraphale knows, even before he speaks, that his words will sound off. Even so, he manages to surprise himself with how squeaky they come out.

A grunt and a noncommittal hand gesture are all the answer he receives. This would be the first time Crowley turns down alcohol, though, so Aziraphale pours two glasses of Scotch and presses one into his hand.

He sinks down into his armchair, uncomfortably far away from the sofa, but less presumptuous than taking the seat next to someone who is still all bristles and pointy edges.

“So?” spits Crowley, after swallowing half the contents of his glass in one go.

“… So?” Aziraphale sounds as on edge as his body feels, not daring to fully settle into the very comfortable chair. Instead, he is perched on the outer edge of the cushion, waiting for whatever kind of disciplining is coming his way.

“So, you said you had something to say to me.”

Ah. Yes. The moment of truth. Of course, this would be infinitely easier if he actually had the foggiest idea what the truth is, or rather: how to put it into words. Instead of hesitation, though, Crowley seems to take his bewildered silence for refusal, and jumps up to pace he room with a frustrated huff.

“Right, Satan forbid I ask you to do the heavy lifting for once! Fine, I’ll talk. Then you can give me one of your lectures about going too fast, or wanting too much, or whatever it is you’re always on about.”

There’s nothing Aziraphale can do but watch, watch as Crowley’s steps wind themselves into tight circles, and he brings his hands up to grab fists full of his own hair, pulling in frustration.

“’d think I’d know what to say, not like I’ve had six bloody thousand years to practice, oh – sod it.”

He stands still, eventually, and Aziraphale wonders whether this is, at last, the moment where he’ll be able to move a muscle, do something, anything of what he promised. But just as he can feel the muscles in his thighs tightening, is almost convinced that he will be standing up now, surely, and reach out to comfort, to explain… Crowley raises his hands to remove his glasses, and Aziraphale finds himself pinned into place once more, by the amber gaze falling on him.

“I’m in love with you, Aziraphale.”

There it is. Quiet. Defenseless, at last. For a second only, before Crowley rushes to cover himself up again, folding himself into the couch and rushing a river of words over his declaration as if anything, ever, could wash them from Aziraphale’s mind, now that they’ve been spoken.

“I know, I know you’ve felt it, and if you wanted to do anything about it, you’d have done it a long time ago, or at least, you would have by now. So I don’t expect anything from you, but you have to allow me to say it out loud, just this once. I love you. I am so, so in love with you and have been since I should have known better. And if you’re not in that place, I promise I'll learn to deal with that. I won’t enjoy it or anything, but I can watch you go after humans, if that’s what you need, or if you never need anyone, I’ll be fine with that too, just… don’t shut me out, alright? I just – I can’t believe you lied to me like that. And don’t deny it either, that was a fucking lie this morning, when you told me you were just meeting a friend for dinner…”

“Crowley.”

He doesn’t appear to hear him and rambles on, staring hopelessly into the middle distance.

“Just. I just thought I’d at least be important enough for a proper No, but I guess you didn’t even… I mean. Christ. Angel, did you think I wouldn’t accept it? I know I’ve done a stellar job of being a bastard around you, but I didn’t think–”

“Anthony.”

The word falls between them like the crack of a whip, and Crowley stares, any words still on his tongue cut off by the surprise. It is not a name Aziraphale has ever allowed himself to use, out loud. Not to address him directly, anyway. He blinks at Aziraphale in confusion, eyes slightly tinged with red and watery. His elbows rest on his knees, and his jacket falls open around him, making his throat emerge vulnerable and exposed.

And finally, Aziraphale feels himself able to move, and cross the distance between them. He sinks down in front of him, slowly gathering Crowley’s hands in his, almost expecting him to pull away. Crowley, however, appears frozen into place, transfixed by the power of being addressed by his first name. His chosen name.

“My dear… It’s not that you are not important enough for a No. I cannot believe I’ve ever made you feel like that. That is. I can, I simply… You are so, so important. So immeasurably valuable to me. Much, much to important that I could ever consider… Lightly giving you a Yes, when I still hardly dare to think it.”

Crowley is staring at him in disbelief now, mouth hanging open in a way that makes Aziraphale certain he is not aware of his own expression.

“My heart has been so full of you, and for so long. It almost feels like– Never mind. You’ll think I’m being silly.”

“Angel.” There is just the hint of a growl returning to Crowley’s voice. “So help me, if you make this about your pride when I’ve just bared my soul to you–”

“It isn’t about pride! Quite the opposite! What I was trying to say is.” He lets his hands fall open, ready to release Crowley should he give just the slightest hint of wanting to draw back. “Sometimes it feels like I only grew a heart because I needed a way to accommodate my feelings for you. And because there is so much of it, I could never be sure… I could hardly isolate it as a feeling. I know very well what love feels like when others experience it but this… How could I tell if I had anything resembling human love to offer you, without at least… Giving the human way a try?“

The look in Crowley’s eyes reads as either you’ve completely lost your marbles, or you are fucking with me, angel. But if that is what he’s thinking, he doesn’t say it.

"And what makes you think I give a damn about human emotions?”

“Well.” Aziraphale peers up at Crowley through the mess of his own hair. “I thought… Well, you’ve certainly been feeling them all, as far as I can tell. And quite… Quite often directed at me, if I’m not mistaken.”

Crowley tenses, his fingertips lightly digging into Aziraphale’s wrists.

“Felt that, huh.”

It is not a statement that requires an answer. As unromantic as it is, Aziraphale is beginning to feel a twinge in his knees, and rises to awkwardly settle himself on the sofa next to Crowley.

“So, what exactly does that mean? You wanted to ‘give the human way a try’?”

Ah. When he tried to explain this to Anathema, all she’d done was laugh at him. For someone who has not only lived through, but retained a good deal of her memories of, a potential apocalypse… she has a remarkable lack of respect for supernatural concerns. Not that anything more of that is to be expected of Crowley. But perhaps he might be inclined to understand, having dealt with some of this first hand.

“Well, I thought – I needed to see if it would make a difference. If I were to open myself up to the possibility of falling in love with somebody else. Or, well. If someone were to develop these feelings for me. There is the possibility, after all, that my nature is to mimic any affection I receive. In which case, I am not sure it would be fair to say that your feelings are returned.”

He keeps his gaze trained in his lap, not entirely sure he wants to see Crowley’s reaction to this. It could fall anywhere from amusement to hurt, and none of it would be pleasant. His fingers curl, moving to fidget despite himself. Crowley’s grip on his wrists finally loosens, and Aziraphale can feel his stomach drop, and abruptly land on the softest feather pillow when those gorgeous hands only move to smooth over his nervous ticks.

“So, let me get this straight. You do have feelings for me. You just think you may be able to make yourself fall in love with the entire world, and therefore it doesn’t count?”

Oh. More on the amusement side of things, then. It’s a start.

“Well, not entirely.” He sits up a little straighter and allows himself to meet Crowley’s eyes again. “I did realize that with all the people I met, I could not bring myself to open myself up in the way I intended. We had a lovely time, and I could certainly see myself becoming friends with several of them, but I simply. Don’t wish to feel about anyone the way I feel about you.”

Hope passes over Crowley’s face in a flicker. He doesn’t respond immediately, and when he does, it is with a forced casual tone.

“So there’s been more than one?”

“Well.” Aziraphale can practically feel the pink creeping across his cheeks. “Five, to be exact. But four of them refused to meet for a second time because they.” It may be more than pink. Perhaps crimson would be more accurate. “They were convinced that I’m ‘in love with this so-called friend’ which I apparently would not shut up about.”

This time, the twitch in Crowley’s features is less guarded, and even when it passes, a small smile remains etched into the corners of his mouth.

“And the other thing? Why would it suddenly be important what it feels like for a human to be in love with you, anyway? Never made a difference before.”

It is becoming very hard for Aziraphale to focus on this conversation. How could he, when faced with that half-incredulous smile, and the slowly dawning realisation that this stunning creature just finally, finally and yet somehow completely unexpectedly, has declared his love for him?

“Mhhmm…?” Is all he manages, eloquently.

“Oh, come on, angel. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed. I know for a fact you got Oscar Wilde’s letters. Probably have them saved around here somewhere, with your precious first editions.”

There is more than just a hint of jealousy in Crowley’s words, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell what does more for the tingle spreading through his insides, that or the reminder of some very descriptive missives from a very talented writer.

“Yes, well, but that was hardly… Oscar always was very fond of the… male form.”

The laugh that escapes Crowley can only be described as a snort. His hand trembles ever so slightly when he brings it up to Aziraphale’s face. There is a miniscule pause, as though he is still waiting for Aziraphale to protest, or pull back, then, with a quiet sigh, he closes the distance and allows his thumb to trace over the shape of Aziraphale’s ear.

“Wasn’t your form he was interested in, angel. ‘least not exclusively.”

The shiver that runs through him at Crowley’s touch is entirely too much. It makes his whole body want to lean into the gesture, melt into that caress and drop the subject because really, what does it matter now, what happened decades, centuries, millennia ago? Except -

“Fine. I may… have missed that. I should think I can be excused, given that shortly after that – oh, Crowley, tell me you didn’t.”

The idea seems too cruel, and yet, given everything he’s just said…

“Didn’t have to. I knew sooner or later… anyway, it wasn’t my side that came up with sodomy laws!”

This is news to Aziraphale. Truth be told, he hasn’t given it an immense amount of thought, but if asked, he would definitely have guessed hell had a hand in them.

“Wasn’t mine, either. I suppose… that’s another one for the human conscience, then.”

They both consider this in silence. Though strictly speaking, none of it applies to them, the history of human legislation against the wrong kind of relationship echoes with their experience in uncomfortable ways.

“Well, in any case.” Aziraphale finally tries. “You can hardly blame me for not picking up on this, so excuse me if I wanted to make sure…”

It makes him self-conscious, discussing this topic. Much as his angelic nature can only approve of love in all its forms – though not absolutely all its consequences, but that is ineffability for you – it seems self-aggrandizing to focus on the thought that humans might have fallen for him, completely unintentionally. Crowley is not ready to drop the topic, however.

“Really, angel? Six thousand years, you think Oscar Wilde, of all people, was the only one who ever fell in love with you? Don’t you always tell me you can feel those things?”

Always is definitely a stretch. Aziraphale has, on occasion, felt it necessary to remind Crowley of this ability – only in order to justify his decisions when arguing a particular temptation which Crowley had asked him to cover for, of course. Certainly nothing to do with moments in which his own resolve has faltered, and all he wanted to say was I know, I know you fool, and I feel the same. Or so he told himself, anyway, as soon as his senses had caught up to him. You can’t know that, you foolish, defective angel. And there isn’t anyone to ask.

“Certainly, I know that there have been many humans who have felt great… affection towards me. But. I wouldn’t say there was anything strictly romantic, certainly not in the way that I’ve… well. That I’ve felt from you.”

Crowley groans and buries his face in his hands, almost as though he can’t believe he is being asked to spell this out.

“Let me jog your memory. Berlin, 1926. That reporter that wouldn’t stop following you around.”

“I hardly-“

“Memphis, Fourth Dynasty,-“

“Oh, please.”

“Don’t argue with me, angel. Next thing you’ll tell me is the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa just happened, I suppose?”

Now this is something they have discussed before. Granted, not without a rather large amount of alcohol in their bloodstreams, but drinking to forget has never been something that works on angelic brains. Or demonic ones, for that matter.

“Well, I never denied… but you can hardly equate artistic inspiration with love.”

Crowley gestures to cut him off, clearly unwilling to resume that particular debate.

“Fine. Baghdad, ca. 800 CE, then. Remember that little restaurant you were so fond of?”

Of course he does. As soon as Aziraphale hears the question, he can feel the memory of sticky, sweet treats on his tongue, and smell the air, thick with the scents of frying and spices.

“Oh, they did the most divine things with dates!”                                                                                                    

And of course, it had helped that this had been one of the, up to that point, rare occasions on which Crowley and him had spent significant time in the same place.

“Yeah, well. Your being there all the time certainly did divine things to that poor widow’s heart.”

In his mind’s eye, Aziraphale can still see the middle-aged woman, all welcoming smiles and sweet words and certainly always happy to let them stay just a little past closing time, but-

“Oh, Crowley, please, don’t be absurd. How would you even know that? And didn’t she move away with that very nice merchant after a year or so?”

He tries to recall the occasions on which he found himself dining alone, Crowley otherwise occupied on some infernal business or other, best not to ask too many questions. Certainly, had the woman’s intentions been as Crowley suggests, she would have sought out his company on those occasions? Then again, he has to remind himself, social norms change. There might have been consequences for a woman socialising too closely with a man who was definitely no relation. It is hard to put his finger on, even with an angel’s perfect memory, looking back through the lens of several centuries’ experience is not the same as experiencing it first hand.

“I know that because I have eyes, angel. And, well. A bit of experience tempting people into telling me things. And who do you think introduced her to her new husband, anyway?”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. You see my point now?”

“No, I mean oh. All of those times… you were always there.”

For the first time since he brought up the subject, Crowley’s confidence is slipping. Aziraphale can feel him shifting in his seat, their thighs rubbing together from the movement, and has to consciously hold in a sigh.

“Sure I was. Running interference on a pining human’s flirting isn’t exactly high-level demonic work, but…”

Now it is Aziraphale’s turn to cut him off, in a gesture that starts as a simple shush, and ends up feeling rather daring, one finger placed against Crowley’s lips.

“No wonder I could never tell! You were drowning them out, you possessive little thing!”

A shiver runs through Crowley at his last words. Oh, this is interesting. Definitely something to be filed away for future reference, and to be explored further. But for now...

“Anthony?”

There it is again, that delicious tremble in a body normally so masterfully in control of itself.

“Yes, angel?”

“I’m going to kiss you now. If you don’t have any objections.”

~~~

It isn’t until much, much later that night that it occurs to Crowley to ask: “Wait, so you were really going to make a human fall in love with you… Just for the sake of an experiment?”

The pause that follows is entirely too long to make it convincing when Aziraphale finally answers: “Well, of course not. I’m sure at some point…”

He is cut off by a pair of lips on his, and a kiss that tastes of a barely contained chuckle.

“You really are a bastard. Much more than I ever realized.”