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It takes Aziraphale a while to notice that Crowley won’t leave him alone. They leave St. James’s Park and dine at the Ritz and Crowley comes back to the bookshop with him and… stays. He miracles them some wine and then watches Aziraphale putter around the shop, taking in the few minor changes Adam saw fit to create (thankfully all additions). They don’t speak much as the night wears on, but Aziraphale feels Crowley’s eyes tracking him from shelf to shelf. At one point he turns back to show Crowley a book with an ancient looking cover that is completely blank inside, only to find him coiled into his snake form, fast asleep.
“Oh, my dear,” he says softly. He miracles some added warmth into the room, and continues his inventory.
It must be hours later (the sun is suddenly shining through the front windows) when he feels a pressure along his calf, and he looks down to watch Crowley wind up his leg, around his waist, until most of his weight has come to rest across Aziraphale’s shoulders. His tongue sneaks out to taste the air and Aziraphale smiles at him. “Good morning, Crowley.” He carries his friend with him for a while when he opens the shop and they both ignore the strange looks from the few customers who venture inside.
Aziraphale carries on a one-sided conversation happily; chattering on about the weather, and the Beethoven he plays on the gramophone, and about the little patisserie that opened around the corner until he’s worked himself into quite a state of hunger.
“Crowley, dear, would you mind?” He gestures to the chair Crowley had spent the night in. “I think I might pop out for a bite to eat.”
Crowley bumps his snout against his cheek and slithers to the ground where he shifts back into his human form. “I’ll go with you,” he says.
It isn't far, so they walk. Crowley doesn’t order anything for himself, simply watches Aziraphale enjoy a light sandwich and a generous slice of red velvet cake layered with raspberry jam and custard. It would be a comfortable silence if it weren’t for Crowley’s tense shoulders and the restless way his eyes dart from one end of the restaurant to the other behind his sunglasses.
“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks between bites of cake, which only succeeds in Crowley tensing further.
“It’s nothing, angel,” he replies in a tight voice.
Aziraphale hums. “I do believe that’s the first outright lie you’ve ever told me.” And Crowley winces so forcefully that Aziraphale immediately regrets his words. He reaches out to lay his hand gently over Crowley’s on the table and they let the moment pass.
Later, Crowley steals the last fresh raspberry from his plate.
-
They walk back to the bookshop and Aziraphale’s hand, now that it got a taste of it, brushes against Crowley’s twice. Feeling bold, he opens his mouth to invite Crowley inside again for a drink. Crowley beats him to it, and there’s an edge of desperation to his voice as he says, “I- We- Nggh- Ah, maybe I could stay a bit?” and quickly follows that up with, “Could I tempt you to some wine? It’s been a while since we had a decent Masseto.”
Aziraphale takes in the way he’s folded in on himself, hands half tucked into his pockets and his shoulders bowed forward. “Please, come in, my dear,” he says, trying to keep the worry from his voice. “That does sound rather lovely.”
Crowley nods stiffly and shuffles past him through the door. Aziraphale follows him to the back room where Crowley immediately drops onto the plush couch as if his legs suddenly lost the ability to hold his weight. Aziraphale settles into his armchair and watches him carefully. Crowley tears off his sunglasses and tosses them onto the cushion beside him. Aziraphale is at a loss for words as he watches his friend press his hands over his face and release a deep, shuddering breath.
“Crowley,” he tries, but the demon shakes his head and in the next breath he transforms back into a snake. He makes a beeline for Aziraphale and slithers his way back into the position that he had spent all morning enjoying.
“Assssiraphale,” comes the quiet hiss when Crowley has him almost completely wrapped in a pseudo-embrace.
“You can stay as long as you like, you know,” Aziraphale says. He strokes lightly at the head currently tucked beneath his chin.
Crowley tightens his hold slightly, just enough for it to feel like an acknowledgment.
They don’t drink that evening, but Crowley dozes on his shoulders while Aziraphale enjoys a good book and ponders this strange behavior.
The next day much like the one before, only Crowley spends some of the time hiding among the bookshelves in an attempt to scare away potential customers. Aziraphale is positively delighted. He closes the shop in the afternoon and finds Crowley enjoying the last of the day’s sunlight pouring through a window.
“My dear,” he says, and he reaches out to caress the sun warmed scales. Crowley uncoils and shifts back to his human form, perched precariously on the windowsill, and Aziraphale quickly retracts his hand. “Dinner? I thought perhaps the Wolseley, I do love their salmon. And their vanilla millefeuille… oh it’s scrumptious.”
Crowley smiles slightly and gestures for Aziraphale to lead the way. And if Aziraphale deliberately chose to dine nearby in order to enjoy a fine stroll and perhaps touch Crowley’s hand once or twice, well, that is certainly no one’s business but his own.
-
The evening finds them back at the bookshop where Aziraphale once again settles in for the night with a book and Crowley wastes no time in making himself comfortable in his lap. They wile away the hours in silence, only broken by the soft turn of a page or the sound of skin moving smoothly against scales, until a sudden sound at the front door startles Crowley from his lap. He hisses menacingly and shifts back to human.
“Crowley-” Aziraphale tries.
“Sssssh. Sssstay there, angel.”
Aziraphale watches him with a great deal of apprehension, not because he’s worried about the noise but because Crowley looks positively serpentine. There are scales along his cheekbones and down his neck, on the backs of his hands, and his fangs haven’t retracted. He hasn’t manifested his sunglasses and Aziraphale can see his yellowed scleras. When he slinks around the corner and toward the front door, Aziraphale stands to follow him. He lets Crowley edge closer to the door, watches silently as he first scents the air and then pulls aside the curtain to look out onto the pavement.
Crowley’s shoulders immediately fall into a slump and he drops back against the wall as if his legs are about to fail him. Aziraphale is there in an instant.
“Oh, my dear,” he says sadly, and he feels the way Crowley’s arms tremble beneath his hands.
“Ssssorry, I thought it might have been…” he gestures upward and a string of garbled noises fall from his lips until Aziraphale takes that final step forward to crowd him against the wall in a tight embrace. He holds on as Crowley shakes and stammers, and he feels Crowley's hands clawing desperately at the back of his coat. “I thought I’d lost you,” Crowley says, and the words feel wet against Aziraphale’s neck.
“You didn’t, my dear. You haven’t,” he murmurs, and then with more strength: “You won’t.”
Crowley tries to speak, hiccoughs, and tries again, “They’re going to come for us.”
“Maybe,” Aziraphale concedes, and he pulls back to meet his eyes, “but they’ll regret it if they do.”
Something in his face seems to calm Crowley, and when he takes a deep breath it comes out as, “I love you, angel,” and he closes his eyes with a stricken expression.
Aziraphale has stared down many diverging paths these past few days, not to mention the past millennia, and if he is certain of anything it’s that no path is worth taking if he can’t travel it with Crowley. He reaches up to brush his thumbs across the wetness on Crowley’s cheeks. “And I, you.”
Crowley’s eyes snap open. “You- but, I…”
“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. As he stood upon the precipice, he thought it would feel like falling. He was wrong: it feels like flying. Aziraphale smiles, wide and happy and free. “I love you.”
Crowley looks at him, mouth agape.
“Come, my dear.” Aziraphale takes his hand. “I think you could do with a nice cup of chamomile.”
Crowley follows him wordlessly and allows Aziraphale to arrange him gently onto the couch and accepts the teacup Aziraphale presses into his hand. Aziraphale perches on the cushion beside him and waits.
Crowley takes a sip of the scalding liquid. “Alright,” he says. He turns his free hand palm up on his knee, and sighs audibly when Aziraphale immediately twines their fingers together. “Can I stay?”
“As long as you’d like.”
Crowley squeezes his hand. “Careful, angel, I might never leave.”
“How splendid,” Aziraphale says and tucks himself against Crowley’s side, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”