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Chapter Text

The day was bright, and shining, and entirely too pleasant for Crowley’s liking. Ever since the near-miss with the apocawasn’t and the subsequent “trials” that he and Aziraphale had faced, Crowley had been distrustful of peaceful days like this. He always seemed to be sure that something or someone was lurking around the corner, just out of sight. 

Of course, nothing was, and he released a tense breath as he rounded the corner to the angel’s bookshop.

The bell above the door tinkled merrily, and the angel’s voice floated down from the second floor. “‘Fraid we’re closed, at the moment!” he called out, and then, quiet enough that no human could possibly have heard him, “could have sworn I locked that blessed door -”

“It’s me, Angel,” Crowley drawled, and suddenly Aziraphale’s face was popping up over a stack of books and he looked absolutely delighted. Crowley certainly did not feel a very un-demonlike rush every time the angel looked at him like that, no sir. Not him.

“Crowley!” he cooed. “So nice to see you, dear boy. I was beginning to think you’d decided to sleep through another century.”

His words were teasing, but Crowley knew him well enough to hear the genuine worry in his voice. He felt something suspiciously close to guilt squirm in his stomach - after they’d dined at the Ritz, Aziraphale had come dangerously close to inviting him to stay the night at the bookshop. He’d made a pitiful and hasty excuse to be elsewhere because he’d been too overwhelmed, at that moment - too close to blowing his carefully constructed cover. Every time the angel smiled at him in that soft way of his, every time ‘Zira giggled at one of his stupid jokes, wine drunk and flushed, Crowley felt his composure slip a little more. 

That had been several weeks ago, and in that time Crowley had been flying essentially non-stop to try and drive traitorous thoughts from his head. He was exhausted, wings aching and cramping with the abuse, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. He held himself steady.

“Tea, dear?” he was suddenly being asked, and he blinked. Somehow the angel had gotten in front of him without him noticing. 

He shrugged, a tight smile on his mouth. “Sure, Angel.”

He draped himself across the sofa as Aziraphale bustled around, watching his movements from behind the safety of his glasses. As his eyes followed the angel’s steady movements, he felt something sharp in his throat. He closed his eyes. 

So much for fucking off for a month to get control of himself. 

It seemed he was just as close to his breaking point as he’d been that night as they clinked glasses and toasted to the world. He knew he shouldn’t have come here - should have just gone back to his lonely little flat with his terrified plants. But something had drawn him to the angel, as it always did, and he hadn’t been able to make himself say no. 

When a cup of warm tea was placed in his hands, he blinked up in surprise. Aziraphale was leaning over him with a frown. “Are you quite alright, Crowley?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow, bringing the cup to his face for a sip. It was dark and unsweetened, the way he liked it. Of course it was. Aziraphale knew how to take care of him, the bloody saint. 

He tried his best to sound indifferent. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The angel’s frown deepened. “I… I don’t know. You look…” his eyes searched the demon, and he could see the hesitation there. “You look tired.”

He scoffed. “Demons don’t get tired, Aziraphale,” he said with a wave of his hand, but the angel twisted his mouth to the side. They both knew that was a lie. Crowley slept more than any celestial or occult being they knew. He hadn’t done any sleeping lately, though, and it showed. 

He leaned his head back on the couch to avoid the angel’s gaze, closing his eyes stubbornly.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he obviously had because he was suddenly blinking the grogginess out of his eyes. Aziraphale was, annoyingly, able to handle him without Crowley even knowing he was being handled - it registered that he had a blanket wrapped around him that he was sure hadn’t been on the couch before. His tea had been carefully removed from his hands and set on the side table, along with his glasses. The angel was curled up on a nearby armchair with a book in his hands, reading quietly. 

“What happened?” he slurred, pressing a hand to his head. It ached, and he tried to miracle away the pain with mixed success.

“You fell unconscious,” Aziraphale said primly, looking up over his book. Those silly reading glasses were perched on his nose. “Rather suddenly, I might add.”

Crowley felt discomfort picking at him, and he hitched the blanket around himself with irritation. “I should be going,” he said, but he didn’t stand up. Didn’t even make a move to stand up. 

Dammit. 

The angel abandoned his book, setting it to the side. “Crowley, what have you been doing these past few weeks? Where have you been?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. This was typically out of bounds, for them. They never talked about what had gone on in their absences, mostly because it involved their work. But, he supposed, Aziraphale thought there was no reason to lie or sidestep anymore. What would they need to hide from one another now?

But Crowley was still hiding quite a lot, and he hated himself for it even though he knew it was necessary. He rolled his eyes. “Why should I tell you? Interrogating the enemy, are we?”

The words were supposed to be light, but Aziraphale’s face fell ten stories. He wanted to snatch the words back as soon as he said them, and he tried. “Angel, I didn’t mean -”

“Do you really believe we’re still on opposing sides?”

The question was soft, sad, and Crowley winced. He looked away from the angel’s impossibly blue eyes, rubbing his chin with his hand. “No. ‘Course not.”

And Satan, did he hate the way that Aziraphale immediately relaxed, the air rushing out of him. He hated the power he had over the angel because he couldn’t be trusted with it. He couldn’t even crush this horrible love he had for the big softie, couldn’t set aside his stupid feelings for him even though he knew he had to. He couldn’t hide it well enough and he was going to break and Aziraphale would know, would pity him, would probably pack up his things and move to the other side of the earth because of course he wouldn’t want to hurt Crowley’s feelings but he was moving faster than Aziraphale would ever be willing to go-

“Then why did you leave?”

Aziraphale’s question, soft and vulnerable, made him want to tear out his hair. 

“Why do you care where I go?” he burst out, rocketing up from the couch. “I’m not your responsibility, Angel! War’s over, you’re free to go do whatever you please, you’re relieved from duty and so am I - you’re not stuck with me anymore! So why are you here, why do you care?!”

“My dear boy,” the angel said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “because I love you.”

The demon stared at him, eyes wide, for half a moment. Then he slammed the gate shut before the horses got out. 

He heard himself snarling, felt his teeth sharpening, and he knew that the angel would be able to see his eyes flashing, his pupils narrowing to slits. His words come out in a hiss. “Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale.”

Anyone else would have been sent screaming - he’d been aiming to terrify, after all - but the angel only frowned, not intimidated in the slightest. He reached out to hold the demon’s arm. “You - would you just stop and listen to me, for once?”

Crowley jerked his arm away, hackles raised as far as they could be, and this was not at all the way he’d wanted this day to go. 

“I'm not ssstupid. Don’t - don’t follow me,” he spat, and he could hear how hateful he sounded but he didn’t care, he just wanted to protect himself from this, this hope. “Don’t you fucking dare, Angel,” and the word sounded much more like an insult than it ever had before, and he couldn’t miss the way Aziraphale flinched back in hurt. 

Why couldn’t the damn angel just play by the rules? They’d been doing the same thing for 6000 years, and it had worked out just fine! Sure, Crowely sometimes - often times - found himself wanting more. He’d known he loved the angel since the moment the idiot had told him he’d given away his flaming sword. But he’d also known then - and knew now - that he was so far below being worthy of the angel’s love that it was pointless to try for anything more than the friendship they’d fostered over the centuries. 

And now the damned fool was stirring up all the things he’d worked so hard to bury. Thousands of years of suppressing his fucking feelings and Aziraphale was going to unearth it all in a matter of seconds and expose him for the pathetic, pining idiot that he was. 

The angel didn’t love him. Well - he did,  but only in the way that angels loved everything. Aziraphale didn’t love him in the same desperate, heart-wrenching way that Crowley loved him. He couldn’t. 

He whipped away from the angel, turning toward the door. He had to leave. To get as far away from him, from this hurt, as he could - the middle of deep space sounded pretty good right now. 

But then his world was flipping and he found himself on his stomach, pressed into a bed without understanding how he’d gotten there or where the bed had even come from. 

And Aziraphale was on top of him. 

He immediately struggled, using his not inconsiderable strength to try and wriggle free like the serpent he was. But Aziraphale had always been stronger than he looked, and the angel had the advantage. One hand was flat between the demon’s shoulder blades, the other holding his arms high above his head and pressed into the mattress. One knee was digging into his lower back uncomfortably. 

“Get off!” he snarled, bucking wildly, but Aziraphale only tightened the hold around his wrists minutely, pressing his knee farther into Crowley’s back. The demon could feel his heart in his throat as he thrashed, twisting ferally to get the angel off of him, but he didn’t budge an inch. There was a reason Aziraphale had been tasked with defending the eastern gate - he was immovable when he wanted to be. It had been so long since they’d come to blows that Crowley had forgotten this side of the angel - the hardness he hid underneath the softness. 

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said, voice calm, but Crowley ignored him and scrabbled at the bed. He could feel his heart pounding, his breaths coming faster and faster as he struggled, as he tried to run like he always ran, like the fucking coward he was, and he’d slip into his snake form if that’s what it took to slither away -

Then the angel’s hand was on the back of his neck, tightening very lightly in warning, and Crowley felt his mouth go dry. The scales that had been materializing on his body disappeared in a snap. 

Aziraphale’s voice was suddenly much closer to his ear. “No,” he reprimanded, like he was talking to a dog, and it was probably the closest he’d ever heard the angel come to growling.

He was frozen, down to his breath, but the angel’s hold didn’t loosen. “Stop.”

Every muscle was taut, coiled like a spring, his jaw clenched, eyes clenched too, and then Aziraphale’s thumb was lightly petting the first bone of his spine, and his voice was commanding and hard - too hard for the demon to fight. “Crowley. Stop. Now.”

It was his name that did it. He felt the air whoosh out of his lungs, felt his muscles give up the ghost. He found that he was shaking with exhaustion, or perhaps something worse, and he pressed his face into the sheets. His body slumped, shame washing over him; a stifling and familiar blanket. 

But Aziraphale’s weight on top of him was just as familiar, though the angel had never done anything like this before. 

He allowed himself to let go. To let the angel take control. It made everything easier, always had. He didn’t know what he needed just then, but Aziraphale did, and he knew deep down that the angel would give it to him.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale didn’t move for a long moment, hands still gripping the demon tightly, but Crowley’s initial panic had slowed to nearly nothing. “Are you done?” he asked. He allowed his voice to lose that commanding tone for a moment, aware that Crowley probably needed a bit of a break from it. 

He needn’t have asked. Crowley was as limp as wet grass beneath him, hands curling weakly into the sheets above his head. The demon nodded anyway. Slowly, the angel moved his knee off of his back and settled his full weight over him in exchange, thighs spread around Crowley’s thin frame. He could feel the demon’s warmth beneath him, could see his pulse slow.  

He released his light hold on Crowley’s neck cautiously, and the demon let go of a breath that Aziraphale hadn’t known he’d been holding. He felt quite bad about using that particular weakness against him - something about Crowley’s demon form made him particularly vulnerable when touched there, even when there was hardly any pressure behind it. Aziraphale had found out by accident hundreds of years ago and he’d never once used it against him - not till now.

He hadn’t wanted to. But he couldn’t let Crowley run from him again without him hearing what he had deserved to know since the very beginning.

He moved the demon’s hands from above his head, slowly situating them until they were at Crowley’s sides, palms up. He pressed his knees over them, keeping them to the mattress with a light but firm pressure. 

He knew that his admission had been difficult for the demon to hear. Crowley didn’t know how to take love, to take praise. He thought himself unworthy of kindness. And oh, how he wanted to embrace the demon, to hold him close and tell him over and over how much he was loved (because Lord help him, he’d been burning to do just that for thousands of years) - but Crowley wouldn’t believe him. Not yet. Right now, he needed Aziraphale to hold him down to earth, to press into him and remind him of what was real and what wasn’t. And he could do that.

Crowley sucked in a tight breath when the angel laid his hands flat on the demon’s back, but he only began to rub broad, looping circles into his jumping muscles. He exhaled, hands curling around Aziraphale’s knees weakly, but he didn’t pull away. He just turned his face until it was angled away from his friend completely. Aziraphale could see his jaw working. 

The angel worked his way down Crowley’s spine, rubbing the tension out of him in a methodical manner. The demon made a small, involuntary noise when he brushed against the muscles around where his wings would manifest. After warning him with another soft touch, he pressed down firmly, but kindly, and Crowley’s nails on his knees tightened enough to sting as he made a breathless sound into the mattress. 

“H-hurtsss,” he whispered, voice coming out in more of a hiss that he’d probably intended. The demon’s eyes were glossy. He didn’t ask the angel to stop, though, so Aziraphale didn’t. 

“I know,” he replied, voice low and calm as he worked. “I know, my dear.” He didn’t ask why Crowley’s wings were so sore, why it looked like he’d taken off flying a month ago and hadn’t come to earth since then. Crowley would tell him later, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. He suspected he knew, anyway.

The demon shuddered as Aziraphale continued to loosen the knotted muscles, and as soon as they relaxed, Crowley’s hands around the angel’s knees did too. He let his warm palms linger on Crowley’s shoulders for a moment before he moved, sliding back until he was on the demon’s thighs. He replaced the knees with his hands, gripping the demon’s wrists and holding them down with the slightest bit of pressure. 

“Wings,” he commanded, using that same tone of voice that he’d found, quite by accident, the demon never seemed to want to argue with. Sure enough, Crowley didn’t so much as flinch before he let his wings manifest. They arched away reflexively, but the demon slowly inched them back down until they were twitching and partially folded at his sides. He swallowed, and it was only the faint tremble of his feathers that told Aziraphale that he was afraid. 

He squeezed Crowley’s shaking hands. “Leave your arms where they are, or I will be quite cross,” he warned. The demon stayed still when Aziraphale let go, and he allowed himself a rush of satisfaction. There was no doubt in his mind that Crowley would be able to extradite himself if he wanted to, at this point, but he made no indication that he wanted to move. His heart was warm with the knowledge that Crowley trusted him.

It had been ages since he’d properly looked at Crowley’s wings, and he gave himself a moment to simply bask in their dark, iridescent beauty. They were unkempt and dirty from being used uninterrupted for so long, and he smoothed his hands in one long stroke from their bases to the tops of their arches. The muscles beneath the feathers were coiled and powerful, ready to spring. But they were also shaking, overused and overtired. Crowley clenched his fists and turned his face back into the mattress, tremors working through him as he hid. Again, though, he didn’t protest, so the angel didn’t stop. 

He would have, had Crowley asked him to. Touching the wings of another was an exceedingly intimate thing, and though he'd preened Crowley a few times in the past it had been years since the demon had allowed him near enough to do so. Even then, Crowley had done it out of necessity and no other choice, as he’d reminded Aziraphale many times before, during, and after his dark feathers been groomed. 

He suspected, though, that deep down the demon wanted this. If Crowley needed to pretend that Aziraphale had taken the choice away from him to allow himself to be loved… well, the angel could pretend with him. No harm in giving someone the comfort they needed, after all - he’d always believed that. 

Aziraphale tsked. “You’ve left your beautiful wings in a sorry state, my dear,” he said gently, ever so gently, because he was aware that Crowley didn’t know what to do with his black wings being called something as ridiculous as beautiful. They were things he saw as failures, though he’d never admitted it outside of one drunken rant years and years ago.

Reverently, he began to twitch the feathers back into their proper places. He worked his way from their downy bases to the very edges of their primaries, loosening old feathers and letting them fall, cleaning dust and grime off of long, gorgeous plumes, tucking twisted bits back into their proper places. At first, Crowley hitched in a breath or twitched every time his fingers brushed a feather, but as the minutes passed he began to relax until he was boneless. 

Preening had always been meant to feel good, to be an expression of how much you were cared for, and Aziraphale kicked himself for the simple fact that Crowley had gone far too long without this. 

The wings finally loosened completely and splayed out to his sides, as though the demon was too exhausted to hold them up anymore. They were clean and they were beautiful and Aziraphale wanted so much to hold them, to whisper kind things into them, to show Crowley how worthy he was. 

Instead, Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Crowley’s back, right between his wings, and the demon came undone entirely. His hands finally moved, but only to cover his face as he cracked down the middle, a sob wrenching out of him. 

“Oh, my love,” the angel murmured, and then he was rolling off of Crowley and tucking him into his chest, wings and all, and the demon was clutching his shirt and shaking and the collar of his jacket was getting very damp. 

He held him close, willing warmth into him, and the demon wrapped one shaking wing around him in turn. “I’m s-sssorry, Angel,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean it.” Aziraphale merely manifested his own wings, wrapping them around Crowley like a blanket, and the demon hitched in a breath and shook a little harder. 

“I forgive you,” he replied kindly, because he knew how much Crowley needed to hear it even though there was nothing to forgive him for. He should be the one begging forgiveness. He smoothed his hand through the demon’s hair, and Crowley leaned into his touch like a cat, seeking him out. 

Aziraphale relished this - he’d hardly ever been the one to hold the demon before. Usually, it would be Crowley who would flop over on top of the angel like a snake and search for warmth - and even then, only when he was exhausted or drunk or hurt. And Aziraphale had never truly been allowed to touch. 

“I love you,” he whispered, and Crowley tried to curl away from him, a sob of denial forming in his throat, but the angel’s hand moved to his neck and he froze again. He massaged lightly, and Crowley’s teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut against a truth which had the power to hurt him in ways they both knew he’d never recover from. 

“Look at me,” Aziraphale said gently, but when the demon made no move to obey him he let the barest hint of steel creep back into his tone. “Crowley, look at me.” 

When he opened his eyes his pupils were wide circles, nearly blacking out the yellow. He searched Aziraphale’s face, tears welling in his eyes when the angel smiled at him. 

“You must know, by now,” he murmured, “how much I love you. I love you more than anything.”

Crowley huffed out a short breath, eyes flicking away, but they snapped back when Aziraphale increased the pressure on his neck minutely. “You can’t,” he choked out, mouth twisting. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Of course I can. I’ve loved you for millennia. I love you more than anything and anyone.”

“But - but you’re an angel,” he stuttered, “and I’m -”

“We’re not really those things anymore, my dear,” he said gently, sliding his hand from Crowley’s neck to his face, cupping his cheek. “Remember? We are our own side, now.”

And then Crowley was lurching forward, kissing him, his mouth hard and demanding and needy, and Aziraphale let him take what he needed happily. The demon rolled him so that he was on his back, towering above him with dark eyes, and he supposed he should have been afraid since he’d technically been holding Crowley down for over an hour. 

But he wasn’t. Couldn’t be, because he knew that Crowley would rather set himself on fire than harm him. He’d very nearly done it, once or twice. 

The demon dipped down, mouth forming perfect, hungry shapes on the angel’s collar bone, and he tangled his hands in Crowley’s feathers and smiled at the gasp he pulled from him. The kiss that had been forming on his shoulder turned to a bite, and he groaned as the demon marked him hard enough to bruise, teeth sharp. 

It felt like Crowley was trying to prove something. To himself or to Aziraphale, he didn’t know.

“Don’t leave me, Angel,” the demon growled, eyes bright in the darkness, hands grasping Aziraphale’s wings and pushing them down onto the bed like he thought he could pin him there. “You can’t, not now. You can’t,” he said again, and it came out broken and vulnerable and not at all the intimidation tactic he’d probably been aiming for (because that was the only way demons ever got what they wanted). “You can’t.”

“I would never,” the angel replied calmly, reaching up to hold Crowley’s cheek and thumb away hot tears. “Never, my dearest.”

But Crowley turned away from him, closing his eyes. His voice had lost all fierceness when he whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”

Suddenly that fierceness, that desire driven by embarrassment and anxiety to wrench back control was gone. He didn’t know how to accept things that were freely given - he only knew how to take. But Aziraphale was handing his love over in bucket-fulls and there was no real reason to posture and pretend he had to steal it. 

He crumpled. 

Crowley tried to pull back but the blessed angel’s hands wouldn’t let him. Instead, he drew the demon closer to his chest, wrapping his arms and then his wings around him until he was a shaking mess, and he supposed he’d find this embarrassing later but right now it felt so right. Somehow, the angel always knew what he needed. Always had. 

“Of course you deserve love,” he insisted, in that maddeningly logical manner of his, and Crowley wanted to scream. Wanted to tell the angel how wrong he was, how little he was worth, how an amazing, beautiful being like Aziraphale shouldn’t waste his time with something like him. 

But then Aziraphale kissed his forehead, tender and full, and those thoughts washed away, and he let his angel carry him.

Chapter Text

“I apologize for being so… well. Bossy.”

Crowley looked up, startled at the angel’s apologetic tone. It was the next day, bright and cheery as the last day had been, only this time Crowley hadn’t felt a creeping sense of dread when he’d heard the birds chirping outside as the sun had risen. No, he’d only felt warm and comfortable and safe, wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms as he slept. He’d still felt safe when the angel had rolled away from him, making noises about tea and breakfast, and he still felt safe hours later. 

They were in the living room together, Crowley still splayed out on the miracled up bed that hadn’t gone away and Aziraphale sitting awkwardly in his armchair. (Crowley hadn’t been keen on moving, still exhausted from his month-long marathon and subsequent emotional blubbering; he suspected that Aziraphale was giving him space.) The angel grimaced at the demon’s silence, probably mistaking it for hurt. 

“I’m - glad,” he gritted out quickly, and Aziraphale’s eyes snapped to his. He rubbed his mouth, looking away. “It… I needed to listen,” he settled on, and that brought a small smile to the angel’s face. 

“You did,” he agreed. 

“Don’t think I would have, if you hadn’t done all that,” he admitted, a blush coloring his face. “Didn’t even know you knew about any of that… Don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Aziraphale said firmly, and it made Crowley flinch a bit harder than he should have. The angel came closer, settled himself on the bed next to him. “Nothing, my dear.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. “Must be something. Otherwise, I wouldn’t need you to order me 'round just to do basic shite like… like hearing you out, or…  or get a bloody back massage.”

The angel gave him a small, loving smile. “My dear, there’s no shame in that. You’re much too hard on yourself, and I…”

He shifted a bit, looking quite like he’d been caught licking frosting off an uncut cake. He licked his lips, at any rate. 

Crowley grinned, leering over at him. “Do you suppose this would count as me tempting you, Angel?”

Aziraphale laughed, hands in his lap. “I suppose it would. Not that you have a quota to fill, anymore.”

Crowley sighed, rolling so that his head was resting on the angel’s leg. Unprompted, Aziraphale began to run his fingers through the demon’s hair. And wow, was that something he’d been craving for who knew how long. He hadn’t even needed to ask for it. With a supreme degree of effort, he shoved down the urge to snap at the angel to stop as he might have only weeks ago. 

He was allowed to enjoy this. Right?

They sat in silence for a long moment. Crowley couldn’t take it after a while though, so he finally voiced the question that had been bouncing around in his head since last night.

“How long have you…?”

Aziraphale smiled above him. “A very long time, my dear. But it was only in London, in that church - you remember, yes? With those Nazi brutes, during the Blitz? - that I thought you might love me back.”

Crowley closed his eyes. His throat suddenly felt thick, his head was spinning. “So, why…?”

“Because I was afraid. Afraid of what might happen to me, to you, if either of our sides found out. I’m sorry for that,” he said softly, his hand never pausing in its soothing motions. “So much time wasted because I couldn’t be as brave as you.”

Crowley curled further into the angel’s lap, pressing his head into Aziraphale’s soft middle. “I’m not brave, Angel,” he said tiredly. “I’ve been hiding, too.”

“Not nearly as well as you think, my dear,” and Crowley could hear his smile. “You’ve always loved better, louder, than I have. Even when you thought you were hiding it.”

He could feel the blush spread from his neck to his cheeks, but Aziraphale’s laugh was kind. Not mocking, like he’d feared. Not full of pity, either. “I’m so glad for it. There were days when feeling that love from you was the only thing that kept me afloat. You’re very dear to me, Crowley. Very brave,” he said softly, and the demon clenched his jaw as he felt tears starting to form again. He blinked them away. Since when had he started crying so damn much, anyway?

The angel always said these things so simply, like it was no hardship for him to find ways to praise Crowley. Even he could recognize that he didn’t quite know how to handle it. It wasn’t as if the angel had never complimented him before - they’d been together on earth for 6000 years and Aziraphale had a lot of love to give (of course he did, he was a bloody angel). But he’d always waved it off, or even threatened him to get him to stop. He could do no such thing while he was like this, his head pillowed in the angel’s lap, Aziraphale’s gentle hand in his hair keeping him there more efficiently than a leash. 

He had nowhere to hide, and that terrified him at the same time that it brought him an indescribable amount of peace. 

Slowly, the angel slid down to lie next to him and pulled him to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around his frame. Crowley went limp, tucking his face into Aziraphale’s jacket with a deep sigh, relishing the weight of his arms. “This feels nice,” the angel said simply, and Crowly tried not to blush again but he was categorically unsuccessful because the angel had echoed his thoughts down to the letter. “I wish you’d let me do this more. Love you like this, as you deserve.”

“You can.” The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about them and he coughed. “I mean. I would - um. I would like it if you. Did this. More.”

And he would. He’d always craved the angel’s touch, his kindness, but he’d refused to give in in the years they’d known one another, only slipping up when he was too vulnerable to remember that he was supposed to be careful. Aziraphale had always had a way of cutting through his obsessive worries with calm, clean finality, and sometimes he’d goaded the angel into an argument just to be shouted at because deep down he knew he was being ridiculous, and shouted words of kindness were better than none at all. 

It was obvious that Aziraphale had picked up on all that, because he’d given Crowley just what he’d wanted yesterday and seemed quite keen to do so again today. And there was no shouting involved. 

“Okay,” he replied, and he tapped two fingers on Crowley’s back; an unmistakable request. He complied immediately, letting his wings unfurl and settle gently over Aziraphale, and the angel wasted no time in working a hand down his still sore muscles while the other held the demon’s head gently to his chest. 

They lay like that for a good long while, Crowley simply closing his eyes and letting himself be loved with no reservations.

“So, er,” Crowley began, picking at his food, “How did you know about my little... off button?”

Aziraphale chewed his croissant thoughtfully. They’d opted for a lunch in, neither one eager to leave the safety of the bookshop. “I’m not sure if you remember all of the incident, dear,” he said slowly, “but there was a sorcerer in the 17th century who figured out how to summon you.”

Crowley shivered. Yeah, of course he remembered that. Remembered being snatched, without warning, from one side of the earth to the other; remembered the terrible claustrophobia of the circle he’d been confined in, the circumference not even wide enough for him to lay down. Remembered the nausea of being forced with ritual spells to do things he didn’t want to do. His memories around the finer details were fuzzy, though. At the time he’d not been keen to remember, anyway, so he’d not pressed it. 

“He’d… hm.” Aziraphale paused, lips pressing together in distaste. “I’d begun to worry, dear, because it’d been ages since I’d seen you. So I went looking, of course, and when I found you... I was terribly upset.”

His words were delicate, but Crowley could feel the rage underneath. “The sorcerer had - well, he’d put a… a metal… contraption on your neck.” The angel’s face was stormy when he looked up. “When I arrived, you didn’t seem to recognize me, and I realized you were a touch catatonic.”

Crowley blinked. That, he did not remember. He recalled the sorcerer ordering him to be still, felt him place some sort of pressure, there. Then a choking sensation of panic, and then it was… static, with only brief bits of awareness sprinkled in.

“I ripped that horrible thing off of you right away when I tracked you down, of course, and I’m not at all ashamed to say that I left that sorcerer quite unprepared for your wrath.”

Crowley felt an incredulous grin creeping onto his face. “Angel. That was you?” He’d suddenly found himself freed from the circle, a long, deep scar scratched into the wood that the symbols had been painted on, and that terrible pressure removed from him. In hindsight, Crowley should have known. 

The sorcerer had not had time to scream before he'd been bodily thrust into hell. What he’d made the demon do was not forgivable, in Crowley’s book. It still made his stomach roll to think about.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale replied, sniffing. “I detest when people try to take advantage.”

He grimaced, staring down at his hands. “I should have told you that ages ago, Crowley. I don’t know why I hid it from you. I didn’t want you to be afraid that I’d use it against you, I suppose.” Guilt made his words thick, and Crowley could tell he was about to apologize once more.

“Stop, Aziraphale,” he said, tone quite gentle, for a demon. “It wasn’t the same, what you did.”

The angel looked stricken. “Wasn’t it, though?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He reached out and clasped hands with Aziraphale, preening a bit when the angel perked up considerably. “You weren’t trying to hurt me. I knew that. I won’t say it didn’t scare me a bit, at first,” he admitted, “but it wasn’t like when that piss-poor excuse for a sorcerer did it at all. For one, I remember everything. For another, it made me… calmer. Made my thoughts slow down a bit. I needed that. And I don't reckon it would have that sort of effect if I didn't trust you.”

He gave the angel a long look. “Can you really tell me that you wouldn’t have let go the instant I asked? Would you have kept touching me if I’d begged you not to, once I’d stopped acting like a rabid lunatic?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks heated to a beautiful pink color. “Well, no. Of course not.”

The demon’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I just can’t believe you haven’t done that before now if you’ve known for this long. I can think of several instances where I was irritating enough to warrant it.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, though he’d seemed to have loosened up a bit. “You’re stubborn, Crowley, and sometimes I get frustrated with you. But you don’t irritate me.”

Crowley huffed, rolling his eyes. “Angel, I know I’m a right bastard-”

The cuff on the back of his head surprised him. Aziraphale had smacked him lightly with a pillow, and when he turned to the angel with his mouth open the blonde looked absolutely furious. 

“No, you aren’t,” he said, “and I’d appreciate it if you stopped speaking of yourself that way.”

And so, Crowley learned that Aziraphale wouldn’t tolerate the self-deprecating patterns he’d fallen into over the years anymore. He received a few more light thumps with the pillow after experimentally insulting himself, and his grin grew each time.

“Aziraphale, you’re being positively rabid with that bedding,” he said slyly after he'd said some offhand comment about his snake eyes and the angel had lifted the pillow immediately. “I might end up concussed before the night’s up.”

The angel set the pillow down quickly, crossing his arms as his cheeks flushed. “Well, I just hate it so when you speak of yourself that way. It’s not true – none of it.” He sighed. “I confess I despise myself for letting you go on so long, thinking those things.”

Crowley paused, then snatched the pillow up from the bed and thwaped it across the angel’s face. The indignant huff and scrambling that followed turned quickly into a sort of inexpert pillow fight, with Crowley dodging out of the way of the angel’s chucked bits of bedding, bouncing pillows off Azriaphale’s head without much trouble.

When Aziraphale finally surrendered, pink-faced and laughing, Crowley tossed a pillow on the bed and threw himself onto it. “Fair’s fair, Angel. If you’re gonna thump me every time I’m mean to myself, I get to thump you when you do the same.”

The corner of his angel’s mouth twisted up at the side. “Very well, my dear. That seems agreeable.”

Then he settled down next to Crowley and reached for his hand. The demon took it. 

Chapter Text

Over the following days at the bookshop, Crowley learned many other things, too. Like how the angel loved to preen his wings, laying them out to his sides while he sat on his knees over his back, hands moving gently through his feathers. He learned that he himself loved it just as much - loved the weight Aziraphale placed on him, loved the attention and the concentration that the angel put into every gesture, the way he felt as liquid as water after just a few minutes. 

He especially loved the way the angel couldn’t help but kiss him when he’d finished. 

He learned that Aziraphale was extremely keen to give him what he asked for, when he had the courage to ask at all. This shouldn’t have surprised him - the angel had always been eager to help people. But he hadn’t expected to be treated as if he were worth something, because he didn’t feel that he was. 

(He was beginning to think he’d been wrong, though. Because every time Aziraphale whispered loving words to him or ran a hand through his hair or his wings or held him close, he felt a little better, a little worthier of the affection the angel was littering on him.)

He learned that if he needed Aziraphale’s touch, or his weight, or his kind words, all he had to do was ask. And he discovered that asking didn’t even need to be verbal. The angel sensed when he was getting twitchy or flighty, and would drape an arm or a wing over him casually until he’d calmed down. He’d look at Crowley’s face when he fidgeted with his sunglasses too much and would give him a compliment that sent him into a tailspin, and when he would sense the panic hiding under the surface of Crowley’s skin he’d give him something to do that would distract him long enough to calm himself and take the angel’s words as truth.

What struck home the angel’s love more than anything else, though, was the realization that Aziraphale wouldn’t do this for anyone else on Earth, in heaven, or in hell. Of course the angel was kind, as a general rule - but Aziraphale was a loner. He’d never seen him this affectionate with anyone else; not humans, and certainly not other angels.

And then one day he woke up alone in bed, a note from the angel folded near his head, and realized that he hadn’t left the bookshop in over a month - and in all that time he’d been letting the angel take care of him. That realization alone was enough to stun him, but it was followed by another swift kick - he’d not returned the favor even once. 

That was going to change today. 

Aziraphale smiled as the bell tinkled above the bookshop door. He felt himself relax as it shut behind him, and he threw up the closed sign several hours before he’d originally planned without a hint of remorse. 

He yawned and then was a bit startled by the fact. He didn’t yawn. He hardly ever slept, not like Crowley did - he didn’t particularly enjoy the sensation. Or, well. He supposed that he hadn’t enjoyed it, before. 

But now that he was sleeping with Crowley rather than sitting in an entirely different room or building or continent while the demon snoozed away the hours, he found that he was beginning to appreciate it. He blushed at the very thought. 

“Mornin’, Angel.”

His eyes found Crowley, languid and relaxed, on the top floor. He smiled. “Good morning, dear. I brought us both some breakfast.”

The demon eyed him, lids hooded low. He slithered down the stairs toward the angel and plucked the bag from his hands deftly. Aziraphale was just opening his mouth to protest when, just as quickly, Crowley pecked a kiss on his cheek. 

Aziraphale would very much have liked to say that he didn’t blush hot enough to boil a kettle of water, but that would be a lie, and as an angel he was supposed to be against that sort of thing. “C-Crowley?” he stuttered, voice higher than it ought to be, but the demon was already back upstairs. 

The rest of the day went about the same. 

He was surprised to find that Crowley had already made coffee to go with their pastries - and had actually done it the old fashioned way, to boot! He’d handed Aziraphale a mug with complete nonchalance and he’d taken it blankly, only to nearly drop it when the demon brushed a hand across his lower back as he passed by. 

Then, it happened again in the afternoon; Crowley had been lounging on the sofa (they’d finally gotten around to moving the bed elsewhere). His feet were dangling over the arm as he idly watched the television he’d miracled from his apartment despite Aziraphale’s protests, head in his hand. His sunglasses were on, but they were pushed down to his nose so Aziraphale could see the yellow of his eyes.

He spoke without moving his eyes from the television.  “Angel.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Come ‘ere.”

Aziraphale had smiled. He loved it when Crowley asked for what he needed. He’d picked up his book and moved without comment from his armchair to the couch, settling carefully on the sparse bit of the sofa the demon wasn’t occupying. He needn’t have bothered, apparently, because the instant he did so Crowley had pressed his feet against the arm of the couch and scooted backward until he was draped over the angel’s lap, his head leaning against the opposite arm. 

Aziraphale blushed - Crowley was hardly ever this forward when it came to affection, outside of their bed. He tried valiantly to continue to read, but Crowley was so very distracting - every time he sighed or laughed at something on the television, Aziraphale’s book would jiggle.   

He was washing dishes that evening when Crowley had perched himself on the counter next to him, studying the angel intently. He’d glanced up, given him a smile, and returned to the washing. He’d nearly fallen over backward when Crowley picked up a freshly rinsed dish from the rack and began drying it, stacking it neatly next to him. 

“What?” The demon’s question had been all innocence when he caught Aziraphale’s open-mouthed disbelief. “I just don’t like it when they dry and get all stuck together.”

Aziraphale had grinned as he’d looked back down at the sudsy water. He knew better than to comment when the demon was being nice - Crowley loved to pretend that every kind thing he did had an entirely selfish angle. 

After they’d retired to their bedroom (and it was their bedroom, now; it belonged to them both equally) Crowley had snapped his fingers to change into his pajamas, silk and sleek and, as always, black. Aziraphale had done the same, smiling down at his striped blue and cream garments. He would admit he rather enjoyed the fussiness of changing his clothes just to lay immobile for several hours, if he was being honest. It was one of those silly human rituals that had grown on him. 

Crowley slithered under the covers, his hand reaching out of the blanket nest briefly to set his sunglasses on the bedside table, and Aziraphale smiled tenderly at him. He got into the bed with decidedly less grace, awkwardly poking his legs under the covers one at a time like he was putting on trousers. He wasn’t quite used to this, yet. 

One of Crowley’s hands snaked out and tugged his sleeve, and with a blush Aziraphale gave in and let Crowley pull him under the covers completely. He blushed harder when the demon wrapped him in a hug, his chin perching over the angel’s shoulder.  

“You’ve been very kind today, dear,” he said fondly, trying to suppress a smile when the demon hissed threateningly in his ear. “You know you have. What’s gotten into you?”

He could almost hear the demon rolling his eyes. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean, ‘Ziraphale,” he replied, voice flat. 

Aziraphale wriggled around until he was facing the demon. Their noses were so close that they were almost touching. Crowley was making a very valiant effort to glare at him, but Aziraphale was plenty close enough to see the tell-tale crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, even in the darkness. 

Slowly, he leaned forward and brushed their noses together. “Well, whatever it is, thank you.”

He thought that it was the earnestness of his tone that finally got Crowley to blush and look away. “It’s only - ugh, Angel. All this emotion is hard,” he groused. “You’ve been taking care of me for bloody weeks.”

Aziraphale reached out, tracing a pattern on Crowley’s hip. “It’s not a quid-pro-quo arrangement, dear,” he said gently, but Crowley only huffed. 

“I know. Which is what makes it all the more… well, angelic. Quite rude of you, actually, showering me with your heavenly grace all the time. Maybe I wanted to tempt you a bit in return.” He shrugged, but Aziraphale could tell he was nervous in the way he fiddled with the edge of the angel’s pajama shirt. 

“I just. Hm,” he said, closing his yellow eyes. “I just want to be sure you know that - well. That you know I love you, too.”

The smile on Aziraphale’s face could have lit the heavens, and Crowley blushed like he’d been burned by it. “You do know that. Right, Angel?”

“Of course I do,” he replied happily. “The reminders are nice, though,” he tacked on quickly, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t say no to more of these sorts of things in the future.”

Crowley looked at him for a long moment, his pupils wide in the darkness of their little blanket cave. He bit his tongue like he always did when he was nervous, the edge of it sticking out just enough for him to taste the air. Then he leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale gently.

This was the first time since that night that they’d moved past platonic touches, and Aziraphale felt something in his stomach grow warm as Crowley and he breathed the same air. When the demon’s hands circled around him, he returned the favor, and when Crowley ran his long fingers through Aziraphale’s hair he couldn’t quite help the excited giggle that burst out of him. Rather than kill the mood, however, it just seemed to push Crowley to be a bit more assertive. 

After a few minutes, Crowley broke away, lips flushed. He patted the angel’s shoulder. “Up.”

The covers pooled off of them as they both sat up. Aziraphale turned his head to watch curiously as Crowly slid behind him, his long legs splaying out to either side of the angel and then scooting close enough to him to squeeze a bit. He poked the angel right where his wings would be, had they been corporeal. “Spread ‘em.”

And, oh. Did that stoke the idle warmth in his stomach into quite the blaze. He manifested his wings slowly, letting them flow through Crowley’s hands as they spread across the bed. He shivered with the sensation. He’d been grooming Crowley’s wings for weeks now, and though he’d imagined this moment quite a lot he’d not assumed that Crowley would be comfortable enough with his divinity to touch him like this. He’d worried that the sight of his wings would make Crowley upset - he knew how sensitive he was about his fall.

It seemed silly that he’d had doubts, in retrospect.

Crowley sighed behind him, simply burying his hands in the angel’s feathers for a long while, his breathing warm on Aziraphale’s neck. Then he moved his hands minutely. The angel leaned back into his touch quickly, doing a little shimmy in excitement, and Crowley barked out a laugh. He began to comb through the feathers in earnest, a touch more forcefully than Aziraphale did with his but nothing painful or uncomfortable, and Aziraphale sighed happily and hugged a pillow to his chest. 

“You enjoying this?” Crowley asked, and the angel could hear the smirk on his face. “Your feathers are in a right state, Angel. When’s the last time you had a go at it yourself?”

“It’s been quite a while. Never can seem to reach the bits I need to, so I’ve elected to ignore the lot of them more often than not.”

Crowley scratched gently under the feathers and his nails sent shivers down the angel’s spine. “Well, neither of us will have to do it ourselves from here on out, yeah?”

His voice had been cautiously hopeful, and Aziraphale leaned back until his head was touching Crowley’s chest. “My dear, I don’t think I could ever go back to how things used to be. Now that I’ve had this…”

“It’d be a bit of a cluster to return to keeping that bloody meter long no-man’s-land,” Crowley finished darkly. He hooked his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder, breathing softly in his ear. “Should’a done this sooner, angel.”

Aziraphale recognized an apology when he heard one, and he turned to kiss Crowley on the temple as his own admission of guilt. The demon grinned. Then the angel let out a very undignified squeak when the demon poked him in what the hellion knew was a ticklish area.

He was a demon, after all.