Chapter Text
When Aziraphale noticed it, he couldn’t stop himself from cocking his head and furrowing his brows.
He and Crowley had just finished lunch at a Japanese restaurant that Crowley had heard about on the telly and had implored Aziraphale to dine with him at. The food had been scrumptious, but their server kept insisting that they were a couple, to the point that it was uncomfortable. Aziraphale was still wondering what that was about as he walked up to the Bentley from behind, though his thoughts didn’t stop him from noticing the fairly large sticker slapped up on the bumper, glaringly shiny and looking like it was just bought from a hipster tourist trap.
It was a rather ugly thing, a black rectangular sticker with writing on it typed out in large, white, capitalized comic sans. Considering the fact that Aziraphale had the style and taste of a nineteenth-century librarian named Arlo, the hideous nature of the thing wasn’t what caught him off guard (Though, it probably should’ve been, because this was Crowley’s car, after all). It was what the comic sans was so hideously conveying that got him.
Written on the sticker were the words “Make love, not war”. Behind the M in ‘Make’ were a little pair of angel wings. On top of the R in ‘War’ were stubby, generic red demon horns. Aziraphale studied the sticker, wondering how Crowley would react when he found out that someone had put this completely out of place sticker on his beloved automobile.
“You like it?” came a voice from behind him, and then came Crowley, sauntering over with a smile pulling at his lips. Aziraphale turned around, hands clasped in front of him. He was confused.
“The car? Crowley, I’ve seen your car before.” The angel’s eyebrows were still knitted in confusion. Crowley scowled.
“Not the car, angel, the sticker. ‘S new.”
So the sticker was intentional. A conscious choice. Something that Crowley had done himself.
“Yes. Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, I, um. I don’t seem to remember you ever, uh. Ever modifying your car before.”
Crowley outstretched his arms in a grand gesture. “It’s been 70 years, angel. Things have gotta change every once in a while, yeah? Might as well start with a sticker.” He walked past the angel and patted the sticker on his way to the driver’s side. It had the same connotation as patting someone’s bottom as you walked by. “You coming?”
Aziraphale straightened and hurried over to the passenger. “Yes, of course.”
Crowley snorted.
___
Aziraphale was thinking.
Well, Aziraphale was almost always thinking, usually about food, or his Heavenly duties, or ducks, or occasionally (but not really occasionally and actually very often) Crowley. This time was one of those occasional (but not really occasional) times.
He was thinking about the sticker.
Crowley was, to a point, a creature of habit. Maybe not as much as Aziraphale himself was, but he stuck to a strict regimen with certain things. His car was one of those things. In nearly 80 years, Crowley hadn’t done a single thing to the machine. Any dent, scratch, or chip in the metal was miracled away to look exactly like it had before the damage. Crowley hadn’t done so much as hang a pair of fuzzy dice around the rearview mirror (Maybe because he, frankly, wasn’t that type of guy, but Aziraphale liked them and summed it up to Crowley’s love and pride in his car).
To see this decal slapped onto the back of the prized vehicle was a bit jarring at the very least. Especially considering the sticker’s message.
“Make love, not war”.
What was that even supposed to mean? Really, since when had Crowley become the John Lennon type, minus the sexism? Spreading peace and love, like it was natural for him? It shouldn’t have been natural for him. That wasn’t in his wiring. He was a demon.
But Aziraphale wasn’t sure. This was Crowley he was thinking about, after all. And Crowley was no cookie-cutter demon. He broke the mold in every way.
Maybe it made sense that Crowley would go about spreading a message that was so… not Hell-approved. He did almost give his life to stop Armageddon and prevent what would’ve been the War To End All Wars. And, well, Aziraphale was pretty sure that Crowley was capable of love. He was still figuring that one out. The demon was hard to read most of the time.
On the other hand, it would make sense if Crowley had slapped the sticker onto his car just for the fun of it. To piss off his head office, to amuse himself, to throw Aziraphale into the depths of his own mind and contemplate the demon’s entire moral compass. If the goal was the latter, then he’d succeeded. Whatever the reason was, it was throwing Aziraphale for a loop.
“You’re thinking very loudly, angel,” Crowley professed, filling the silence.
“What? No! No, I’m not! You can’t hear me think… Can you?”
“The answer to that question is still no.” Crowley shook his head disappointedly. “It’s a turn of phrase. What’s happening in there?” He removed one of his hands from the steering wheel and poked at Aziraphale’s head with a finger that gave the appearance of being pointed even with a short nail. The angel batted his hand away.
“Nothing. Not a single thing. It’s empty ‘in there’,” Aziraphale defended flusteredly. Clearly a lie, but Crowley didn’t seem to want to push it. The angel was grateful.
“Nothing new there,” Crowley still teased. Aziraphale turned to him with his arms crossed.
“Mean!” he reprimanded, but there was no bite to it. Crowley smiled.
“Shut up, angel.”
They sat in silence for the next few minutes, each watching the streets of the city pass by. Aziraphale recognized the direction they were heading - the roads that Crowley was speeding past would eventually lead back to his flat. For some reason, Aziraphale didn’t have it in him to protest. A movie or a nice book in a quiet flat didn’t sound all that bad at that moment.
In the relative silence, Freddie Mercury’s voice quietly sang from the radio.
“Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely,
I will pay the bill, you taste the wine.
Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely,
Just take me back to yours that will be fine.
Ooh, love,
Ooh, loverboy,
What’re you doing tonight, hey boy”.
Aziraphale couldn’t help but listen to the song, a curious eyebrow once again creeping towards his hairline. The story being told by the singer sounded vaguely familiar. He looked over to Crowley with a raised eyebrow. Crowley looked at Aziraphale sheepishly and shrugged.
“I don’t control it. It does what it wants. Not my doing.”
For about two minutes, Aziraphale believed Crowley. Chalked it up to coincidence. The Ritz wasn’t exactly a little secret of theirs. Plenty of people dined exquisitely and then went for a drive. There was nothing deliberate about it whatsoever. Clearly not. Anyways, it was true that Crowley had no control over what Brian May’s weeping guitar was going to be waxing poetic to the interior of the Bentley that day.
Well, most of the time.
Those two minutes of believing slowly expired when Aziraphale took a look down at the floor of the Bentley. There was a collection of CDs lying there, most of them titles that Aziraphale didn’t recognize. ‘Talking Heads’, ‘Sex Pistols’, ‘Ramones’ - Aziraphale was practically reading another language. But there was one album on top that the angel recognized. An assortment of animals in the middle of a black background; it was a Queen album. A Day At The Races, to be exact.
Considering the fact that Aziraphale had been inadvertently listening to Queen every time he was in the Bentley with Crowley (which was rather often), he’d decided to do a little bit of research. He’d listened to some songs, looked into a few albums. He’d familiarized himself with the group.
The song that had caught Aziraphale’s attention had come from the album that was now staring a hole into Aziraphale from where it was lying on the floor.
Maybe the lyrics weren’t so coincidental after all. Aziraphale didn’t have much time to think about it, because Crowley had stopped the car. They were outside his flat. Aziraphale cleared his throat.
“Crowley, dear boy, do you mind explaining why we’ve arrived at your home?” Aziraphale asked politely, though he was smirking just the slightest.
Crowley grasped for words. “Camaraderie. A movie. Possibly more wine. Whatever we feel like. Does there have to be an explanation?” The demon punctuated his question by shutting the Bentley’s engine off and scrambling out of the car.
Aziraphale shook his head. “I guess not,” he muttered to himself before climbing out.
___
Somehow, they’d stumbled upon a horror movie. When Crowley had come up with the idea of Netflix and other streaming services (and most Internet browsers and telecommunications companies), this definitely hadn’t been what he’d pictured for its execution.
After clambering into the flat, the two beings had set off to their usual spots of existing when they arrived at Crowley’s - Aziraphale plopped down onto his spot on the couch and Crowley raided his kitchen for a bottle of wine that would suit their moods at that moment (which was any kind of wine, actually. He was proud of the fact that he’d even gotten Aziraphale to fall for the different-tasting-wines thing).
The television in front of Aziraphale had looked so tempting that he couldn’t help himself to grabbing the remote and looking into different movies and programs. Crowley, who came in minutes after holding two glasses and a bottle of 2003 Chateau d’Idunno Aboutwine, was impressed that the angel knew how to turn the damn thing on. He set down the glassware and sat next to Aziraphale, tucking socked feet up and under himself. He watched in awe as the clicker went from film to film, accompanied by Aziraphale’s hums of curiosity, approval, or disgust.
Eventually, they settled on a horror movie.
“Oh, that? You wouldn’t like it. Much more my side than yours, that’s for sure.”
Aziraphale frowned. “My side has very little to do with filmography in general. We’re watching it.” And that was that. Crowley had simply hummed in approval and settled deeper into the plush sofa.
About twenty minutes in, Crowley’s usual position of lazy slouching was disrupted in favor of sitting on the edge of the couch, wide eyes staring at the screen. Every five minutes or so, he was jumping up a bit, little noises that sounded vaguely like the hissing of a snake tearing themselves from his throat. If you asked him, he would chalk it up to back pain or the emotional perils of being a demon (though he didn’t ever get back pain and he quite liked his job, actually) coming back to him at random times throughout the film. In actuality, Crowley was scared. A bit terrified, really.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, had sunk so deep into the couch that it was practically hugging him. He was watching the television with about a quarter of his mind’s capability and using the rest to think. Again. He was acutely aware of Crowley’s presence beside him, occasionally jumping up in fear like a scared dog in a thunderstorm. It was probably more entertaining than the movie if the angel was being honest. Mindlessly watching Crowley eventually pulled Aziraphale back into his thoughts and it seemed that, inside of his skull, there was a gaudy, black, plastic-y sticker stuck on the front of his brain.
What in God’s name was that sticker? Really, what was the purpose of a hideous thing like that? Especially on Crowley’s precious car, of all things. Why had he bought it, why did he put it on the vehicle, why had he mentioned it to Aziraphale?
Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask one of these many questions. “Crowley, dear-”
Before he could continue, there was suddenly a pressure on his knee, firmly squeezing the flesh. It took a few moments for his brain to go from “This is an okay feeling” to “This is odd” and when it finally did, he looked over and realized that the grip on his knee was Crowley’s. The demon in question was staring at the screen like there was a tether attached to his eyes, back straight, jaw slightly agape. Aziraphale stared for a few moments, tracing the line that was Crowley’s torso, before he tore his eyes away and looked to the screen. The picture showed a half naked woman with a grueling monster slowly hanging over her. Eerie string music played in the background to enhance the suspenseful atmosphere.
Aziraphale smiled.
Crowley swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did so. Aziraphale’s eyes tracked the movement.
In an effort to placate the tension that was running through the demon next to him, Aziraphale gently placed his hand on top of Crowley’s, gentling his expression. Immediately, Crowley whipped his head to the side to look at the angel.
“What?” he asked, but it came out more like ‘Wot’ as he attempted to fix his startled expression. Aziraphale chuckled.
“Getting a bit into the picture, are we?” he cracked. Crowley shook himself out of his fear-wait-no-scratch-that-actually-back-pain induced trance.
“It… ‘S a good film,” he muttered.
“I’m sure the Academy took great consideration in nominating it for no awards.”
“You have no right to criticize my taste, angel.” Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s… gripping, all right? Let me be.”
Aziraphale beamed. “Whatever you say, Crowley.” They were quiet for a moment. The movie played in the background. The woman in the film let out a blood-curdling scream.
Aziraphale’s hand was still on top of Crowley’s.
After a few moments, they were both acutely aware of this fact.
Without saying a word, Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, swallowing. They locked eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale worried that Crowley was going to move his hand as he felt movement from the demon. But then, Crowley turned his hand over. He flexed his fingers. They locked hands. Aziraphale’s eyes widened.
Okay. This was happening. This was a thing that they were doing now. Okay. Fine. Absolutely dandy. Tickety-boo.
Or not. Absolutely not. What the fu-
“Do you want to stay over tonight?” Crowley’s tone was soft. It was the same tone he’d used when he’d first asked Aziraphale about the sticker. It was also the same tone he’d used when telling the angel to shut up in the Bentley.
Something clicked in Aziraphale’s mind. Oh.
Oh.
The angel might have been a bit of an airhead at times, but he wasn’t a bloody idiot.
“I… I don’t know. I have to keep up appearances at the shop…” Aziraphale pursed his lips, contemplating. “Bugger it. Sure.”
Crowley’s grin was wide, toothy, and charming as all hell. As it should’ve been. “Perfect.”
___
Both of them slept that night. Again, they didn’t really have to, but it was pleasant and, considering the circumstances, they felt compelled to.
They both woke up in Crowley’s bed, wrapped up in each other and expensive silk sheets. Crowley was laying against Aziraphale’s bare chest, looking smaller than ever in his vulnerable sleeping state.
Somehow, sunshine filtered through Crowley’s sun-blocking curtains and landed on them, basking them in warmth. Aziraphale felt like he was glowing. Maybe he was. It wouldn’t be particularly strange for either of them. He was the first to wake and took pleasure in watching the other sleep. Crowley was really only peaceful in slumber. The usual lines of judgement were washed from his face, his lips in a straight line instead of a scowl. His vessel looked younger. Aziraphale found it befitting.
“You can stop staring, angel,” Crowley grumbled, pulling Aziraphale from his own thoughts. The peaceful expression was wiped from his face in favor of something that was possibly better - a bright, smug smile. It was a smile brighter than anything a demon should’ve been capable of.
“Sorry,” Aziraphale said softly. He rubbed a hand in between Crowley’s shoulder blades, where his wings would be situated.
Silence. Crowley pushed himself firmly against Aziraphale, then made a noise that sounded like a cat who’d finally found a warm bed and a bowl of milk. Aziraphale found it charming.
“Six thousand years…” came Crowley’s voice, muffled against Aziraphale’s chest.
“What was that, dear?”
Crowley propped himself up on his elbow so that he could look into Aziraphale’s face. “We really waited six thousand years for this. We might actually be God’s stupidest creations.”
“Well, you might be.”
Crowley scowled, affronted. “Shut it, angel.” He moved, throwing his body atop Aziraphale’s in a half-hearted pounce. Then they were kissing, and it felt right in a way that nothing had ever felt in either of their millennia on earth.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale started once they’d separated. “Why the hell did you buy that sticker?”
Crowley smirked. “Because I knew it’d bother you.”
The angel sighed. “Typical.” And then they were kissing again, and everything, according to the Ineffable Plan, was exactly as it was supposed to be.