Chapter Text
Although he wasn’t particularly vain, Aziraphale did consider himself to be rather intelligent, with a wide understanding of the world (indeed, one is bound to have a deep understanding of the world when one has lived in it for over 6000 years, but that is neither here nor there). One thing he truly does not understand, however, is the British weather. He has spent the majority of his 6000 years on earth in England, so has had plenty of time to get used to it, but still the weather confounds and perplexes him.
“Just last week I was sat here with a cup of cocoa, listening to the rain pour outside,” he whines says to his demonic companion, “and now, well, it’s rather too hot for cocoa, and customers keep coming into the store in the hopes that there is air-conditioning, putting their sweaty hands all over my books, and –” he trails off with a frustrated noise and takes a sip of his tea. Crowley rolls their eyes fondly, their glasses hidden somewhere amongst the piles and piles of books.
“If you had air-conditioning, then maybe their hands wouldn’t be as sweaty.” Crowley takes a long sip of their iced tea, the ice rattling obnoxiously. Aziraphale glares at them, which only makes the demon smirk, their forked tongue flicking out briefly between their teeth.
“If I had air-conditioning, then that would only encourage more customers to come in!”
“Isn’t that what most shop-owners would want, angel?”
Crowley knows full well that Aziraphale is not like “most shop-owners”.
Aziraphale sighs a long, drawn-out sigh. “My dear, after 6000 years, do you not think that I would perhaps be aware of when you are simply trying to get a rise out of me?”
Crowley smiles up at Aziraphale from where they’re sitting. Well, “sitting” is generous. “Sprawling” is perhaps more accurate – Crowley is sprawled across an armchair, their legs flung over one armrest, the hand holding the empty iced coffee cup resting gently on their chest, and their long hair cascading over the side of the other arm of the chair and reaching towards the ground.
“Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale huffs. “Of course you don’t, you wily thing.” Crowley’s smirk turns into a smile, their eyes wide and bright, and Aziraphale cannot help but smile back.
Crowley enters the bookshop in a swarm of floaty fabrics and theatricality. Summer is their season, their snake-y biology loving the warmth and humidity that is usually fairly hard to come by in Britain. Therefore, they’re finding it easy to embrace this heatwave with fervid enthusiasm by finally being able to bring outfits from their summer outfit inspo Pinterest board to life, in a flurry of black chiffon and lace and shapeless silhouettes.
“I’ve been thinking,” they declare, ignoring a startled customer and heading straight to where Aziraphale is sat pretending to read, but really keeping an eye on the customer that’s looking a bit too keenly at a copy of Madame Bovary.
Aziraphale looks away from the customer to look up at Crowley. “Well, that’s always dangerous,” he says, ignoring the demon’s offended stammering. “What have you been thinking?”
Crowley pulls their sunglasses off with a flourish. The usual pair, Aziraphale notes belatedly, have been replaced with some garish bright pink monstrosity, with heart shaped lenses.
“We should go on holiday!” Crowley declares with a grin, with a hint of nervousness hidden somewhere on their face that only Aziraphale can find.
“A holiday?” Aziraphale takes in Crowley’s nervous excitement, the way their yellow eyes seem to be dancing, the way that one of their bony, freckled hands has found its way to rest on top of one of his smaller, rounder ones. “I’m guessing you have a pitch, of sorts, prepared to give me?”
Crowley grins wider. “You know me so well,” they say, and with a click of their fingers with their free hand the customer suddenly finds himself with the overwhelming urge to leave, and the sign on the door flips from open to closed.
Aziraphale closes his book with a sigh and waves his hand in a get on with it! sort of gesture, but the fondness that emanates from him is clear and Crowley feels some of their anxiousness seep away.
“It’s ridiculously hot, angel, and I know it’s a sign that the planet is dying, but! We should make the most of it!” Crowley speaks with their hands when they speak and although Aziraphale finds it rather endearing, he mourns the loss of touch from where Crowley’s hand was originally resting on his. Crowley doesn’t seem to notice and continues on their tirade.
“Summer is wasted here in London – everybody is sweaty and gross and miserable, and I know you could do with a break from your dreaded customers, and, well, I think we could both use a break really, after, well, after everything…” They trail off, and Aziraphale decides its too much to bear so he bites the bullet and takes Crowley’s hands in his. Both of them know that everything refers to the ApocaNope, which they still haven’t gotten round to talking about properly, just like they haven’t talked about the little changes in their relationship since the body swap– a gentle touch of the hand here, a soft kiss to the cheek there, perhaps an embrace that lasts a little too long to be considered platonic… they were finally free to want and have one another, after millennia of longing (from both sides). It was all very new and exciting and terrifying, so they were taking things slow.
“I think,” Aziraphale begins slowly, “That a getaway sounds wonderful.” He cups Crowley’s face with one hand, tracing a thumb over their cheekbone when they lean into his touch. “I assume you have a place in mind?”
Crowley lets their eyes flutter closed for a moment, before opening them again and nodding.
“There’s this holiday cottage available to rent – in the South Downs, near the coast… I believe you would describe it as “quaint”.”
Aziraphale runs a gentle hand through Crowley’s hair and smiles.
“That sounds perfect, my dear one,” he says, and Crowley melts.
The picturesque South Downs cottage made Aziraphale say things like oh, Crowley, isn’t it delightful! and it’s just so enchanting!, which in turn made Crowley roll their eyes and pretend to gag, but Aziraphale saw the way their gaze lingered on the roses out front and the way they slowly ran their hands across the kitchen island.
There’s something that must be said about Crowley and Aziraphale – they may be two immortal beings, but overtime they have become overwhelmingly, well, human. They never planned on it, particularly, but they’ve both found that they rather enjoy the complex simplicities and simple complexities present in human life. So much so, that their own lives have been heavily influenced by the social norms that humans have. Being immortal beings, however, means that they live their otherwise mostly human lives on a much, much longer timescale than humans do.
For example, when you and I think of a “short seaside getaway”, we may think of a Bank Holiday weekend spent at the coast, or perhaps even spending a week there if the budget so allows. For two celestial beings such as Aziraphale and Crowley, beings that have all of eternity to relax (and, what’s more, they have no dreaded jobs to get back to once Monday comes, no responsibilities outside of themselves and each other), the idea that they hold of a “short seaside getaway” is just a tad longer than ours.
The owner of the cottage, Mr T Williams, was used to renting it out for usually a week at a time, occasionally two, rarely a month. When two strange men [1] contacted him about renting it for the rather vague foreseeable future, he was apprehensive. One teeny demonic miracle later, however, had him changing his tune in no time and he was more than happy to let them stay and move in on such short notice.
On the first day Aziraphale goes to begin unpacking, but Crowley drags him into the garden and down towards a track, hidden behind the green, green trees at the back of the lawn. Crowley drags Aziraphale down the pathway, laughing at the angel’s questions and taking his hand in theirs. Eventually they come to a stop, and Aziraphale’s mouth snaps shut when he sees where Crowley has led them.
Before them, the trail leads downwards in a beaten stone staircase. The bottom steps are concealed with golden sand. Sand that stretches towards the sea, which goes on and on and on and on.
Aziraphale breathes deeply, taking in the smell of chips and sun-cream, the taste of salt on his lips.
Aziraphale looks at Crowley – looks at their red hair blowing gently in the sea breeze, how the sun illuminates them in a way that makes them glow, at their stupid pink heart-shaped glasses concealing bright and hopeful eyes.
And it’s stupidly hot. And the beach is stupidly crowded. And it’s stupidly loud.
And Aziraphale doesn’t hear any of it, because Crowley is there, and alive, and beautiful, and safe. Crowley is there with perfectly messy hair and a smile on their face and their hand is in his.
I love you, he thinks. He thinks of saying it, letting those three words tumble from his lips, and hearing those words repeated, of what it would be like to kiss Crowley, properly. He squeezes Crowley’s hand. There are so many words he wishes to say to Crowley – he wants to say I need you, and I’m sorry and I’m glad you’re here, with me.
He wants to say I love you, and he has for a long time, but he was scared – not for himself, but for Crowley.
There’s nothing to fear now, though.
“What do you think?” Crowley says, gesturing towards the beach.
“I love you,” Aziraphale replies, and Crowley blinks, takes a step back. Aziraphale takes a step forward.
“I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale reiterates. He takes off Crowley’s sunglasses.
“I’d quite like to kiss you now,” he says, voice almost a whisper, “Is that alright with you, my dear?”
Crowley nods dumbly, and then Aziraphale is kissing them, and 6000 years’ worth of tension is lifted like a great weight from their body.
The two eventually pull apart, and Crowley finds their voice.
“I love you too, but you’ve known that for a while,” they stroke the ridge of Aziraphale’s nose, the curve of his brow, because they can. “It’s nice to finally say it in so many words though.” They bend down, letting their nose nudge Aziraphale’s.
“It’s nice to hear it. Although I must tell you, my darling,” Crowley resolutely does not blush at this, “All those times that you’ve said it before – at the church, with my coat, with Hamlet… and really, countless other times – I swear to you, I was listening. I heard you.”
Crowley clings onto Aziraphale like a lifeline.
“Come on, Angel,” they say, and if the words sound a little choked, then neither of them says anything. “Let’s go down to the beach.”