Work Text:
They’re safe.
Weird thing, lack of safety, Aziraphale is thinking. One doesn’t actually realize how tortured one is until it’s over and done with, solved, and emotions come rushing out in behaviors that could be, in different circumstances, described as uncharacteristic. Aziraphale has been alive forever and he’s learned about excitement, adrenaline, exhaustion, attachment and many other inconveniences of the human soul that he found delightful at best and annoying at worst. But up until the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, he knew absolutely nothing about fear of losing others you cared about.
Well, he knows now.
Crowley’s flat has a balcony. The street underneath is mostly quiet, more pedestrians than cars making their way towards Covent Garden or the underground stations on Oxford Street. The mornings are colder now, the sun is a little paler and Aziraphale wastes one minor miracle after another to keep his cocoa warm for longer as he loses himself in people-watching.
He likes to think he had a hand in saving them. That woman almost losing her heel in the gap between the cobblestones can continue going to work every morning because the Apocalypse never happened. This weeks old baby being pushed towards the park in a pram by their father could have been born only because the world keeps on turning, even though it wasn’t supposed to anymore.
Maybe they’re living on borrowed time, but who’s even authorized to decide that anymore?
There’s a distinct feeling of a chin being rested on Aziraphale’s shoulder, long arms wrapping tightly from behind around his middle, the smell of Crowley’s hair overwhelming his senses.
“Morning,” Crowley whispers, voice still hoarse and low from sleep, his skin against Aziraphale’s skin still feeling electric.
“Morning, dear. Why are you up so early? It’s not even 7AM.”
“Well, I’m up because a certain angel left me alone in bed, as he continues to do every morning despite my insistent protests, and I’m cold,” Crowley finishes with a whine.
“Turn up the heating, then?” Aziraphale suggests, even though he’s well aware how this discussion ends.
“That doesn’t really work if the balcony door is open. As you must know.”
“Are you suggesting I come back to bed? Even though I already got out of it, and got dressed?”
“Yeah, that? Big mistake on your part. Huge,” Crowley says quietly, and then louder, “Please come back to bed.”
Aziraphale fights the urge to smirk. Crowley can’t see his face, but he can still most likely feel the twitch in the muscles. “Very well then. If there really is no other option,” Aziraphale sighs, twisting in Crowley’s embrace to face the sleepy demon, and lets himself be gently pulled inside by the hands.
*
“What happens now?” asked Aziraphale when the bus from Tadfield dropped them off by Crowley’s sleek, modern flat. The Apocalypse has been stopped and Aziraphale really wanted to celebrate their victory, but he was still terrified of retributions, still a little drunk from the bottle of wine they shared on the bench, still broken down about the bookshop going up in flames. Crowley’s Bentley has been magically restored, but Aziraphale wasn’t ready to check if the place he was so attached to shared the same fate. He wasn’t sure he could handle the heartbreak if it hadn’t.
Which was the exact reason he found himself on Crowley’s black leather couch, with another bottle of wine in his hands, the night having already turned into a bright, sunny day.
“What happens now is I need to find some clean clothes,” Crowley replied, “if you would excuse me for a moment.” He disappeared in one of the many sleek dark rooms and came back five minutes later, his face clean of the soot and ash, no sunglasses, wearing a new pair of tight jeans (or perhaps the exact same pair; there was no way in neither Hell nor Heaven Aziraphale could tell) and a loose black t-shirt that made him look…
God. Crowley always looked absolutely breathtaking, sinfully good, effortlessly charming and many other adjectives depending on how blasphemous Aziraphale was ready to be in his own head, but this particular outfit made him look… gentle. Vulnerable, almost. It made him look all those things Aziraphale knew he was, but could never see with his eyes.
That was when he realized. Losing the world meant losing Crowley, and that was a possibility Aziraphale could not entertain any longer without going absolutely out of his mind. That was when he realized the magnitude of fear that held him by the throat all this time, that still hasn’t fully let go because they weren’t quite out of the woods yet, and that will never fully be gone as long as Crowley was in his life.
And that was when the fear poured out of him.
He practically leaped off the couch, sweeping unsuspecting Crowley into a tight embrace. “I was so scared,” he whispered, not sure if the words were coming out in an organized fashion at all or just dropping out of his mouth like raindrops in a thunder. “I was so terrified of losing everything, of losing you, losing us, I can’t risk this anymore, I can’t, we need to do something, please tell me there is something to do, I am so, so tired-”
“I have - I have a plan, angel,” Crowley replied, his mouth warm somewhere around Aziraphale’s neck and he was holding on tightly, gripping onto Aziraphale’s clothes, trying to be steady but shaking a little. “We’re gonna be alright and neither Upstairs nor Downstairs will know any better.”
Crowley pulled back, but his hands stayed firmly planted on Aziraphale’s shoulders and he fixed the angel with a stare as intense as never before. Or maybe he’d always looked at Aziraphale like that, it was just Aziraphale who refused to see. Or maybe some fear was pouring out of him, too.
Aziraphale could see the fear in Crowley's naked, uncovered eyes. The fear was mixed with fiery determination as he leaned in and kissed Aziraphale, a short, timid thing at first as if to give him a warning, as if to let Aziraphale pull away if he wanted to.
Aziraphale didn’t.
It came as no surprise. Aziraphale has Known, he must have, even if he denied it and lied to himself for years and years on end, but it felt natural and easy to start kissing back, to fall into it, to let Crowley pull him in by the nape of his neck, to have Crowley wash over him like a tidal wave. It came as no surprise, but still, in his tattered emotional state, it made Aziraphale want to weep, fall to his knees, profess words of love he would never be able to take back.
Delicately, Aziraphale run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and then the side of his face. Crowley pulled back with a gentle whimper. “I’ve waited six thousand years for this, you know, right?”
Aziraphale wanted to save face, to say no, but he wasn’t going to lie. “I’m sorry,” he said instead, their foreheads lining up and pressing together, a stray tear running down his cheek, Crowley catching it with his thumb. “No more waiting. I promise.”
Crowley is going to need sheets that are less silky and less… black, Aziraphale was thinking later, the lights on Crowley’s bedroom ceiling like constellations he could easily reach, every dirty desire from every dirty corner of his mind coming to fruition in the form of Crowley, always him, never anybody else, a constant stream of no surprises.
“Do you think the Almighty will forgive me for how I’m about to sin?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care, and neither should you,” Crowley replied, pressing each word into Aziraphale’s skin like a kiss, deliberate and burning. “If the Almighty, or anyone for that matter, wants to pick a fight with you, they have to go through me first.”
**
Being together becomes like breathing.
It has always been like breathing, ever since Crowley first met Aziraphale, it’s just that Crowley used to be able to hold his breath for much longer. For centuries, sometimes. Now he can’t, doesn’t want to, doesn’t have to.
They spend long nights together, not sleeping, and there’s so many things Crowley wants to tell Aziraphale. He wants to say that making love to him is the closest to heavenly grace Crowley will ever be, even closer than when he was an angel himself. He wants to say that he can spend hours upon hours just looking at Aziraphale’s face, learning every square inch of it by heart, because he still wants to keep seeing it when he closes his eyes. He wants to talk about the warmth he feels each time he picks up an enthusiastic phone call from Aziraphale who discovered a new restaurant. He wants Aziraphale to know that even if the world around them changes, implodes, explodes, tries to end again, this won’t change, not unless somebody kidnaps Crowley in the middle of the night and drowns him in Holy Water.
Aziraphale tells him about love, in so many beautiful words, phrases, entire stories. Aziraphale holds him close through sleepless nights, his aura soothing Crowley’s senses, providing warmth better than sweaters and blankets.
Crowley can’t deal with affection spelled out so explicitly, in gorgeous ways he can’t possibly match, so he stays silent, looking Aziraphale deep in the eyes, sometimes through his eyes right into his soul, painted in delicate hues of white and pink and blue.
“If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal,” the angel declares, no Shakespearean dramatics, just words, seeping straight into Crowley’s bloodstream. Crowley’s head is resting on Aziraphale’s chest. His hair is being touched, gently like a whisper. “If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.”
“Saint Paul?” Crowley asks, even though he’s almost sure he’s correct, and holds onto his angel a little tighter. A kiss is dropped to his temple.
“Certainly, my love. And I agree with every word. I am made better and whole by the affection I feel for you. For the world too, of course, but especially for you. Every day and night with you is a blessing.”
Sometimes, when Crowley really doesn’t know what to say, and when he’s overwhelmed by the grandeur of the feelings his soul can fit, he just pins Aziraphale’s hands to the pillows and starts kissing him.
*
They go on long countryside drives, a little temptation or a blessing here and there. Second nature. Low profile. Sometimes they just drive for the sake of driving, enjoying the views, little adventures on the way and each other’s company. It’s winter now and some snow has fallen, Crowley having to miracle the Bentley’s tires so they’re not slippery.
Crowley doesn’t quite remember why, but they decide to drive to Bristol one day. The music he knows so well and the angel’s presence (well, especially the angel’s presence) lull him into a sense of security. Aziraphale is loudly marvelling at every plant or creature they pass by, pointing at things through the window, turning to Crowley with excitement in his eyes, everything so wonderful in its commonness.
Isn’t the weather beautiful? Crowley could say, or, alternatively, Driving’s going to be a bitch when we’re coming back and it’s dark. Maybe we could find a nice hotel when we get there?
Something else happens instead.
“If I were human, a frail and fragile mortal, only on this earth for eighty years or so, if lucky, and if I only were to know one love in my lifetime, I would choose yours,” Crowley says, knowing Aziraphale can hardly hear the words over Freddie Mercury’s real life or fantasy something or other. “I would choose you, always you, each and every time.”
His heart is pounding, breath catching in his throat in wait, seeking selfish validation or simple comfort of being loved back. He’s looking straight ahead at the road, frost making tree branches white, endless sea of snow sparkling in the sunlight. Crowley can’t do that too often; he can’t do confessions and beautiful words, can’t do it like Aziraphale does, with ease, without breaking a sweat. Crowley’s love language is all acts and gestures. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have all these words rattling somewhere in the back of his brain though, just waiting to be reached for and put together when the moment is right. Even if it hurts a little.
Aziraphale can hear him perfectly, even over the soaring electric guitars. He places his hand on Crowley’s on the gear stick, squeezing. Crowley raises both their hands to his lips to kiss Aziraphale’s knuckles. He chances a look at the angel, who’s smiling and blushing.
Demons don’t deserve to be loved like that. It should feel wrong, undeserved, incorrect. Instead, it just feels like a blessing. Like a prophecy coming true after six thousand years, bonding their immortal souls for better and for worse.
“I love you too, my dear, obviously. And I would choose you, too. I already did.”
Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and holds it against his own beating heart. “Say, we find a nice hotel when we get to Bristol? I don’t want you driving through the night with all this snow on the roads.”
Crowley's second nature is being a demon; causing minor disruptions, showing people inconvenient truths, letting them know how amazing it feels to sin.
His first nature, though, is loving Aziraphale.