Work Text:
"It was an accident," Crowley says.
He is trying to explain to Aziraphale why they can't go to the cafe he likes so much, in between appointments at the Dowling household.
Aziraphale's eyes go wide. "You burned it down??"
"What? No!" Crowley scoffs. "I didn't-- I--" He puts his arm on the back of the park bench and leans in a little closer. "Look, I was talking to Patrick--"
"Who?" Aziraphale interjects.
Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him before continuing. "The waiter we always have. Anyway, I may have--" He glances around quickly. He does not want to say the words he is about to say, and so he says them very slowly. "I may have...in a moment of panic...implied...that we were...together." He wrinkles his nose and waits for the fallout of Aziraphale scolding him. It doesn't come.
"O-oh," Aziraphale stammers instead, then tilts his head to one side. "Well, I mean, that's not entirely wr--"
"I mean, together as in--" Crowley gesticulates impotently "--you know. Together."
"No, I know what you meant," Aziraphale retorts, sitting up very straight. "I'm sure it's not the first time a human has thought we were together. They do assign a certain set of expectations to their relationships, and we live in their world, after all."
Crowley glares over the top of his sunglasses. This is not going the way he had predicted.
"And I don't think their assessment is entirely wrong," Aziraphale says.
Crowley glares harder. He's had the same thought in his head for years, but this is the first time either of them has spoken it aloud.
"We spend a lot of time in each other's company," Aziraphale continues, counting off on his fingers. "And we have a long shared history."
"That's two," Crowley says weakly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Two things. Which are pretty much the same thing."
A third finger. "You also call me 'angel' all the time."
Crowley throws his arms in the air. "That's because that's what you are!"
"That's not what humans think," Aziraphale says, a little too cheerfully.
Crowley groans, tipping his head back. He's clearly lost this argument.
"Now look here, Crowley, if the humans who make the best croque monsieur in London think we're together, then that assumption is a price I am willing to pay." Aziraphale stands up and waits.
Crowley sighs. "Fine," he mumbles, standing up. He doesn't say it out loud, but they make very good coffee, too.
--
Patrick greets them at the front, because of course he's working today.
"How nice to see the two of you," he says as they sit at a table near the center of the small, humble dining room. "Anthony here tells me you were working when he came in last week."
Aziraphale smiles pleasantly. He'd been in his shop for the past 2 weeks until just this morning, so it's not exactly a lie when he says, "Oh yes, very important book business to do."
Crowley is doing everything in his power to not openly sneer.
Patrick takes their orders (or rather, correctly assumes their orders, since they always get the same things) and he's barely been gone for one minute before Aziraphale puts his hand, palm up, on the table, a little too close to Crowley.
Crowley, who is sitting back in his chair, arms folded, stares at it.
Aziraphale nods his head at it, expectantly.
"What?" Crowley says, not moving.
"Hold my hand," Aziraphale says under his breath.
They have never held hands before anywhere, but especially not in public. Crowley's heart lurches, threatening to jump out of his chest. He makes an annoyed face to cover it up. "No."
"If we're going to do this, we should do it properly."
Crowley wants to take his hand very badly, but he knows Aziraphale thinks this is a joke. A bit of fun to have at the expense of a few naïve humans.
"No," he says again.
"Hold. My. Hand."
"Sssstop it," Crowley hisses.
"Crowley." Aziraphale is practically reaching over and grabbing Crowley's hand himself.
Crowley stands up suddenly, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor drawing the attention of every other patron in the cafe.
Aziraphale looks surprised, but not scared. He draws back his hand.
"If we're going to 'do this properly'," he says, in a mocking voice, "then you should call me Anthony."
"Anthony," Aziraphale says, putting too much emphasis on each syllable. "Sit. Down."
Crowley leans over, bracing himself on the table with his hands. "You're embarrasssssing me," he says through gritted teeth.
Aziraphale's face has transitioned from surprised to confused. "Crowley," he says, softly.
Crowley wants to say a lot of things, but he's already making a scene, so he huffs and walks away.
Aziraphale calls after him, but he's already down the street, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead of him.
--
The drive back to his flat gives him time to think.
Crowley has been fond of Aziraphale from the Beginning. If he's being honest, it was hard not to be fond of an angel who bent the rules to a 90-degree angle. Over the millennia, he found himself liking, and then adoring, this ravenous, meticulous, frivolous, and frankly terrible angel. He liked him so much that he could feel it, physically, in his body. When he discovered a new meaning of the word crush around the turn of the 20th century, he understood it immediately to be the strange compressed feeling he had been carrying around since they met in the Garden.
Aziraphale also made him feel a way demons were most definitely not supposed to feel--he made him feel good. He discovered this when, shortly after the First Favor (a blessing Crowley performed early on during the Crusades), Aziraphale smiled at him as he entered the room--a wide, foolish grin that was immediately moderated into something more appropriate for an acquaintance, or a colleague--and he simultaneously felt warm all over and like his stomach had dropped to his knees. That, too, was when he knew that Aziraphale felt a similar way about him, because no one smiled like that if they didn't mean it.
And, well. Crowley can't pinpoint an exact moment when fondness crossed over into whatever they have now, but some time before baby Warlock came along, they fell into a rhythm, a sort of slow, patient dance. It's sitting on the same side of the table at fancy restaurants and saying a thousand unspoken things with a single glance. It's Crowley showing up at precisely the right moment, it's Aziraphale giving him undivided attention. Humans see these things--the casual lack of personal space, the easy laughter, the comfortable familiarity--and to them, it looks a lot like being together.
The assumptions of humans make it very easy for Crowley to daydream about them actually being together, something he's doing more and more these days. So when Patrick asked where "Ezra" was last week, he almost didn't notice that he replied, You know my angel, always working too hard, until he was offered a sandwich to go, "for your angel." He had wanted to melt into the floor, not out of embarrassment, but because he wished, with every fiber of his being, that it was true.
But he knows that Aziraphale, the awful angel that he is, still has loyalty to Heaven. As long as that is true, Aziraphale will always be the one to pump the proverbial brakes on their relationship--he won't even admit to friendship a lot of the time. It is endlessly frustrating to Crowley, but then Aziraphale will smile that stupid smile and give him those soft puppy eyes, and Crowley will think that endless frustration sounds a lot better than the alternative of letting go, of never speaking again.
Although, he is now reconsidering that. Aziraphale knows Crowley carries a torch for him--another expression that Crowley was grateful to discover, as it perfectly described the fire in his gut--and he thinks playing things up for a laugh is okay? Like all of the favors and glances and drinks and rescues and nice meals out and literal centuries spent longing were just preludes to a comedy routine? That's not harmless teasing, he thinks, that's almost intentionally cruel. Crowley's infatuated, but he's not a punching bag.
He arrives at his building before the next thought can enter his head, which is just as well. He's all in a tizzy, which is an expression that Aziraphale would definitely use. He decides almost immediately upon entering the flat that he's going to sleep this one off. He falls face-first into bed, snapping his fingers on the way down to change into his pajamas, and does not set an alarm.
--
About an hour into his nap of supposedly indeterminate length, the doorbell rings. He ignores it, groans, and rolls over.
It rings again, a little more urgently.
And then comes Aziraphale's voice, soft as anything. Crowley can still hear it, even through several walls and the thick haze of half-sleep. "It's me," it says.
Crowley jumps out of bed and bolts to the front door. He opens it, and finds Aziraphale, a sandwich-shaped bag in one hand and a paper cup with a lid in the other. "What," he says instead of hi.
"Oh," Aziraphale says, looking him up and down. Crowley suddenly realizes hasn't had time to miracle his hair or his pajamas, or to banish the pillow-lines from his face, so he looks a mess. "I'll come back later."
"What do you want?" Crowley says, leaning in the doorframe, blocking the entrance. He is still angry, but Aziraphale very rarely comes to his flat, so he knows he really made an effort.
"Oh," Aziraphale says again, and holds out the cup. "I brought your coffee!"
Crowley doesn't mean to snatch the cup, but he does, a little too forcefully. Aziraphale just keeps standing there. "And?"
"I wanted to apologize," Aziraphale says, looking at the floor, into the flat, down the hallway, at his own hands, practically everywhere but Crowley's face. "You were clearly uncomfortable and I should have--" he looks up at Crowley, finally "--I should have stopped. I'm sorry."
"Okay," Crowley says. He desperately wants this conversation to be over so he can start forgetting about it.
Aziraphale does not move.
"What else?" Crowley says. Does he not get the hint?, he thinks and then, immediately: No, of course he doesn't.
Aziraphale shifts his weight from one foot to the other, smiling anxiously. "Well, I was hoping that would've earned me an invitation inside."
Crowley sighs, annoyed. Bloody adorable angel, he should have left him out here forever. Now he just wants to go back to bed.
"It's not really a conversation I want to have within earshot of your neighbors," Aziraphale continues, glancing around a bit. And then his eyes go soft, and Crowley falters.
"Fine," Crowley says, stepping inside the flat and walking to the opposite side of the room.
Aziraphale follows him and shuts the door gently. He places the bag he's holding on the nearest raised surface, stands where he is, and clasps his hands behind him.
Crowley turns to face him, and takes a long sip of his coffee. It's still warm.
Aziraphale clears his throat. "Well, um. After you left, I had a nice conversation with Patrick. And he, um. Well, he knows that we're not together."
Crowley feels his whole body relax just a bit. He takes another sip of coffee.
"But he told me in no uncertain terms that he thought we should be. 'Put a ring on it' were his exact words, I think."
Crowley almost spits out his coffee all over the floor, but gulps loudly to avoid it, which is somehow worse.
"I told him that was out of the question, of course," Aziraphale continues, speaking very quickly, "because there is no way either of our sides would--" He takes a breath, putting a pin in that thought. "Anyway. He pointed out some other, um. Areas where we...meet or exceed expectations."
Crowley has stopped sipping his coffee and is now just staring.
Aziraphale moves his hands to his front and starts ticking off his fingers again. "We help each other. We care about each other. We apparently look at each other quite fondly. We even, um. Well, we're sort of raising a child together!" He smiles a bit at this.
While he appreciates the ridiculousness of that last one, Warlock is the furthest thing from Crowley's mind right now. He puts his coffee cup down. He has suddenly become very aware of his heart pounding in his ears.
"But most importantly," Aziraphale continues, "I-- well, I'm not quite sure when this happened but I, um. I can't imagine my existence without you."
Crowley's ribs feel constricted, and his stomach is on fire.
"And I am quite certain that you feel the same, so I was thinking that maybe we should put a--ah, obviously not a ring but. Put a label on it." He looks incredibly proud of himself.
Crowley is sure he could vaporize at any moment.
After a few seconds of no response, Aziraphale asks, "What do you think?"
It's then that Crowley looks--really looks--at him. He is leaned all the way forward onto the balls of his feet, his hands are clasped tightly, his eyebrows are approaching his hairline, his mouth is halfway open as if he is about to speak. This is not something he's seen often: Aziraphale is nervous. It's taken thousands of years--and apparently a single conversation with a waiter--but the bastard is finally ready to take a step forward.
And then, just like that, the tension in Crowley's body is gone. Aziraphale is still looking at him with breathless anticipation, and he feels good. He slowly smiles and picks up his coffee. "Yeah," he says as he starts walking back towards the door, "all right."
Aziraphale rocks back on his heels and relaxes. "Oh, splendid. I think the term that fits us best is 'partners.' It's fairly common, but still a bit ambiguous. Are we business partners? Dance partners? Who knows!" He shrugs dramatically, his eyes bright. There's the angel Crowley knows--the one who doesn't technically disobey, but certainly gets away with a lot. His angel.
"Partners in crime," Crowley adds when he reaches the other side of the room.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "I suppose."
Crowley snaps his fingers, and is now wearing his street clothes. "How do you feel about going to the park to eat your sandwich?" he asks, and offers his hand.
"Oh yes," Aziraphale says as he turns back from grabbing his sandwich. He stares at Crowley's outstretched hand. "I thought you didn't want to--"
He wiggles his fingers a little. "Before I change my mind, angel."
Aziraphale takes his hand, gently at first, then with a slight squeeze once he's certain Crowley is only teasing. "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
Crowley gives him a Meaningful Look and tells him to shush, except that it sounds a lot like, You'll be lucky if I ever let go.