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Chapter Text

Egypt, 45 BCE

The noontime sun beat down on the desert, the heat heavy enough to have an almost physical presence.  Crawley reveled in it, sprawled out and soaking in the warmth, his snakelike eyes mostly closed. 

Beside him, in the shade of a small palm tree, the Principality Aziraphale was settled eating his lunch.  He opened his eyes just slightly as Aziraphale said, “So, are you in Egypt for long?”

“Nah,” Crawley sighed. He shifted slightly, getting comfortable, and his foot brushed against Aziraphale’s leg for just a moment before he pulled it away.  It had been difficult enough, over the centuries, to convince the angel to keep meeting him— he didn’t want to scare Aziraphale away by getting too touchy.  By being too much. 

“Where to next, then?” Aziraphale asked, popping a small hunk of bread into his mouth. 

Crawley raised an eyebrow.  “Trying to figure out where you need to go to thwart my wiles?” he asked without any real malice. 

Aziraphale frowned slightly.  “Oh,” he said.  “I was just trying to make casual conversation.  I hadn’t thought of that.” 

Crawley resisted a lazy smile.  “Well, I‘ve got work in Rome later this year.  Big plans for next March.  Couldn’t possibly tell you about it, though.  You?” 

“I’m heading over to China soon,” Aziraphale replied thoughtfully.  He smiled slightly.  “I hear they do delightful things with pheasant.”  Crawley chuckled. 

Aziraphale picked through his lunch, and then offered Crawley a piece of fruit.  “Would you like a bite?” he asked. 

Crawley waved him off.  “Nah, I’m fine.”  

Aziraphale shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  I was happy to share.”  The angel seemed so put out that Crawley gave in and stole a small bit of cheese from his basket of food, popping it in his mouth before leaning back again and closing his eyes, drinking in the warmth of the afternoon. 

In truth, he wasn’t nearly as interested in eating as Aziraphale was.  But, over the decades, he had found that he had the most success inviting his Heavenly counterpart out if there was food involved.  To be fair, in the dozens (perhaps even hundreds) of times their paths had crossed since Eden, there had been far less discorporating than either of their head offices would probably like. 

They had spent enough time together for Crawley to develop an irritating, pesky, bothersome affection (one might even, if they were discerning, call it a crush) for Aziraphale, fussy and petty and Good as he was.  That affection made him want to be around Aziraphale more, and if it took inviting him out for food?  Well.  It had worked, that was the point.  When Crawley had approached with a nice basket of food on his arm and an offer to lunch by the Nile, Aziraphale had agreed with a lovely smile and absolutely no smiting. 

“Crawley,” Aziraphale said suddenly. 

Crawley wrinkled his nose.  He had been thinking of changing his name, lately— he wasn’t the biggest fan of its squirmy connotations.  But there was no use in telling Aziraphale about that until he managed to settle on something different, something that fit him better.  “Hm?” he said quietly, drifting a little in the hot sun. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything else for a long moment, and Crawley peeked at him from under his eyelashes.  The angel was staring intently down at a fruit in his hand, a small frown on his lips.  Crawley closed his eyes and studied the bright insides of his eyelids. 

“Crawley,” Aziraphale said again, and this time his voice was softer.  “Is this a date?” 

Crawley’s heart lurched painfully in his chest, and he choked a little bit on his own spit, sitting up abruptly.  Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice his distress, and for just a moment Crawley foolishly let himself hope— hope that an angel could like him, could one day love him, might feel affectionate about him in the same way— but no, Aziraphale was still studying the fruit in his fingers with a furrowed brow and obviously, obviously that was what he was talking about. 

Crawley bit back a scowl.  He wasn’t familiar enough with Egypt’s agriculture to know for sure, but answered anyway, “I guess so?”  He shrugged, irritated that he had gotten ahead of himself.  Gone too fast.  Let his hopes fly high.  He huffed out a small sigh.  The point was moot, anyway, if Aziraphale wanted dates he could just miracle himself some dates.  “It could be if you wanted it to,” he pointed out. 

Aziraphale looked up at him for the first time, and absolutely beamed.  “Oh, I’m glad!” he exclaimed.  “I had wondered— well, hoped, I suppose, and I did ever so want— that is, I do want—”  He cut himself off and popped the fruit into his mouth with a pleased little hum. 

No celestial energy itched at Crawley’s skin, so it seemed his guess at the identity of the fruit had been correct.  It was a bit strange for the angel to be so excited about it, but Crawley just marked that down as one of Aziraphale’s quirks. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said earnestly, reaching out and brushing the back of Crawley’s hand with his fingertips, for just a moment.  “This was an absolutely wonderful lunch, I do so appreciate it.” 

Crawley grunted, glancing up at the sky and hoping that Aziraphale would interpret the blush in his cheeks as sunburn.  It just wasn’t fair— “Don’t mention it,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale smiled slightly.  “Of course.”  

Rome, 41 CE

Crowley sat at a low, rough wooden table at the back of Petronius’s restaurant in Rome, picking at his oysters.  Across from him, Aziraphale slurped another oyster from its shell with a sound that should have been indecent, and only wasn’t because Crowley was trying very, very hard not to think that way. 

“Are you going to finish yours, Craw- Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, correcting himself quickly. 

Crowley shook his head slightly and pushed his plate halfway across the table.  The oysters, he suspected, would be far more appealing to him in snake form rather than his human corporation.  This was the first time Aziraphale had ever asked him out to lunch, though, so there was no way Crowley would have refused.  It was a bit embarrassing for everyone involved, how taken he was with the angel. 

Aziraphale smiled, picking up one of his oysters.  “Thank you, my dear,” he said happily. 

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his tinted glasses.  Had he… had he heard that correctly?  Had Aziraphale honestly just called him… just called him… dear?  Crowley blinked hard several times, his mouth dry. 

Aziraphale, curse him, seemed to notice, and frowned slightly.  “Crowley, are you alright?” 

Crowley exhaled slowly, clenching one fist on his knee.  “Ngk.  Yeah.  Of course.” 

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow, an expression he had absolutely picked up from Crowley.  “You look a bit red,” he replied. 

Crowley huffed.  “Don’t.” 

Aziraphale shrugged, ate his last oyster.  “Alright.”  He raised a hand, hailing the bartender, and called out, “My dear girl, could we have another pitcher of beer, if you please?”

Crowley’s stomach sank, and then he violently forced it to unsink.  Of course, right.  Aziraphale calling him by any sort of endearment didn’t mean a thing, he did it to everyone, that was just how he was.  It meant nothing.  Aziraphale meant nothing by it. 

Crowley repeated that a few more times to himself to make sure it stuck, and then said a little gruffly, “I need to get going, actually.” 

Aziraphale looked surprisingly disappointed.  “Of course, I understand,” he said. 

Crowley still felt the need to make up an explanation.  “Temptations, you know, gotta fill my quota this month, lots of sin to spread—” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale interrupted, and he was smiling again, a little knowingly. 

Crowley’s face heated embarrassingly, and he quickly ducked his head before Aziraphale could notice.  “Right,” he mumbled, getting up and inadvertently banging his knee on the underside of the table.  “Thanks for the oysters, I guess.” 

“Best of luck with your temptations,” Aziraphale said a bit absently, and then made a face, wrinkling his nose.  “Or, worst of luck, I suppose.” 

“Hm,” Crowley muttered, already turning. 

“Until next time, my dear,” Aziraphale added quietly. 

That was too much.  Crowley fled. 

And, even though they crossed paths again, Aziraphale didn’t call him ‘dear’ for another five hundred years.

Wessex, 537 CE

“Don’t understand what you’re playing at,” the dread Black Knight muttered into his beer, already most of the way to sloshed.  He made a face and raised the pitch of his voice, imitating. “’No, Crowley, I don’ wanna have an Arrangement, I jus’ wanna keep doing my bleeding job an’ we’ll both get nowhere.  But ssssure, let’s get drinkssss after we fight, sounds tickety-boo!’” 

Across from him, Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table sighed quietly.  “My dea— my— Crowley,” he said.  He hadn’t been drinking quite as heavily, and was more tipsy than plastered.  Crowley glared sullenly at him, but the effect was ruined a bit by the fact that his eyelids were drooping sleepily. 

Aziraphale sighed again, and this time he sounded a tad frustrated.  “I think it’s best not to mix work with any, er… personal arrangements,” he said.  “That’s all.”  He tilted his head to one side, shrugged slightly.  “My side sent a memo last year about a work-life balance seminar I was meant to attend, so really, I’m just doing what they want.” 

Crowley snorted, took another long swig of his drink.  “Heaven’s work-life balance is to not have a life,” he grumbled. 

Aziraphale smiled, positively angelic.  “Well, I wouldn’t know, I had to miss the seminar,” he said innocently.  “Much too busy thwarting the wiles of the great tempter.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but preen a little at that, but his bitterness was not in any way assuaged.  “Don’ understand why you won’t work with me,” he said a bit petulantly.  Suddenly a little sleepy, he rested his arm on the table and his chin on his arm.  “No one caressss wha’ we do, anyhow.  ‘d be easier.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips.  “Perhaps I’ll think it over,” he said softly, and maybe it was just Crowley’s alcohol-soaked brain, but he seemed a little wistful as he added, “It would be nice to see more of you.” 

Crowley made a sound halfway between choking and scoffing.  Aziraphale gave him what might have been a disapproving look, but the world was just a bit too blurry to be able to tell for sure.  “Crowley, you’re very drunk,” was all he said.  “Maybe you ought to sober up.” 

Crowley considered that for a moment, and then closed his eyes.  “Don’ wanna,” he mumbled.  The alcohol had warmed his chest and softened the razor-sharp edges of his mind, and he wasn’t quite ready to be sober and face how embarrassing he was probably being. 

Something that might have been fingers brushed tenderly over his hair.  “Where are you staying?” Aziraphale asked.  “I’ll help you home, at least.” 

Crowley arranged his words into an order that probably made sense, and slurred out the address. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale said.  His chair scraped against the floor and then there was a gentle hand on Crowley’s arm, pulling him upright.  Crowley opened his eyes, blinking slowly, and then leaned heavily against Aziraphale as the angel helped him out of the bar. They had both abandoned their suits of armor before going out, and Crowley could feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s body through the thin linen of their shirts. 

Aziraphale grunted a little and readjusted his arm around Crowley’s waist.  Crowley let his head loll against Aziraphale’s shoulder as they staggered slowly down the street, his nose pressed against the angel’s neck. 

“You could at least help me a little, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, his breath a little heavier, but he sounded more amused than anything. 

“Ssssnakes don’ have legs,” Crowley pointed out. 

Aziraphale genuinely chuckled at that.  “I suppose that’s true,” he replied. 

They stopped, and when Crowley opened his eyes he could vaguely see the ratty inn he had been renting a room at.  “Here we are,” Aziraphale said, helping him in and up the stairs, snapping his fingers to miracle open the door of Crowley’s room. 

Crowley closed his eyes again soon as Aziraphale helped him into bed.  He was still awake, mostly, to hear Aziraphale puttering around, gently pulling off his shoes and pulling a blanket over his body. 

“You’re going to have a dreadful hangover if you don’t sober up,” Aziraphale murmured.  Crowley cracked his eyes open, the world spinning, and then Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed.  “I… I could, I suppose…” he said to himself. 

“Hm?” Crowley hummed.  Aziraphale sighed, long and slow.  In the dim light of Crowley’s rented room, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair a little ruffled, he looked so soft.  Crowley was overwhelmed with the urge to gather him up, hold him close, lack of any Arrangement be blessed.  “Angel,” he mumbled, too drunk to fit his tongue around Aziraphale’s name.  He reached out and weakly grasped at the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt.  “Ssstay?” 

When Aziraphale smiled, there was a touch of sadness to it.  “I can’t, Crowley,” he said quietly.  “You know I can’t.  But…”  He pressed his lips together.  “I’ll make sure you don’t wake up with a hangover, at least.” 

Then he leaned over, brushed Crowley’s hair off his forehead so tenderly that it made Crowley’s heart feel like cracking, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.  He got up, the bed creaking slightly.  “Sleep well, my dear,” he whispered. “I hope our paths will cross again soon.”  Crowley’s eyes slipped closed as Aziraphale left, and he slipped into a restless sleep. 

When Crowley regained consciousness three days later, he woke with no headache, no nausea, no dry mouth, and only very blurry memories of drinking too much and chewing Aziraphale out for not wanting to agree to the Arrangement. 

He also woke up alone.

The Globe Theatre, 1601 CE

“Tails, I’m afraid,” Crowley said with a falsely regretful smile, gazing down at the coin on the back of his hand.  “You’re going to Scotland.” 

Aziraphale pouted, and gave Crowley what probably approximated a pleading look.  Crowley just spread his hands in a helpless, what do you expect me to do? gesture.  Aziraphale huffed.  “Fine,” he murmured. 

A bit of a ways away from them, William Shakespeare was complaining in a low voice to the woman selling oranges.  “It’s been like this every performance, Juliet,” he said, looking very tired.  “A complete dud.  It would take a miracle to get anyone to come and see Hamlet.”  He pointed irately at the stage, where Burbage was still posturing his way through his soliloquy. 

Crowley’s eyes unintentionally followed the gesture, and then he glanced over at Aziraphale.  That was absolutely the kind of do-good thing the angel would love, making a play for the gentry a hit. 

To his surprise, however, Aziraphale turned to look at him.  He raised his eyebrows just slightly, cautious hope in his expression.  Crowley frowned for a split second, and then he got what Aziraphale was trying to ask— for whatever reason he was unwilling to make Shakespeare’s play popular on his own, and worse, he wanted Crowley to do it.  As if Crowley was some kind of miracle-dispensing vending machine! 

But there was something, something in the fragile question in his eyes, the way he leaned ever-so-slightly towards Crowley… Crowley huffed, averted his eyes, scoffed.  “Yes, alright,” he said, shaking his head in the best imitation of exasperation he could get.  “I’ll do that one, my treat.” 

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said breathlessly, as though he hadn’t wordlessly entreated Crowley to do exactly that with his worst puppy eyes.  But he was smiling, the most unabashedly happy Crowley had seen him in a long time, and Crowley’s heart skipped a beat a little.  That smile was directed at him. 

Before he could do something embarrassing like blush or swoon, Crowley started to turn away.  “I still prefer the funny ones,” he said over his shoulder, to remind Aziraphale before he started getting any Ideas about what Crowley was willing to do for him.  But, as he strolled away, intentionally scuffing his shoes on the ground, he could sense the angelic joy practically radiating out of Aziraphale’s every pore. 

As soon as he was outside the Globe, Crowley caught the shoulder of a passerby.  “You should go in, see a play,” he hissed temptingly.  “Hear Hamlet’s one of Shakespeare’s best, something in it for everyone to enjoy.  Go on, tell all your friends.” 

The human nodded thoughtfully and hurried away.  Crowley did this a few more times, until he had directed a couple of people into the theatre with his miracles and more humans were flooding in, following the crowd.  If his suggestions worked, if his miracles stuck, Hamlet would be one of Shakespeare’s most popular plays by the end of the day. 

Crowley took the long way back to his flat, wandering through the streets of London as he considered how he was going to justify his miracle to Hell.  Probably wouldn’t be too difficult, in hindsight— Hamlet was all about murder and betrayal and such, seemed right up Beelzebub’s alley.  There would be no need to mention Aziraphale, or his god-blessed cute face, to anyone. 

When Crowley got back to his flat there was already a letter waiting for him just inside the door, envelope tacky with celestial energy when he picked it up.  Crowley’s lips twisted slightly into a reluctant smile, and he slid one finger under the envelope’s flap to open it before teasing the letter out.  Sure enough, Aziraphale had sent him a kind of… commendation. 

My dear C,

Thank you ever so much, the second half of Hamlet had such a lovely audience! Perhaps when I get back from Edinburgh, we could go see another play together.  One of the funny ones? 

Yours, A  

Crowley’s breath caught, and he brushed his fingers over the signature, the address.  He knew, of course, he knew that that was just how people wrote letter.  But it was almost nice to think…

Crowley memorized the letter and then let it burn between his fingers— it was dangerous to keep that kind of communication around.  But as he wandered into his barren kitchen in search of a stiff drink, the words echoed nicely around his head. 

My dear C… Yours, A.  Yours.  

Crowley stopped dead, clapped a hand over his mouth.  He wasn’t just lusting, or crushing, or fondly affectionate anymore.  It was far worse than that.  He was smitten. 

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered, and tried to pretend like he wasn’t grinning.  “Bless everything.”

Soho, 1800 CE

Crowley picked up his flowers and his chocolates from where he had tucked them away with a quick miracle into the ether of the universe, and then strolled into Aziraphale’s shop.  “Oi, angel, you still here?” he called cheerfully, taking off his hat and tossing it at the hatrack by the door. 

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, and he still sounded a little anxious even as he bustled out to meet Crowley in the entrance.  “Gabriel and Sandalphon just left, they might still be back—” 

Crowley smirked.  “Nah, don’t think so,” he said. 

Aziraphale gave him a slightly suspicious look.  “You wouldn’t have anything to do with them changing their minds, would you?” he said slowly.  “Crowley, what did you do?” 

Crowley sidled past Aziraphale into the shop, looking around at the mostly empty shelves.  “Nothing much,” he said casually, running the fingertips of one hand along Aziraphale’s desk.  “May have given Gabriel the impression that you’re the only one who can thwart my wiles.” 

The paper wrapped around the flowers he had brought crinkled slightly when Crowley set them down.  He carefully placed the chocolates next to them, and said without turning, “Got you these.  Opening gift, and all.”  He cleared his throat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.  Crowley heard the floor creak as he approached, and felt a gentle hand on his upper arm.  “Thank you,” Aziraphale said, so quietly it was almost inaudible, his breath warm against Crowley’s ear.  Crowley whirled around, startled and flustered, and Aziraphale was so close that his lips brushed against Crowley’s cheek in an accidental kiss—

Crowley jumped back with a cut-off yelp, and Aziraphale went red.  “Oh, oh,” he said, fluttering.  “My dear, I’m sorry.” 

Very grateful for his glasses to hide his eyes, Crowley turned his back to he could gather himself.  “’Sss’alright,” he mumbled. 

He heard Aziraphale make a small humming noise, and then heard the crinkling of paper.  “Oh, my dear, these are lovely,” Aziraphale said quietly, and when Crowley turned back the angel was smiling down at the roses he had brought.  “I’ll find a vase for them in just a moment.”  He turned his attention to the chocolates, deftly opening the package and exclaiming in delight at what he saw.  “My favorites, you remembered!” he said happily, picking one up and nibbling at it. 

Crowley dared to inch a little closer, once he was sure he had his emotions under control.  “Thought you’d mentioned it once,” he mumbled. 

Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley’s heart literally skipped a beat, stuttering in his chest.  “Thank you ever so much,” Aziraphale said earnestly. 

Crowley felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him.  He was struck, suddenly, horribly, amazingly, with the knowledge of how much he was willing to do for Aziraphale.  How much he was willing to risk, how much he was willing to give up, just to make the angel smile like that. 

“Sssure,” Crowley managed to whisper, having a minor crisis. 

Aziraphale reached out and squeezed his shoulder.  “I have some wine in the back room, would you like a glass?” he offered.  “To celebrate, of course.” 

Crowley just managed to nod, frozen in place.  He watched as Aziraphale hurried away, and found himself sighing wistfully at the sound of cheerfully humming and light footsteps. 

Satan, was he in deep.  Crowley sighed, steadied his nerves, and followed Aziraphale deeper into the shop.

St. James’s Park, 1862 CE

Crowley lingered by the pond in St. James’s Park, both hands tightly clutching at his walking stick as he stared blankly down into the water.  It only took a small demonic miracle to keep the mortals’ eyes and mind off him, and soon enough a familiar figure casually approached him, off-white top hat jammed on his head.  Crowley forced himself not to acknowledge Aziraphale with more than a small nod as the angel took up position beside him, taking off his hat before throwing some breadcrumbs in the general direction of the pond’s ducks. 

“Look,” Crowley started in a low voice, still refusing to look at Aziraphale.  It was still a little hard, after realizing how much he loved Aziraphale, to be around him without giving anything away.  Crowley had made it one of his most important missions.  “I’ve been thinking, what if it all goes wrong?” 

Aziraphale flung more bread from his hat, hummed almost inaudibly.  “Well, that’s the risk, isn’t it?” he murmured.  “Of everything we do?” 

“We have a lot in common, you and me,” Crowley said, trying to angle towards his point. 

Aziraphale frowned slightly.  “I suppose.  I don’t know.”  He sighed.  “You’re Fallen, after all.”  

Crowley’s heart panged at that, at the reminder that, right, he was a demon.  And Aziraphale was an angel.  There could never be anything between them but cautious friendship, and even that was an enormous risk.  He exhaled a little shakily, and tried to push the hurt deep down within himself. 

“I didn’t really Fall,” Crowley found himself mumbling, the words bitter on his lips.  “Just… sauntered vaguely downwards.” 

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow slightly, as though he didn’t buy the excuse. 

“I need a favor,” Crowley said quickly, before Aziraphale could jam more metaphorical word-knives between his metaphorical ribs. 

“But we already have the Arrangement, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly, his fingernails scraping audibly against the fabric of his hat as he scrabbled for the last few breadcrumbs. 

Crowley pressed his lips together, sobered by the reminder to stay professional.  Right.  Right.  “This is something else,” he said firmly.  “For if it all goes pear-shaped.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aziraphale’s expression grow momentarily dreamy.  “I like pears,” the angel sighed. 

“If it all goes wrong,” Crowley snapped, losing what little patience he had come into their meeting with.  He took just a moment to settle, focus.  Convincing Aziraphale to help him was going to be hard enough, and it would be even harder if he drove the angel away by being to snappish, irritable.  Demonic. 

“I want insurance,” he said levelly, distantly.  His voice didn’t sound completely like his own.  “I wrote it down.  Walls have ears.  Trees have ears.  Ducks have ears.”  He handed Aziraphale the paper, aware on some level that he was babbling nervously.  “Do they?  Must do, so they can hear other ducks.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley dared look over at his friend.  Aziraphale was staring down at the scrap of paper in his hands, shaking just slightly.  “My dear,” Aziraphale said, and he sounded genuinely upset.  “This is out of the question.” 

“Why not?” Crowley blurted before he could stop himself.  He couldn’t bear to look at Aziraphale, couldn’t bear to see the way the angel’s mouth was open slightly in horror, his eyes surprised and already… filling with tears? 

“It would destroy you!” Aziraphale hissed.  “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” 

Crowley’s stomach clenched.  “Not what I want it for,” he snarled when Aziraphale tried to hand him the paper back.  Really, really?  Aziraphale thought, of all things—

“I’m not an idiot Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice cracking a little on Crowley’s name.  “I cannot get this for you.  No.”  He scowled, a very un-angelic expression.  “Do you know what kind of trouble we’d be in if we got caught… fraternizing?” 

That, Aziraphale’s words, his tone, made Crowley’s stomach churn.  “Fraternizing?” he repeated, his teeth clenched.  As if.  If only. 

Aziraphale looked frustrated, as though Crowley was missing the point.  “Whatever you wish to call it,” he said dismissively.  “I do not think there’s any point in discussing this further.” 

“I have plenty of other people to fraternize with, angel,” Crowley snapped, his mind still snagged on that one word.  It sounded so cold, so clinical and positively bureaucratic.  Was that really how Aziraphale thought of all their time together over the millennia?  Mere fraternization?  Not even friendship? 

Hurt flashed across Aziraphale’s face, mixed with surprise.  “What?” he said. 

Crowley’s lip curled and he struck out, to protect his own bruised ego.  “I don’t need you,” he sneered. 

The hurt on Aziraphale’s face shifted into anger.  “The feeling is mutual,” he said, drawing himself up.  “Obviously.”  He tossed Crowley’s request into the pond and then stomped away, shoulders hunched. 

Crowley swallowed hard.  “Obviously,” he imitated mockingly, to fight back the sick regret and acidic self-hatred in the pit of his stomach. 

Crowley clenched his fingers around his walking stick so hard it cracked under his palm.  Already, pathetic creature that he was, he wanted to chase after Aziraphale.  Beg for forgiveness, make everything OK again. 

He wanted to scream at the sky, watch the entire park burn down.  He settled for setting his request for holy water on fire where it floated.

Soho, 1967 CE

Crowley gazed down at the small tartan thermos in his hands, painted pink and red by the neon signs lining Soho’s streets.  Beside him, Aziraphale fidgeted, as though anxious to get going. 

“After everything you said,” Crowley whispered, something almost like hope welling in his chest.  He looked up at Aziraphale, who was staring fixedly out the front windshield.  “Should I say thank you?” he asked, remembering a prison cell in Paris, fraternizing echoing faintly in his memory. 

“Better not,” Aziraphale replied primly. 

Crowley looked down again, heard the holy water slosh around just slightly.  He was overwhelmed, his insides mixed up and his thoughts three steps behind.  “Can I drop you anywhere?” he offered, half hoping Aziraphale would invite him back to the bookshop for a nightcap, or out for a very late dinner. 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale answered quickly, and something in Crowley cracked.  He knew he had messed up, one hundred and five years ago, and he knew that saving a pile of books from a bomb wouldn’t be enough to make up for it.  But he had thought— had hoped—

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale added, frowning slightly.  “Perhaps sometime soon we can get dinner.  Have a picnic.” 

Crowley swallowed, blinked hard behind his dark glasses.  That was a peace offering if he had ever seen one.  It was just like Aziraphale, really, to reach out with food.  Crowley threw caution to the wind.  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said a tad desperately. 

Aziraphale gave him a small, oddly fixed smile.  His fingers brushed absently over the Bentley’s speedometer.  “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he said softly, and then he was gone. 

Crowley stared after the angel until he disappeared into the crowds of Soho, and then jerked his gaze back to the thermos.  “What the fuck,” he whispered, “Is that supposed to mean?” 

Crowley made quick work of getting home to his flat without narrowly missing more than a dozen pedestrians, and took the steps two at a time with Aziraphale’s thermos held tightly in both hands.  Once he was upstairs in his office, Crowley carefully set the thermos down before collapsing into his throne and letting out a strangled yell. 

“I go too fast for him?” he said out loud, taking off his sunglasses and throwing them at the desk.  “What the bloody Heaven does that mean?”  He lolled his head back, staring up at the ceiling.  “Too fast?” he repeated in a whisper.  “If I go any slower, I’ll be going fucking backwards.”  He bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut. 

That wasn’t fair, though, was it?  It wasn’t fair of him to expect anything from Aziraphale.  Not friendship, not companionship, and certainly not love.  It was downright cruel, actually, to expect an angel to love something like him. 

Crowley was a demon, Fallen from Grace, cast out.  It was in his job description, hardwired into his dark wings and reptilian eyes, to be unloveable.  To be unworthy of love.  And it was even crueler, he thought, for a demon to dare fall in love with an angel.

So why did Crowley feel like his heart was cracking in two, his ribs splintering and his blood freezing?  Why did it hurt so, hurt nearly as much as his Fall? 

He should have accepted by now, accepted that Aziraphale didn’t love him. 

Wouldn’t love him. 

Couldn’t love him, not if he hoped to keep Heaven’s favor. 

Crowley choked on what he convinced himself wasn’t a sob and catapulted himself to his feet, stalking into his plant room.  He only had a few houseplants, so far, but he had plans to cultivate a veritable Eden in his flat. 

Crowley grabbed one of his plants, a small one with light blue flowers.  Flowers nearly the color of Aziraphale’s eyes.  Which was why he had bought the plant in the first place. 

Frustration, rage, hatred welling up, Crowley flung the plant at the ground.  He stared at the spilled potting soil, the broken terra cotta pot.  When he stumbled backwards, the heel of his shoe crushed one of the flowers. 

Crowley leaned against the wall and then slowly sunk to the floor.  “God,” he whispered, the blasphemy all but burning his lips.  “God, if I hadn’t—“  He cut himself off, clutched at his hair and pulled his knees up to his chest.  “Fuck,” he whispered, and that four letter word didn’t feel much better on his tongue. 

And if Crowley cried that night, muffling pitiful, pathetic, ridiculous tears into the velvet of his shirt, it was no one’s business but his own.

Tadfield, 2019 CE

The bus back to London pulled up to the bench where Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting side by side.  Aziraphale stumbled a little tipsily to his feet, and then the wine bottle he was holding half refilled itself. 

Aziraphale offered Crowley a hand.  “Ready, my dear?” he said with a small, tired smile. 

Crowley hesitated just a moment and then accepted the hand, grunting as he stood.  To his shock, Aziraphale gave his fingers a small squeeze before letting go of his hand as they got on the bus.  They sat down next to each other again just as the bus pulled away. 

“That was quite something,” Aziraphale breathed, absently fiddling with the wine bottle, and Crowley let out a broken laugh. 

“That’s the understatement of the century, angel,” he said, slumping in his seat.  His adrenaline was running out, and his exhaustion was catching up to him.  Stopping time was no small feat, not to mention preserving his Bentley for so long. 

“It’s alright if you want to close your eyes and rest, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, patting his knee.  “I’ll wake you when we get back to London.” 

Crowley hummed and closed his eyes most of the way, resting his head against the window.  He could practically hear Aziraphale hesitating, and then the angel reached over and carefully took his sunglasses just as they were about to slip off his nose.  “I’ll hold these for you,” Aziraphale murmured. 

Crowley’s heart panged, a familiar longing settling into his bones.  He was used to it by now, the pining, the pain.  Decades had dulled its sharp edges into something he could swallow down without making his throat bleed.  “Thankssss, angel,” Crowley mumbled, his head bumping slightly against the cold window. 

“Of course, dearest,” Aziraphale all but whispered.  For the barest moment, he rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, and then turned away again and faced the front of the bus, fidgeting in his seat. 

Crowley closed his eyes again and sighed silently.  Perhaps it was pathetic, perhaps it was sad for a demon to feel so… but Crowley was willing and happy to take what Aziraphale was willing to give.  Even if it was friendship, after living in a world without Aziraphale for a few short hours…

Crowley was ecstatic and grateful to have anything he could get.

The Ritz, 2019 CE

“To the world.”  Aziraphale returned Crowley’s toast with the most affectionate of voices, his smile wide and unguarded. 

Crowley’s heart leapt to his throat, and for just a moment he forgot how to breathe.  They clinked glasses and then Crowley took a large gulp of champagne to distract himself from the fact that Aziraphale was practically glowing with happiness. 

Even after centuries, he made Crowley short of breath and fluttery, like a blessed smitten teenager.  It should have been infuriating.  It should have been even more infuriating that it wasn’t. 

Their dinner arrived shortly after, an entree for Aziraphale and soup for Crowley, and they dug in.  Crowley tried earnestly to listen to what Aziraphale was talking about, he really did.  But he was more focused on the low buzz of anxiety in the back of his brain, the anxious churning in his stomach. 

The apocalypse had put everything into perspective now that he had had a moment to think, was the thing— Crowley had known, for just a little while, what a world without Aziraphale was like.  He knew, now, that he would never be able to live in that kind of world.  And if he told Aziraphale how he felt, told him the words that had been on the tip of his tongue for hours, days, months, decades, centuries… that might be a world he would have to live in again. 

Crowley jiggled his leg anxiously and picked at his soup, pushing the carrots around in the broth. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley looked up abruptly, suddenly struck.  “Huh?” 

Aziraphale was studying him, and then slowly, telegraphing his movement as though he was afraid Crowley was going to flinch, he reached out and placed his hand over Crowley’s lying on the table.  Crowley valiantly managed not to flinch. 

“You look a bit distracted,” Aziraphale said.  “Is everything alright?” 

Crowley’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed hard around his useless tongue.  “Ngk.  Yes?” 

Aziraphale’s pale eyes were calm, unfazed, and Crowley felt like they could see right through him.  “Is this alright?” Aziraphale said, and then gently turned Crowley’s hand over before lacing their fingers together, squeezing just slightly. 

Crowley short circuited, his heart thumping in his ears, his face flushed.  “Yh… sss,” he managed to wheeze. 

Aziraphale gave him a smile so bright it would have outshone Alpha Centauri.  “Lovely,” he said, and then went back to eating his dinner. 

Their fingers remained laced together, their palms pressed against one another.  Crowley stared down at their hands, his soup completely forgotten.  Crowley’s fingers were longer than Aziraphale’s, whose were also a bit pudgier, and his skin was incredibly soft where it brushed against Crowley’s calluses.  Aziraphale’s pinky ring sparkled cheerfully against the white tablecloth, and Crowley let himself imagine, for just a moment, what a ring would look like on Aziraphale’s ring finger. 

As if noticing his attention, Aziraphale squeezed his fingers.  Crowley exhaled slowly, and then dared to squeeze Aziraphale’s fingers back.  Aziraphale smiled fondly. 

They held hands for the rest of dinner, and through Aziraphale’s dessert, only letting go when it was time to leave.  Crowley magically banished the sweat that had collected on the palms of his nervous hands, and then fidgeted while Aziraphale miracled enough money to pay their bill. 

As they left the restaurant, Aziraphale asked with a fond, slightly nervous smile, “Would you like to come back to the bookshop for a drink?  I haven’t gotten the chance to see if Adam restored my wine cellar.” 

Crowley smiled just a little shakily back.  “Sounds fine.” 

“Wonderful.” 

They got into the Bentley and Crowley turned the music’s volume down low, so Freddie Mercury didn’t drown out Aziraphale when he said, “That was a lovely dinner, don’t you think?” 

“Hm,” Crowley agreed, pulling out of his spot without looking behind him. 

Aziraphale fiddled with his bowtie, an action Crowley just noticed out of the corner of his eye.  “You know,” he said with a kind of affected nonchalance, “Now that Heaven and Hell are off our backs… we could do that more.  If you liked?  Just go out, for going out’s sake.  No pretenses.” 

Crowley gripped the steering wheel hard and tried very much not to show how much that idea terrified him.  His relationship with Aziraphale was built on a foundation of pretenses, supported by a veritable scaffolding of excuses and justifications.  To think that they might slough that away, to think that without the excuse of the Arrangement, Armageddon, that Aziraphale might still want to be around him… 

Crowley realized that he had been quiet for far too long, and managed to mumble something to the effect of, “Nice to go out walking and not have to look over our shoulders.” 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said, sounding pleased, and relieved.  There was a strange, almost conspiratorial, note to his voice, when he added, “Perhaps.  Even.  Do more.  If you liked.” 

Crowley’s attention snapped to him at that, and Aziraphale squawked.  “Eyes on the road, my darling!” he exclaimed, slapping at Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley swerved around a pedestrian, his thoughts going a thousand kilometers an hour.  What was Aziraphale saying, what did he mean?  Because if he was saying what Crowley thought he was saying… if he was trying to say that he was finally ready to go a bit faster, that he might in some small measure return Crowley’s affections… if it meant that some of Crowley’s lewdest daydreams might truly come to pass, debauched activities like kissing and holding hands and cuddling… He was half surprised he didn’t discorporate on the spot. 

They got back to Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop in one piece, no thanks to Crowley’s driving, and once they were inside Aziraphale set about cataloguing his alcohol. 

Crowley took that time to collapse on the couch in the back room, pulling his sunglasses off and rubbing at his eyes.  He tried to calm down his racing, useless heart, and think rationally.  Because rationally, rationally,  Aziraphale was an angel.  There was no way he could, should, love a demon. 

In the six millennia Crowley had known him, there had been little indication that Aziraphale felt anything but platonic affection for him.  And yet they had abandoned Heaven and Hell for each other (and the world), they had held hands at dinner, Aziraphale had hinted that he might want their relationship to go faster, he had called Crowley darling. 

Aziraphale picked that moment to bustle back in with two glasses and a bottle of wine, smiling softly.  “Here you are, my love,” he said sweetly, handing Crowley one glass and keeping the other for himself, setting down the bottle on a table. 

Crowley crashed, and he rebooted himself as the angel sat down on the couch beside him instead of in his customary chair across the room, their thighs pressed together.  Crowley stared at the wine in his glass, and then chugged it all in one go.  Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly and muttered something about him not properly appreciating the vintage, but Crowley was already turning to look at him, their knees knocking together. 

“Angel,” he said breathlessly, and took his glasses completely off so Aziraphale could see his eyes. 

Aziraphale took a coy sip of wine.  “Yes, dear?” 

“Nuh, no, you, you, you called me your love,” Crowley said accusingly, his heart hammering in his chest.  If it didn’t stop acting up, he was going to have to shut it off.  Same to his blasted circulatory system, he could already feel his cheeks flushing. 

Aziraphale bit his lip, his eyebrows coming together slightly.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I can hold off, if you like?  I thought, well…” He shrugged.  “We don’t have to be as careful anymore.  But I understand if you’d rather still take things slow—“ 

“Angel!” Crowley all but shouted.  He clapped a hand over his mouth, squeezed his eyes shut, counted to six.  Six again.  Once more.  When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was studying him carefully, his wine glass cupped in both hands. 

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, and then took the plunge.  He miracled his wine glass across the room, along with Aziraphale’s, and then gently took the angel’s hands.  Aziraphale let him, looking perplexed. 

Crowley exhaled slowly.  “Aziraphale,” he said, his voice hoarse.  “I… I need to tell you.  And I understand if you don’t feel the same, if you can’t, or won’t, or just don’t want to, trust me I completely understand, and I’ll respect you, but I need you to know, can’t just keep sssswallowing it down, and I—“ 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice gentle.  “It’s alright, we’re alright.” 

“Angel, I love you,” Crowley blurted, and fixed his eyes on Aziraphale’s bowtie, unable to look him in the eye.  “I’ve been in love with you for, for, I don’t know, centuries?  And I understand if you don’t, but I, I need you to know.  That I love you.  Romantically,” he tacked onto the end, as clarification, to make sure there was no way his confession could be misconstrued. 

He closed his eyes, the silence of the bookshop pressing in on his ears.  This felt, he was sure, worse than Falling. 

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched under Crowley’s, and for a moment he was sure the angel was going to pull away, show him the door with distant platitudes of I’m sorry, my dear, I can’t feel the same, best if we take some time apart—

But then Aziraphale was lifting his hand, bringing Crowley’s fingers to his lips.  “Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, and Crowley opened his eyes just a crack in time to see Aziraphale kiss his fingers.  “I know.  I love you too,” Aziraphale said with an adoring smile.  “Of course I do, my darling.” 

Crowley’s brain snagged on one part of that sentence, and it wasn’t the part it probably should have.  “You know?” he repeated dumbly, and then mentally kicked himself.  Of course, of course.  Angels could sense love.  Aziraphale had probably been picking up the tsunamis of love and devotion cascading off Crowley for decades.  And he thought he had hidden it so well—

“Of course,” Aziraphale said with a happy, if bemused, smile.  “We’ve been dating for two thousand years.  Oh, dearest, I’m so glad to finally say the words to you, though.  I’ve known for so long, I just didn’t want to push you too fast—"  

Too stunned to appreciate the irony of that, Crowley pulled his hands away, his eyes going wide.  “Two thousand years?” he rasped.  “Us, dating?” 

Aziraphale frowned, bemusement slipping towards concern.  “Yes?” he said slowly.  “Since, oh, around 45 BCE, wasn’t it?  You asked me out in Egypt?” 

Crowley cast his mind back, remembering, and oh— With this added context, so many of their hundreds of encounters made more sense.  Something seemed to click into place in Crowley’s chest, like the last piece of a puzzle neatly completing the entire picture, and oh, yes, they had been dating, hadn’t they? 

Across from him, though, Aziraphale was growing more distressed.  “Oh, dear,” the angel fretted, one well-manicured hand coming up to cover his mouth.  “Oh, it seems I’ve had a dreadful misunderstanding.  Crowley please forgive me— you must think me awful—“ 

“Angel, angel, no,” Crowley said, snapping back to the present and reaching out again.  Aziraphale let him take his hands, their fingers laced neatly together again. 

“We haven’t been dating, have we?” Aziraphale said miserably.  “I’ve been the worst fool.” 

“No,” Crowley said honestly.  “I think we have.  I was just the one too dense to realize it.” 

Aziraphale looked at him from under his eyelashes, his lips pursed.  “We’re both just a bit stupid, aren’t we?” 

Crowley laughed what sounded a little bit like a sob, and nodded.  “I think so.” 

Aziraphale’s thumb brushed over the back of Crowley’s hand, and he tried not to let that overwhelm him.  “Well, are we dating now?” Aziraphale asked, and there was just a touch of humor to his voice.  “I suppose we ought to be clear, make sure we’re on the same page.” 

“For somebody’s sake, please,” Crowley said desperately, and Aziraphale laughed. 

They both shuffled on the couch, getting closer, until Crowley ended up curled into Aziraphale’s side.  Aziraphale sighed happily, stroking Crowley’s hair.  “I’m ever so fond of you, dearest,” he said quietly, and leaned down to plant a kiss on Crowley’s forehead. 

“Ngk,” Crowley choked, and cuddled closer to Aziraphale in response.  “Love you too,” he mumbled into the velvet of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

Aziraphale brushed a gentle hand over his shoulder before resting it comfortably on his back, holding him close.  “You know,” Aziraphale said conversationally, and when Crowley looked up he saw that the angel’s eyes were glinting mischievously.  “Oftentimes, people who are in love with each other kiss.  Would you like to try that later tonight?” 

Flustered, and also utterly unwilling to be out-wiled, Crowley sat up and planted a quick kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. 

Aziraphale gasped in surprise, and then smiled against him before kissing him back.  When they parted Crowley was certain he was bright red, and Aziraphale wasn’t much better.  “Wonderful,” the angel breathed, his fingers tangled in Crowley’s short hair.  “Let’s try that one again.” 

Crowley squeaked, and then leaned in to kiss him again.  Now that they were on the same page, actually, really, dating, this free affection was going to take some adjusting of his habits. 

But, Crowley decided as they gently kissed once more, it really was the best thing in the entire world to have to get used to.

Chapter Text

Egypt, 45 BCE

Aziraphale was gazing over the Nile River and contemplating lunch when a familiar throat cleared behind him and then a familiar voice said, “Well, if it isn’t the angel Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale turned on his heel, already smiling.  “Crawley!” 

The demon was lounging against a palm tree behind him, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his red hair long and slightly tangled by the breeze coming off the river.  “It’s been a while,” Crawley drawled, one eyebrow going up.  “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered a little in his chest as he stepped forward.  “I didn’t know you were in the area!  Oh, Crawley, it’s lovely to see you again—” 

“Hm,” Crawley murmured.  There was a little flicker of demonic energy about him, and then he held up a basket with one hand.  “Fancy lunch?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly, and he was sure he was blushing.  Was Crawley really—?  “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” he said. 

“Here’s probably a nice place,” Crawley said, sauntering over to Aziraphale and sitting down, crossing his legs.  After a moment Aziraphale sat down next to him, taking the basket that Crawley offered.  Of course, it was full of some of Aziraphale’s favorite foods when he was in Egypt. 

“Oh, Crawley, thank you,” Aziraphale said, his traitorous heart swelling with fondness.  “This is so nice.” 

Crawley made a grumbling noise under his breath and stretched his legs out, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sun.  Aziraphale swallowed hard, his eyes following the long lines of Crawley’s neck, and then he distracted himself with the picnic lunch.  “Simply scrummy,” he murmured, picking out a grape and popping it into his mouth with a pleased smile.  As expected, the food tasted slightly of miracle, but Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to mind as he normally did.  After all, Crawley had manifested this especially for him, a meal of all of Aziraphale’s favorite things, after specifically seeking him out—

Aziraphale paused, and glanced sideways at Crawley.  The demon was more sprawled out than he had been a moment before, his eyes still closed as he enjoyed the sun.  His eyes were mostly closed, only a little of slitted gold visible under his eyelids.  He looked beautiful, his red hair framing a face that looked open and happy for the first time in what seemed like ages, his hands resting easily on his chest as he sunned himself. 

Aziraphale felt himself flush again, and his stomach flipped nervously.  “So,” he said a little breathlessly, and tried not to show how struck he was by Crawley. “Are you in Egypt long?” 

Crawley slowly blinked his eyes open.  “Nah,” he said lazily.  He moved his position a little, his shift drooping to expose a glimpse of his collarbone, and his foot nudged Aziraphale’s leg flirtatiously. 

Aziraphale stifled a gasp and said a little unsteadily, “Where to next, then?”  He took another bite of his lunch so he couldn’t say anything else, couldn’t make a fool of himself by making such banal conversation with this beautiful creature. 

Crawley raised an elegant eyebrow, the beginnings of a smile curling at his lips.  “Trying to figure out where you need to go to thwart my wiles?” he teased. 

“Oh, I was just trying to make conversation,” Aziraphale said, flustered.  He felt bad, bringing work into things when they had been having such a nice moment together, without thoughts of their supposed opposition.  And he definitely didn’t want Crawley to get the impression that Aziraphale only wanted to see him for work… Even though that was probably less than Heaven expected of him. 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Aziraphale added in a small voice, wilting a little.  He had been having such a nice time, and he had gone and ruined it for himself!  Now he was going to be worrying about Heaven, instead of enjoying his date with— Wait. 

Crawley’s smile grew slyly, and he said, “Well, I‘ve got work in Rome later this year.  Big plans for next March.  Couldn’t possibly tell you about it, though.”  He winked, and Aziraphale hadn’t ever considered himself one for swooning, but—

“You?” Crawley asked curiously. 

“I’m heading over to China soon,” Aziraphale replied absently.  “I hear they do delightful things with pheasant.” 

Crawley laughed, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but give a pleased little smile.  His mood more or less restored, and his worries pushed firmly to the back of his mind for later, he offered Crawley some of his lunch. “Would you like a bite?” he asked. 

Crawley waved a dismissive hand, the rings on his hand gleaming in the sun.  “Nah, I’m fine.” 

“Suit yourself,” Aziraphale said with a shrug.  “I was happy to share.”  And he was.  Increasingly over the centuries, he had found himself more and more willing to share everything with Crawley.  Even the things he really shouldn’t. 

Crawley studied him for a moment and then reached over, stealing a bite of food and grinning before he ate it. 

Aziraphale blindly picked another piece of fruit and with great concentration did not watch the way Crawley swallowed, more snakelike than human.  My, wasn’t the desert hot?  He fanned himself, and then stared down at the fruit in his hand without seeing it.  “Crawley,” he blurted before he had properly decided to, and then winced.

Crawley made a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, his head tilting a little. 

Aziraphale exhaled slowly, and tried not to let his hands shake.  “Crawley,” he said again, the familiar name sweet on his tongue.  He gathered his courage and then asked, “Is this a date?” 

Crawley made a strangled noise, like he was choking on his tongue, and Aziraphale cut him a quick glance before looking away again, hot and embarrassed.  It was clear from Crawley’s gobsmacked expression that he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to figure out his objective.  Maybe he hadn’t even expected Aziraphale to return his feelings, and oh, what kind of angel was Aziraphale if he made the beings around him feel like they might be unloveable? 

“I guess so,” Crawley said a little irritably.  He was probably annoyed that he had been seen through so quickly.  But his shallow annoyance was more than worth the confirmation, finally, that they felt the same way!  Aziraphale tried not to let his overwhelming joy leak out too obviously, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely succeeded.  He felt like he was glowing. 

“It could be if you wanted it to,” Crawley added, sounding a little uncertain. 

Aziraphale looked up at him quickly, more than ready to reassure him.  “Oh, I’m so glad!” he exclaimed happily, his fingers closing around the fruit in his hand.  “I had wondered… well, hoped, I suppose, and I did ever so want— that is, I do want—” Aziraphale cut himself off before he could finish that sentence.  Before he could admit how much he wanted to be with Crawley, keep him close, love him dearly.  There was no need to go too fast, after all.  They had centuries together stretching out before them, now that they were finally on the same page. 

To do something other than smile like a ridiculous fool, he popped the fruit he had been holding into his mouth, its juice as sweet as the affection overflowing in his chest.  “Thank you,” Aziraphale breathed, trying to put years of stifled fondness into his voice.  He reached out and brushed the back of Crawley’s hand softly. 

Crawley jerked back in surprise, and Aziraphale tried not to smile.  The demon, his demon, was not as tough as he tried to appear, and it seemed he was easily flustered.  It was alright, Aziraphale could hold off on physical affection for as long as Crawley needed.  They had plenty of time together. 

He gave Crawley another reassuring, adoring smile, a smile that was met with fond bafflement, and then returned to his lunch content. 

Rome, 41 CE

Aziraphale happily led the way to Petronius’s restaurant, Crowley walking just a tad sullenly at his side.  For whatever reason, his demon was in foul spirits, but even then he seemed a little more cheerful than when he had first ordered whatever was ‘drinkable’ at the tavern. 

The last time Aziraphale had seen him before happening upon him in Rome had been in Golgotha, and hadn’t that been a dreadful affair?  Crowley hadn’t left until Christ had breathed his last, nor had she spoken as she stood at Aziraphale’s side and watched the whole gruesome spectacle.  And then she had left, muttering something about drinking for a year, and Aziraphale hadn’t heard anything since. 

It had only been eight years, which admittedly wasn’t much in the span of their entire lives.  After all, they had been alive for thousands of years, and dating for almost a century.  But still, still… well, it was lovely to see Crowley again, and Aziraphale was going to make the best of the situation, even if his demon was tetchy. 

“Oh, right here,” Aziraphale said, gesturing for Crowley to enter the restaurant in front of him.  “After you.” 

Crowley grunted, stepping into the restaurant with his chin lowered. 

Aziraphale found them a miraculously open table, and then ordered for the both of them before turning his attention back to his… boyfriend?  Partner?  Lover?  They had never discussed what label they wanted to use.  Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, their experience rather transcended labels anyway.  It was the feelings between them that mattered. 

Aziraphale only realized he’d been staring when Crowley snapped, “What?” 

Aziraphale blinked, and then said the first thing that popped into his mind.  “The glasses are new.” 

“Hmph,” Crowley grumbled.  He pulled them off his face, looking down at the dark lenses.  “Yeah.  Humans aren’t exactly a fan of my eyes.  Thought it would be better to cover up.  It’s easier than avoiding angry mobs, anyway.” 

I think your eyes are beautiful, Aziraphale wanted to say. Instead, he just hummed sympathetically. 

Crowley slid his glasses back on to cover his eyes when their oysters were brought over, and Aziraphale took only a moment to mourn their disappearance before tucking into his meal.  Crowley picked at his own oysters, trying one before pushing his plate away slightly.  Aziraphale felt a small twinge of disappointment before firmly pushing it away— it didn’t matter if Crowley didn’t like the exact things he liked, what mattered was that they were spending time together.  What mattered was that, after eight years apart, Crowley still wanted to be around him. 

“Are you going to finish those, Cro— Crowley?” Aziraphale asked a little distractedly, his tongue almost slipping on the name.  He had wanted to add an endearment for so long, had been thinking it for decades whenever he saw Crowley, that it sometimes almost snuck out. 

Crowley slid his plate across the table with a wry smile and mumbled something about probably liking them better in his snake form. 

Aziraphale smiled fondly and ate one of his partner’s oysters.  “Thank you, my dear,” he said, and then his eyes widened.  Blast, despite his best efforts, he had slipped.  It was bound to have happened at some point, but now, now— 

Crowley was staring at him, looking a little panicked, and his eyes darted around as though he was worried someone had heard. 

Aziraphale frowned slightly, disappointed with himself.  He knew that Crowley was less comfortable with affection, he had resolved ages ago not to push.  “Crowley, are you alright?” he said gently. 

Crowley uttered a few wordless symbols before he finally managed to choke out, “Of course.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, a little concerned.  “You look a little red,” he said tentatively. 

Crowley’s brows furrowed into a petulant frown.  “I don’t.” 

Aziraphale sighed.  “Alright.”  He finished Crowley’s oysters, thinking quickly.  It was probably best if they left soon, maybe after one last drink, but maybe he could convince Crowley to come home with him— just so they could talk.  So Aziraphale could apologize, make sure Crowley knew how much he cared, how he was willing to go as slow as Crowley needed with their relationship.  Maybe they could spend the night together, drinking and catching up. 

Aziraphale raised a hand to hail the bartender and called, “My dear girl, could we have another pitcher of beer, if you please?” 

Crowley cleared his throat.  “I need to get going, actually,” he said, his voice a little gruffer than normal. 

Aziraphale tried not to let his face fall, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.  “Of course, I understand,” he said graciously. 

Crowley got to his feet, excuses and explanations tumbling from his lips.  “Temptations, you know, gotta fill my quota this month, lots of sin—”  His hands twisted in his black toga, his odd laurels a little crooked in his hair. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said softly, horribly unable to resist.  He had never had much willpower, when a lovely temptation like Crowley was in play. 

Crowley blushed, the tips of his ears going red.  “Right,” the demon mumbled.  “Thanks for the oysters, I guess.” 

“Best of luck with your temptations,” Aziraphale said, returning to the familiar mask of a business relationship.  He wrinkled his nose.  “Or, worst of luck, I suppose.”  He smiled tentatively at his joke. 

“Hm,” Crowley said, turning. 

“Until next time, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, watching his demon leave.

Wessex, 537 CE

Crowley was absolutely sozzled. 

Aziraphale watched worriedly as he gulped his drink, hissing and whinging and waving his arms about as he ranted.  “Don’t understand what you’re playing at!” Crowley exclaimed, his golden eyes bright, his slitted pupils wide.  His face twisted into a sneer as he added, clearly trying to imitate Aziraphale and doing a rather poor job of it, “"No, Crowley, I don’ wanna have an Arrangement, I jus’ wanna keep doing my bleedin’ job an’ we’ll both get nowhere.  But ssssure, let’s get drinkssss after we fight, sounds tickety-boo!’” 

Aziraphale sighed, and wished he were a little more drunk for this conversation.  It was quite clear that Crowley had missed his point during their conversation earlier, out on that damp and misty moor, but it wasn’t exactly like they could have talked out in the open. 

“My dea—” Aziraphale started, and then cut himself off.  Right, Crowley was in the kind of mood where he probably wouldn’t much appreciate Aziraphale’s affection.  He was still rather jittery about it, even after dating for several centuries, clearly afraid of getting overheard.  Aziraphale understood, he did.  It was just, well… rather a drag, honestly, that they had to hide. 

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale said instead.  Crowley gave him a suspicious look, his bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead.  Even drunk and sulky, he was lovely, and Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a smitten sigh.  “I think it’s best not to mix work with any, ah, personal arrangements,” he said softly by way of explanation. Unspoken: We can’t be affectionate in public, my love, because of the consequences.  Didn’t you want to remain distant when we’re not alone? 

“That’s all,” Aziraphale added quickly.  He really, really didn’t want work to ruin their relationship.  For just a moment, he saw longing flash in Crowley’s eyes before he took another long sip of beer. 

“My side sent a memo last year about a work-life balance seminar I was meant to attend, so really, I’m just doing what they want,” Aziraphale babbled, suddenly flustered, and oh how he wished he could reach out and take Crowley’s hand, hold him close. 

Crowley made a face, and mumbled, “Heaven’s work-life balance is to not have a life.” 

Aziraphale smiled reluctantly.  “Well, I wouldn’t know, I had to miss the seminar.  Much too busy thwarting the wiles of the great tempter.” 

Crowley looked pleased at that, like he always did when Aziraphale indulged his ego, and rested his chin on his palm.  “Don’ understand why you won’t work with me,” he said softly, but now he sounded more disappointed than irritated.  “No one caressss wha’ we do, anyhow.  ‘d be easier.” 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together.  The fact of the matter was, Heaven and Hell would care.  They would likely care so much that they would try to destroy both of them.  And Aziraphale would not let his demon get destroyed.  But… “Perhaps I’ll think it over.  It would be nice to see more of you.”  It would be dangerous, certainly, but perhaps they could find a way to use business as an excuse for pleasure. 

Crowley blinked slowly, made an indistinct noise in the back of his throat. 

“Crowley, you’re very drunk,” Aziraphale said, positively itching with the desire to pull Crowley close and give him a hug.  “Maybe you ought to sober up.” 

“Don’ wanna,” Crowley slurred, resting his head on the table. 

Aziraphale gave in to temptation and brushed Crowley’s bangs off his face.  “Where are you staying?” he asked gently.  “I’ll help you home, at least.”  It really was the least he could do. 

Crowley mumbled an address and then Aziraphale helped him up, supporting him.  Crowley leaned against him, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of hug Aziraphale had daydreamed about, but…

“You could at least help me a little, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley slumped against him, but it wasn’t all that difficult to mostly-carry his demon down the road. 

Crowley clung a little tighter.  “Ssssnakes don’ have legs,” he whispered, his hiss warm on Aziraphale’s neck, and Aziraphale tried not to laugh. 

“I suppose that’s true,” he replied.  They reached Crowley’s inn and Aziraphale helped him inside and up to the correct room. 

Crowley collapsed bonelessly on the bed, his limbs sprawled every which way, and Aziraphale gently helped him get a little more comfortable on the bed until he was curled up and cozy.  “You’re going to have a dreadful hangover if you don’t sober up,” he fretted, and Crowley hummed drunkenly. 

“I… I could, I suppose…” Aziraphale murmured, thinking carefully.  It was a risk, just as everything they did together was, but in all likeliness Heaven wouldn’t check up on who he was performing miracles for… and Crowley would have the worst headache if he awoke without sobering up, hangovers always put him in such a dreadful mood…

“Angel, sssstay?” Crowley mumbled, his eyes wide and pleading. 

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, and he was overwhelmed with the fondness that so often came with spending time around his beloved.  Crowley was calling him by his title, sure, but the affection in his voice made no secret of the fact that it was also meant as an endearment. 

“I can’t Crowley, you know I can’t,” Aziraphale murmured.  “But I’ll make sure you don’t wake up with a hangover, at least.”  He leaned over and gently kissed Crowley on the forehead, imparting his miracle with the gesture.  As he leaned back again, he could practically hear the love singing in Crowley’s veins. 

“Sleep well, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, getting up before he gave in to the temptation to stay, the temptation to curl up with Crowley and hold him close, Heaven be damned.  “I hope our paths will cross again soon,” he added.  He knew he had to leave Wessex soon, and wasn’t sure when he would be back.  Wasn’t sure where Crowley would be going next. 

Crowley gave him a slow, wistful smile, his eyes suddenly surprisingly clear. 

Aziraphale took a fortifying breath and turned to go.  When he glanced over his shoulder Crowley’s eyes were closed, his breathing already even.  As Aziraphale left, he blessed the room, the door, the inn, to remain safe as long as Crowley was asleep. 

And then he walked away with a heavy heart, aching with the wish that one day he would be able to stay by Crowley’s side as long as they wanted.

London, 1601 CE

Aziraphale made it his business to find out where Crowley was when he got back to town from Edinburgh.  If Heaven ever asked, he could easily say he wanted to keep tabs on the Adversary so as best to thwart him, but he couldn’t deceive himself.  He was a smitten fool, wasn’t he just?  Smitten in the worst way, and lucky enough to have a beloved who seemed just as smitten back.  And anyway, Aziraphale had promised to take him to a play. 

He found Crowley causing trouble in the marketplace, flashing his snake eyes at horses to spook them, and sidled up to his side with a smile.  “Hello, my dear,” he said, and Crowley actually yelped, spinning on his heel. 

“Aziraphale!” he exclaimed, and then grinned.  “You’re back quick!” 

“Everything went to plan,” Aziraphale said in a low voice, looking around surreptitiously.  “Mission accomplished, as you might say.” 

“Mm?” Crowley hummed, rocking back on his heels and clasping his hands behind his back.  “Well, good.” 

Aziraphale gave him a hopeful look.  “Now that work has been taken care of,” he said, “I thought perhaps you’d be interested in a play?  Midsummer Night’s Dream is on tonight at the Globe.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows went up.  “Oh, you were serious about that?” he said casually. 

Aziraphale blinked.  “Of course!  You know I prefer the tragedies, but Shakespeare’s comedies have their merits too.” 

“No, I meant— with me, I mean—” Crowley said, and then shook his head.  “Never mind.  Yeah, a comedy sounds fine.” 

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale said happily.  He so wished to reach out, to hug Crowley, maybe even kiss him if the demon was interested, but settled for patting him on the shoulder.  Crowley, surprisingly, leaned into his touch, and Aziraphale gave him a pleased smile. 

“Right, uh,” Crowley coughed, scratching at his beard.  “Shall we?” 

“We have a bit, if you’re interested we could get dinner first?” Aziraphale suggested. 

“Ngh, sure,” Crowley mumbled, and unless Aziraphale was mistaken he was blushing.  “Any place in mind?” 

Aziraphale beamed.  “I know a lovely little place quite close to the Globe, they have a delicious meat pie you’d probably like.”  He offered Crowley his arm (because acquaintances could do that, right?  Any observer couldn’t possibly think anything untoward was going on, there was nothing to read into, no danger) and after a moment Crowley took it. 

They walked together as Aziraphale filled Crowley in on the temptation he had covered so that Crowley could fill out his report to Hell.  And as they walked, Aziraphale basked in the waves of love and affection and fondness rolling off his wonderful partner, and did his absolute best to convey his love back in return.  

Paris, 1793 CE

“What would you say to crepes?” Aziraphale asked, smiling tentatively at Crowley as they stood together in a dim cell at the Bastille. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow.  “Who am I to keep an angel from his temptation?” he said lowly, and Aziraphale’s stomach flip-flopped.  Crowley had to know, he had to, that he was so much more of a temptation than any crepe.  And he looked so dashing in his long coat with his auburn hair curled, Aziraphale wanted him to— 

“We’d best get out of here, angel,” Crowley murmured, glancing around before offering Aziraphale a hand.  Aziraphale took it, his fingers curling around Crowley’s, and they left together unobserved. 

Unfortunately, as soon as they were outside Crowley had to drop his hand, but they remained shoulder to shoulder as they strolled through the streets of Paris, away from all the hullaballoo.  “So,” Crowley said, his thumbs hooked carelessly into the pockets of his coat.  “Too many frivolous miracles, eh?  Didn’t realize they kept track, Upstairs.” 

Aziraphale cleared his throat.  “Yes.  Well.  I suppose I’ve been using a bit more than usual on the bookshop, trying to get everything set up.” 

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, his eyes entirely hidden behind his dark glasses.  “How ‘strongly worded’ was Gabriel’s note, that you’d rather get discorporated?” he pressed, and for the first time turned his head to look directly at Aziraphale.  “D’you really think they’d come after you for saving your own ass?” 

Aziraphale avoided his eyes, fiddled with the buttons on his coat.  I was hoping you’d come for me, he couldn’t say out loud.  I knew you were in the area, and I was hoping you’d come save me.  And then we could have the afternoon together.  Crowley, I— 

“I suppose it is rather silly of me,” he said instead, his voice soft. 

Crowley grunted.  “S’ppose it doesn’t matter,” he grumbled.  “Since I was around, anyway.” 

“I know you don’t want me to thank you,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley gave him a warning glance.  “I know,” Aziraphale insisted, and he did know the dangers.  Crowley’s lot, as he had put it, sent far more than a rude note to their out-of-line operatives. 

“But,” he continued firmly.  “Were I ever to be in a similar situation again, and someone were to save me— not a demon, mind you, because I’m well aware that demons don’t do nice, sweet, brave things like saving angels— but if someone were to save me, I would want to make it clear to them how grateful I was.  How much I truly appreciated their going out of the way to help me.”  He gave Crowley a sideways, tentative smile.  “Perhaps I might even kiss them on the cheek once we were in private, were they accommodating.” 

Crowley made a strangled coughing sound, and Aziraphale added very quickly, “Of course, that’s all hypothetical conjecture, and couldn’t possibly apply to the situation I’m in at this moment.  I know.”  He lowered his gaze, scuffed his shiny shoes on the dirty cobblestone street. 

Crowley made another croaking noise, and when Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye he could see that his partner was blushing, his arms crossed over his chest.  “Sometimes friends kiss each other on the cheek,” he mumbled, barely audible. 

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered with hope.  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he said. 

Crowley stopped abruptly, and Aziraphale almost bumped into him until his demon caught his arm.  “Crepes, right?” Crowley said abruptly, jerking his chin at the restaurant they were standing in front of.  “That was what you wanted?” 

Aziraphale nodded, silently tucked away for a later date the information that Crowley would likely be amenable to kissing.  “Yes, rather.” 

Crowley opened the door for him, his blush mostly under control again.  “After you, angel.” 

Aziraphale allowed his smile to overtake his face, knowing that Crowley would be able to read the love in his eyes even if there was no other way he could express it.  “Thank you, my dear.” 

Crowley nodded just slightly, fondness clear in the reluctant curve of his lips, and then followed him in.

Soho, 1800 CE

Aziraphale wrung his hands worriedly and watched as Gabriel and Sandalphon left the bookshop, disappearing in a flash of Heavenly light as soon as they were outside.  Not a moment later he spotted Crowley through the windows, a wide, satisfied grin on his face, and rushed to meet him at the door and let him in. 

“Oi, angel, you still here?” Crowley called cheerfully as he all but burst into the shop, a bouquet of flowers under one arm and a box in one hand. 

He looked particularly handsome in his top hat and long coat, and Aziraphale’s voice was just a tad breathier than he would ever admit when he replied, “Oh, Crowley!”  He anxiously glanced out the front window, just to check again that the other angels were well and truly gone, and added, “Gabriel and Sandalphon just left, they might still be back—”  With a quick miracle, he locked the door so no one else could come in. 

Crowley gave him a confident, rakish smile, and then went so far as to wink.  “Nah, I don’t think so.” 

Aziraphale paused, staring at him, his mind racing.  Gabriel and Sandalphon had seemed rather insistent about him coming back to Heaven, and then they had left and when they had returned they had done a complete about-face.  So somehow—

“You wouldn’t have anything to do with them changing their minds, would you?” Aziraphale asked nervously, dozens of horrifying scenarios flashing in front of his eyes.  Crowley, facing the archangels down and promptly getting smote, Crowley accidentally giving away their relationship and then getting dragged back to Hell and tortured, Crowley discorporated, Crowley dissolved.  “Crowley what did you do?” Aziraphale exclaimed, his voice a little shrill.  Surely he hadn’t—

“Nothing much,” Crowley drawled, sidling forward as he looked casually around the bookshop.  “May have given Gabriel the impression that you’re the only one who can thwart my wiles.”  He gave Aziraphale another smile and set down his flowers and his box.  “Got you these.  Opening gift, and all,” he said, changing the subject. 

Aziraphale took a long breath to calm himself, trying to put his worries to rest for a moment.  Crowley was fine, he hadn’t been smote, or discorporated, or dissolved, and he had brought Aziraphale flowers.  And somehow, somehow… had convinced Heaven to let Aziraphale stay on Earth.  To let him stay with Crowley. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, stepping forward.  They were alone, unobserved, and he tentatively reached out and put a hand on Crowley’s arm.  “Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, because he knew, he knew what Crowley’s gesture meant.  Again and again, he saved Aziraphale.  Again and again their paths crossed, they gravitated towards each other like two celestial bodies forever in orbit.  Aziraphale had never been more in love, he was quite sure. 

Crowley turned his face to look at him, and Aziraphale was close enough that his lips accidentally brushed Crowley’s cheek in a gentle kiss.  Crowley’s eyes went wide behind his glasses, and he yelped in surprise. 

Aziraphale went red, embarrassed.  “Oh, oh,” he gasped, stepping away to give Crowley the space he probably needed.  Oh, good Lord, just because he was overwhelmed with love didn’t give him the right to press Crowley for physical intimacy before he was ready.  “My dear, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale added fretfully. 

Crowley turned away just slightly, a blush creeping up his neck.  “’Sss’alright,” he mumbled, and Aziraphale winced guiltily at the snakish hiss in his voice.  He took another deep breath, and then turned his attention to the gifts that Crowley had brought for him. 

“Oh, my dear, these are lovely,” he murmured, carefully tracing one fingertip over the delicate petals of one of the roses Crowley had brought.  He knew what that meant, of course, red roses— they both did.  “I’ll find a vase for them in just a moment,” he resolved, and performed a quick miracle to ensure that the roses would remain beautiful and unwilted for as long as he wanted.  He glanced curiously at the box Crowley had brought, and opened it to find it full of his favorite kinds of chocolates.  “My favorites, you remembered!” he said in pleased surprise, popping one into his mouth with a happy sound. 

“Thought you’d mentioned it once,” Crowley said in a low voice, creeping closer again, and Aziraphale gave him an adoring smile. 

“Thank you ever so much,” he said, hoping the thanks for everything was clear in his voice. 

A wave of love and affection came from Crowley, so strong that it nearly knocked Aziraphale off his feet, and his partner muttered, “Sssure.” 

Aziraphale touched him briefly on the shoulder, a touch that Crowley leaned into, and he said, “I have some wine in the back room, would you like a glass?”  Won’t you stay, my love? 

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale beamed.

St. James’s Park, 1862 CE

Aziraphale stared down at the little scrap of paper in his hand, and felt like his world was crashing down around his ears.  In Crowley’s distinctive scrawl, the request was written in what might as well be blood: Holy Water. 

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat, his stomach twisting sickly.  He knew the risks of his relationship with Crowley, he had spent plenty of time worrying about it.  He knew that if they were found to be together, to be friends, to be in love, Crowley would get a bath in holy water and Aziraphale would get a shower in hellfire.  And now Crowley was asking for the key to his own destruction, was trying to get the means to obliterate himself—

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice trembling terribly.  “This is out of the question!” 

“Why not?” Crowley snapped, refusing to look at him. 

Aziraphale felt frustrated tears well up in his eyes as a world without Crowley in it resolved clearer than he would ever want.  “It would destroy you!” he said, voice raised.  “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” 

Crowley’s expression twisted into a snarl.  “Not what I want it for!” 

Aziraphale’s breath caught on an aborted sob as he imagined what would happen if just an accident occurred— “I’m not an idiot, Crowley,” he said, agonized.  “I cannot get this for you.  No.”  Fear turned to frustration in his chest as he instead imagined Crowley’s coworkers coming up from Hell to find him in possession of something that could perfectly destroy him, something he could have only gotten from—

“Do you know what kind of trouble we’d be in if we got caught fraternizing,” he started, but Crowley interrupted him. 

“Fraternizing?” he sneered. 

“Whatever you wish to call it,” Aziraphale said dismissively, because Crowley knew that wasn’t the point in contention.  “I do not think there’s any point in discussing this further.” 

Crowley’s sneer turned even uglier, his eyes completely hidden behind his dark glasses.  “I have plenty of other people to fraternize with, angel,” he said coldly, and Aziraphale stared at him. 

“What?” he managed to wheeze, shock and hurt taking his breath.  He had thought— he had thought—

“I don’t need you,” Crowley added, speaking another of Aziraphale’s worst fears, and in his distress he lashed out. 

“The feeling is mutual, obviously,” he snapped, throwing Crowley’s request into the pond, and almost instantly regretted it. Before he could say anything else, before he could hurt Crowley again, he turned on his heel and stormed off, his shoulders hunched and his arms wrapped around himself. 

Aziraphale managed to make it back to his bookshop before he broke down, covering his mouth to stifle his crying.  He locked the door behind him and retreated to the back room, shaking even as he collapsed on his couch.  Crowley, he— he— it was unreasonable, to expect him to— but Aziraphale had thought— had hoped— hoped he could be enough. 

Aziraphale staggered to his feet again, rummaging through his cabinets for whatever alcohol he could find before proceeding to get roaringly drunk.  The next week, he found out that Crowley was asleep. 

They didn’t talk again for eighty years.

London, 1941 CE

“Lift home?” Crowley offered casually, and then crunched across the rubble of the church without waiting for Aziraphale to answer. 

Aziraphale stared after him, his eyes wide and his fingers clenched around the handle of his bag, love swelling like a crescendo in his chest.  “Oh, my darling,” he breathed, and then hurried after Crowley.  Even after everything he had said, everything that had happened in 1862, Crowley had come for him. 

He found Crowley unlocking the door of a flash car parked illegally, messily in the street, and said uncertainly, “Is this yours?” 

“Yup,” Crowley replied shortly, getting in.  Aziraphale followed after just a moment of hesitation, carefully placing his books on his lap.  “So how long have you been awake, my dear?” he asked tentatively as Crowley started the car and pulled away from the curb. 

Crowley glanced at his watch, frowning.  “About a week,” he replied slowly.  “Been busy.  This century’s a bit different than the 1860s.” 

“Quite,” Aziraphale murmured.  The obvious question was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew the answer— there was no need to ask why Crowley hadn’t come to find him once he awoke, the last time they had spoken they had both been remarkably cruel to each other. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley held up a hand. 

“Leave it, angel,” he said, his voice oddly serious.  “I’m not going to bug you about the… you-know-what.  Got bigger fish to fry at the moment.” 

“Crowley, I’m—” Aziraphale tried again. 

“I know,” Crowley said.  “I know.  I… Me too.” 

Aziraphale bit his lip, studied Crowley out of the corner of his eye.  “I won’t say thank you,” he said.  “I think you already know.” 

Crowley made a small coughing noise.  “Whoo-ee,” he mumbled.  “What a sweet conversation.  Friends again at last.”  His lip curled in a sneer, but Aziraphale could tell he wasn’t genuinely irritated.  He turned the street corner and pulled up to Aziraphale’s bookshop, screeching to a halt.  “Still in the same place, isn’t it,” he murmured.  “How miraculous.” 

“Well, there was no point in getting up and moving,” Aziraphale sighed.  He hefted his books and got out of the car, walking around to the driver’s side.  Crowley stared up at him through the open window, unmoving. 

Aziraphale fidgeted and then offered, “Would you like to come in?” 

Crowley hesitated. 

“Your feet must hurt something dreadful, I’m sure I have something in the back to help," Aziraphale coaxed.  "And I picked up some scotch a few decades ago that I think you’ll like.”  He shifted his books to one hand, held out the other.  “Will you let me help you?” 

Indecision warred on Crowley’s face, and then he grunted.  “Alright, fine, but only because of the scotch,” he grumbled, getting out of the car.  After just a moment he accepted Aziraphale’s hand and Aziraphale helped support him. 

“There we are,” he said softly, squeezing Crowley’s fingers before gently sliding an arm around his waist.  “Alright?” 

Crowley stared at him, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide behind his dark glasses.  “Yeah,” he breathed, and then let Aziraphale help him inside.

Soho, 1967 CE

Aziraphale waited silently as Crowley stared down at the thermos in his hands, and resisted his every instinct to snatch the holy water back before it was too late. 

“After everything you said,” Crowley said softly, his voice achingly gentle.  Aziraphale avoided his eyes, staring instead at a strip club across the street. 

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley pressed, and Aziraphale could hear the delicate gratitude in his voice. 

A flash of fear went through him, and he said quickly, “Better not.”  They had spent centuries dancing around each other, loving in secret, and he couldn’t risk anyone finding out now that Crowley was holding in his hands something that could erase him from existence. 

“Can I drop you anywhere?” Crowley offered insistently. 

Drive with me to the bookshop, Aziraphale almost said.  Come in, spend some time with me.  Stay with me tonight, so that I know you’re safe.  “No,” he said instead.  Crowley’s face fell. 

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale added hastily.  His emotional state was particularly fragile, and he felt like he might be on the edge of a breakdown, but he didn’t want to spoil things between himself and Crowley again.  “Perhaps sometime soon we can get dinner.  Have a picnic,” he offered, a clear olive branch. 

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” Crowley countered desperately. 

Aziraphale gave him a wobbly smile, fixedly trying not to stare at the thermos of holy water in his partner’s hands.  He appreciated the offer, and was so close to giving in and inviting Crowley over, but his stomach was already churning with fear, guilt... Crowley’s wild driving would do absolutely nothing to help the situation.  “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and then tapped the speedometer lightly to make it clear that he was only talking literally. 

Crowley’s mouth opened, and Aziraphale quickly got out of the car before he was given an offer he wouldn’t have the strength to refuse.  The holy water remained in Crowley’s hands, a ticking time bomb. 

“Goodnight, my love,” Aziraphale said in a low voice, and then walked off without turning around. 

As he headed off, leaving Crowley behind in his car, he found himself praying in a way he hadn’t prayed in ages.  Praying in a way that Crowley definitely wouldn’t like if he ever found out. 

Please, Lord, Aziraphale thought desperately.  Please, I know You made him Fall, but please, please don’t let him die.

The Dowling Estate, 2014 CE

Aziraphale tended to the flowerbeds on the Dowling Estate and did his best to pretend like he wasn’t watching Crowley as she sat on a picnic blanket on the lawn and kept an eye on a frolicking Warlock. 

Crowley had taken off her jacket and was dressed in just a dark silk blouse and long skirt, and the bright autumn sunlight made her red hair all but glow.  She had a small, secretive smile on her face as she watched Warlock play with some of his action figures in the grass, rolling around and shouting happily, a newspaper open but unread in her lap. 

Aziraphale bent and picked a small purple flower from the patch by the kitchen window and tucked it into his smock’s pocket before he finally gave in to his temptation and sidled over.  “Hello, Ms. Ashtoreth,” he said with a small smile, but there wasn’t anyone around so he didn’t bother to change his accent. 

Crowley glanced up, and carefully adjusted her sunglasses on her face.  “Brother Francis.” 

“Mind if I join you?” Aziraphale asked, not waiting for a reply before plopping down beside her.  “Lovely day out,” he said with a smile, only slightly inhibited by his teeth. 

“Quite,” Crowley said dryly.  She carefully folded up her newspaper and put it aside, but not before Aziraphale caught the title. 

“Are you sure you should be reading that around Warlock, my dear?” he asked. 

Crowley wrinkled her nose.  “It doesn’t look like the Infernal Times to anyone but me and you, angel,” she replied. 

“Oh, good.” 

Aziraphale and Crowley sat in silence for a long moment, enjoying the sunshine, until Warlock ran over.  “Hi, Brother Francis!” he said cheerfully.  

Aziraphale smiled kindly.  “Good morning, young master Warlock.” 

“Nanny, look!” Warlock said, shoving his cupped hands at Crowley. 

She leaned forward, and her lips curled into a smirk.  “What have you got here?” she murmured, reaching out to gently part his fingers.  

“A frog!” Warlock replied. 

Crowley glanced up at him, her golden eyes serious behind her glasses.  “Don’t squeeze too hard, Warlock, or you’ll squish the wee thing.” 

“OK, Nanny,” Warlock said somberly, his eyes wide as he loosened his grip on the little frog.  “But I thought you said that all creatures ought to be ground beneath my heel?” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to refute that, to encourage Warlock to have regard for all creatures great and small, but Crowley beat him to it.  “Well, frogs are alright,” she said.  “Besides, you don’t want frog slime on your hands, do you?  They eat that in France, you know.” 

“Ewww,” Warlock squealed, and then ran away again, still clutching the frog. 

“I’m fairly certain they don’t eat frog slime in France,” Aziraphale said in a low voice, watching as the young Antichrist gently set the frog down at the edge of a small pond in the garden. 

Crowley snorted.  “What do you know?” she said.  “Last time you were in Paris, you got arrested.” 

“That’s not true, I was in France in the 1950s for a bit.” 

Crowley gave him an appraising look.  “Any jail time?” 

Aziraphale squinted.  “I’ll have you know—” he started, and Crowley laughed.  Her face looked different when she laughed, less wearied by her years, her scarlet lips twisting into a shameless smile as her eyes crinkled. 

Aziraphale stared for a moment, arrested in a very different kind of way.  He was breathless, enamored, and Crowley caught him staring.  “What?” she said, just a little self-consciously. 

“You look lovely today, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley huffed, turning her face away, but not before Aziraphale saw the pleased smile on her face. 

Aziraphale pulled the slightly squished flower out of his pocket and said with a grin, “This is for you.  If I could—” He shuffled a little closer just as Crowley turned her head, and tucked it behind her ear.  Crowley stared at him wide-eyed, a (rather sweet) blush high on her cheeks. 

“There we are,” Aziraphale said in satisfaction, rather enjoying the stunned expression on her face. 

“Hng.  Uh.  Thanks, angel,” she finally said, and then glanced over her shoulder as though making sure they were alone.  “Er.  Staff might get ideas—” 

“I believe they already think we’re together,” Aziraphale said primly, and shrugged.  It didn’t much bother him.  They were actually together, to be fair, and it was rather satisfying to find that how much he and Crowley cared for each other was obvious in their every incarnation. 

“Mm,” Crowley hummed.  “Well.  Fine.  Great.” 

Aziraphale reached out and patted her hand.  “I think it’s alright, dear,” he said quietly.  Heaven and Hell weren’t paying them much attention anymore, not as they were busy with their preparations for the end of the world, so what a handful of humans thought about them likely wouldn’t put them in danger. 

Crowley cleared her throat, but before she could say whatever she wanted to say Warlock ran over.  “Nanny!” he said, sprawling on the picnic blanket and looking up at Crowley with puppy dog eyes.  “Can I have a popsicle?” 

“It’s September, don’t you think it’s a little late in the season?” Crowley asked, still looking a little flustered.  Warlock widened his eyes pleadingly, and she sighed.  “Alright, go in and wash your hands,” she ordered, and Warlock scampered off. 

“I’d best—” Crowley started, and Aziraphale got up. 

“Of course, my dear,” he said.  “I’ll see you later tonight?” 

“Right,” Crowley mumbled, gathering up her blanket and her newspaper before walking away without a second glance. 

But as she walked away, Aziraphale heard a snap and felt the little ripple of demonic energy that secured the little purple flower in her hair.  He smiled.

Tadfield, 2019 CE

“You can stay at my place, if you like,” Crowley offered, and Aziraphale only gave a half-hearted, token protest before nodding, trading for the wine bottle in Crowley’s hand.  He took a swig just as a bus turned the corner.  “It’ll go to London,” Crowley promised, his fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s shoulder for just a moment before he pulled back again. 

Aziraphale got to his feet, swaying a little, suddenly exhausted.  He offered Crowley a hand up anyway.  “Ready, my dear?” 

Crowley took it and let Aziraphale pull him up.  He looked just as tired as Aziraphale felt, and it was no wonder— stopping time no doubt took an incredible amount of power.  Aziraphale squeezed his fingers before letting go as they got on the bus and sat next to each other for the first time in ages. 

Aziraphale relaxed in increments as the bus pulled away from the stop, rumbling towards London.  “That was quite something,” he breathed with a nervous laugh, feeling like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. 

The last week had been remarkably trying, and probably some of the most difficult days of his relationship with Crowley.  And they were still in danger, but for the first time in a while Aziraphale felt like it would be alright.  They would be alright. 

Crowley laughed bitterly.  “That’s the understatement of the century, angel,” he replied, slouching bonelessly in his seat and stretching his legs out as much as he could. 

Aziraphale could hear the worn-out waver in his voice, and said sympathetically, “It’s alright if you want to close your eyes and rest, my dear, I’ll wake you when we get back to London.”  He rested a comforting hand on Crowley’s knee. 

Crowley gingerly rested his head against the bus window, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as his eyes fluttered closed.  “I’ll hold these for you,” Aziraphale offered, and carefully plucked them off his face. 

Crowley didn’t object, one eye opening just a tad as he mumbled, “Thanksss, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiled fondly, folding the arms of Crowley’s sunglasses and cupping them carefully in one hand.  He squeezed Crowley’s shoulder, as much of a hug as he could give in public when Heaven and Hell might be watching them.  “Of course, dearest.” 

Crowley’s eyes closed again and he huffed out a quiet sigh, his thin body twisted a little uncomfortably in his seat.  Aziraphale’s fond smile grew as he took in his partner’s tired, worried, dear face for just one more moment. 

After so long, so many hundreds and thousands of years… he and Crowley might finally have a chance at making this work, of truly being together without having to worry about consequences from Heaven and Hell. 

Aziraphale settled in his bus seat a little more comfortably, and set his mind to work on Agnes’ last prophecy, about how they must choose their faces wisely.  It was the key to their future together, he was sure… and he’d be damned if he let that slip through his fingers now.