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Life with Aziraphale was nothing like Crowley had imagined. That was because even in his wildest wishes, he would have never let himself imagine this.
Shortly after the anti-climactic Armageddon, they’d gotten a little cottage together. It was in the south of England, in Hampshire county, near the South Downs, just a short walk to those beautiful chalky cliffs.
Crowley liked the smell of the sea on his tongue and the wind whipping through his hair. It did take a bit of convincing, though, for the soil to be rich enough for the garden he was planning. Aziraphale, on the other hand, liked picnics on the cliffside and visiting the tavern in town.
Over the couple of years they’d been visiting -- few years? several years? Crowley couldn’t be sure -- they’d tried all the drinks at least four times and the menu at least three. The fireplace crackled and politely refrained from sparking too much, and the meals were fairly good, so Crowley wasn’t going to complain.
There was something charming about village life, too. Charming and irritating. For the past several millennia, Crowley had liked attention, but only on his terms. If he pulled up in the Bentley, Queen blaring, he expected the stares. What he hadn’t expected was the knowing smiles of the younger townsfolk, or of Henry the bartender, or of Mollie-the-probably-witch who ran the shop where Crowley bought his yarn.
To quote Mollie, he apparently “Stared at the angel in adoration”. He only hoped, by habit, that the angel couldn’t tell -- although if that smug smirk around a spoon of pudding was any indication, Aziraphale was perfectly aware of the looks he gave. And there, in the warmth of the tavern with familiar chatter surrounding them, Crowley couldn’t quite find it in his heart to mind.
Things had changed post-Apocolypse, and they hadn’t. They had settled into a nearly domestic lifestyle, sharing breakfast in the kitchen and tea in the garden and wine on the cliffside. They strolled through Sudfield hand in hand, and visited the shops and little restaurants. They spent evenings in the den, Aziraphale reading or restoring his books and Crowley knitting or sketching or sprawling and doing his best to irritate the angel into paying him attention.
And some nights, when they both felt up to it, they would sleep together. Like, actually sleep -- they’d cuddle up in the master bed, and Crowley would bury his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, or maybe slip his hands around his waist, or press back to back. Sometimes he’d rest his head on Aziraphale’s lap and fall asleep like that, the angel still propped up in bed reading. He’d run a warm hand through Crowley’s hair and, if the demon was very lucky, he’d even be there when he woke up.
(If he wasn’t, he was just a moment away in the den, or admiring the garden, or he’d leave a note in the kitchen that said Popped out for a bite, love. I will see you later.)
Some nights, when Aziraphale was focused on a project and Crowley was too antsy to sleep or sit, he’d drive into Sudfield and cause a bit of mischief. On particularly prickly evenings, he liked to tear all the way up the A3 into London, just to see a bit of nightlife.
(Particularly, he liked to sprinkle a bit of fear into the types who hassled people on their way home from the pub.)
Tonight, though, Crowley really felt like a nap. He was full of whatever Aziraphale had ordered for him, something warm and meaty, and a few glasses of mead. He’d sat with Aziraphale in the den for a bit, sprawled on the sofa and watching him in his armchair. Those blue eyes drifted back and forth over the page, hypnotically, really.
“Crowley,” he heard, and only then did Crowley realize just how close he was to sleep.
“Hmm,” he sighed, shifting a bit so his hip was more comfortable.
“You’ve two perfectly good beds. Why don’t you move to one of them?”
“Hmm,” he repeated, ignoring the angel’s suggestion. Was nice here. Aziraphale was here. It was warm. Why move?
“Really,” the angel huffed, trying hard to sound bothered. A moment later Crowley felt hands tucking a blanket around him.
“Thanksss,” he sighed, and then he was asleep.
For a while it was warm and peaceful. He dreamed, maybe. Or maybe he didn’t.
Then he was being shaken awake.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered from somewhere over his head.
Crowley grumbled, pulling the blanket over his face. “Wassat?”
Aziraphale just nudged him again. Crowley huffed and lowered the blanket again.
Through sleep-blurred eyes he saw the angel. Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to glow blue against the lowlight of the den. His hair was perfectly combed, his collared shirt and bowtie prim and proper with a wine-red jumper nestled overtop. He was adorable.
Crowley reached out and tugged him gently, sitting up just enough to nestle his face against the angel’s belly. He could feel the rumble of Aziraphale chuckling.
“You look a mess, dear,” he teased, not unkindly.
Crowley did his best to seem insulted. He may have been too sleepy and warm to actually pull it off. “Yeah,” he murmured through the knit jumper. “Was sleeping.”
“Mmm, you don’t say,” he said, and Crowley got the sense he should be insulted again. He was distracted from the point by soft hands running through his hair. “I do like you like this,” Aziraphale mused. He sounded thoughtful. “My sweet, sleepy serpent.”
“Not sweet,” Crowley started to complain. His protests dropped off as Aziraphale settled down on the edge of the sofa and tugged him closer, encouraging Crowley to settle against him. Alright, maybe he was a bit clingy when he was sleepy, but that could hardly be helped.
He went to slip his arms around the angel’s waist but before he could, Aziraphale was pulling away. Crowley most certainly did not whine at that.
Aziraphale tutted his tongue. “Now now. I actually wanted to show you something.” He glanced down at the demon’s pajamas -- silk, dark, and comfortable. “Why don’t you put on something warmer?”
A short amount of half-hearted bickering later, Crowley was bundled up. He had snagged one of Aziraphale’s jumpers -- “If you’re going to force me on a death march in the middle of the night, I’m bloody well taking one of your precious jumpers down with me.” Aziraphale slipped on a fairly neat tartan scarf -- one Crowley had knit himself, thank-you-very-much -- and the two were off.
Once Aziraphale had shut the door, he slipped his hand into Crowley’s. Crowley tensed a bit self-consciously. The last dregs of sleep had slipped away.
Aziraphale glanced up at him. “Is this alright?”
“Hng,” he said, and then, when Aziraphale started to let his hand go, he added, “Yes, yes, it’s fine.” He squeezed the angel’s hand -- it was more than fine -- and Aziraphale beamed up at him.
“Come, dear,” Aziraphale hummed, now wrapping himself around Crowley’s arm completely. If Crowley’s cheeks tinged pink, it was only because of the late night chill.
Two age-old beings stolled arm in arm through the dark. Aziraphale turned them in the general direction towards the Downs, and Crowley led them along the dark path. It seemed Aziraphale wanted to go to their favorite spot. Crowley didn’t mind; it was a lovely night for stargazing.
They walked in relative silence, comfortable and companionable, with a light smattering of conversation.
“Oh, dear, we really should send another letter to Warlock soon,”
and
“Is that collector budging yet?”
“Not as of yet. I really do have my heart set on that edition, though. She’ll just take a bit more… convincing.”
“I could always convince her, if you like.”
That earned him a playful glare. “Absolutely not, you fiend,”
and
“Hey, Zira -- Ouch!”
“I asked you kindly not to call me that, Tony.”
A grumble, as Crowley dramatically rubbed his sore arm, and muttered, “Fine, fine. Just don’t smite me again.”
The night sky shifted slightly above them, clouds drifting calmly like whisps of silver smoke. Finally Crowley could hear the lightest whisper of the sea, and when Aziraphale spoke his voice was tinged with nerves.
“Here we are, then.”
Crowley took the scene in wordlessly. It did seem like a picnic of sorts, a few good meters from the cliff edge. A soft blanket was spread in the low grass, a basket of food and a bottle of wine settled carefully attop it. There were candles -- candles, the bloody romantic -- set up in the area as well, flickering gently and politely refraining from dripping wax. It was… overwhelming.
Crowley didn’t know what to say, so his body made the executive decision to stand there stiff as a board in silence. He’d have to fire the Chief Executive Officer later.
(The CEO was himself.)
Aziraphale glanced back and forth between Crowley and the scene, biting his lip slightly. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Please do say something, my dear boy,” he pressed. “I’m feeling a bit silly all of a sudden.”
Crowley blinked -- perhaps for the first time since they left the cottage -- and squeezed the angel’s hand. “It’s -- hnng. It’s lovely, I just --- why did you -- what’s it --” The sentence died with a nondescript gesture of his free hand. “Why?”
“Well,” Aziraphale said -- and it did sound like he was on the edge of offended now -- “I suppose I just felt like it. Do I need a reason?” And after a beat, more gently, “I love you very much, my dear, and I would like to be able to show it.”
Lots of thoughts ran through Crowley’s mind, such as:
I know you keep saying you love me, but are you sure you haven’t changed your mind yet?
and
You just felt like throwing a romantic bloody picnic out of nowhere? In the middle of the night?
and
I was asleep. You could’ve given me a bit of warning. I could’ve worn something nice and combed my hair.
But he didn’t get a chance to say any of that, thankfully, because Aziraphale was tugging him onto the blanket. As soon as Crowley sat, Aziraphale nestled against him and he was warm and there, so Crowley couldn’t very well complain. He accepted the glass of whatever wine Aziraphale had poured him, watched as the angel deftly unwrapped the cheese he’d pulled from the basket. The pleased little face Aziraphale made as he ate a slice with a cracker made Crowley go all tingly, so he downed his glass and poured himself some more.
Ah, Aziraphale was giving him that smug, knowing look again. “I do hope I haven’t upset you too much, waking you up like that.” His voice was questionably sincere.
“Hnng -- no, not upset. This is… nice.”
Aziraphale hummed again, then pressed against Crowley once more. The two of them drank for a bit in silence, listening to the sea below. Mostly, though, Crowley focused on Aziraphale’s heartbeat.
They didn’t need to have heartbeats, of course, but Crowley found something about it to be rather calming. He’d never told Aziraphale this, of course. He wondered if the angel simply felt the same way, or if he’d somehow picked up on Crowley’s interest in it. The bastard was more perceptive than he often let on.
A gentle hand on Crowley’s knee grounded him in the moment again.
“Dear,” Aziraphale said, not moving from his spot. He tilted his head up a bit as he spoke, his hair tickling Crowley’s nose. The demon didn’t mind. He resisted to urge to take a deep breath of the angel’s scent. Roses and binding glue and ink and soft midday sun… “I actually did have something I would like to show you.”
There was a slight shift in the fabric of reality, and Crowley yelped, “Where the Hell were you keeping that?”
Aziraphale suddenly had a guitar Crowley had never seen before in his lap.
“Oh, hush.” Crowley would bet someone’s left arm that the angel was rolling his eyes. He was tuning it -- tuning it -- plucking two strings at a time and making little adjustements with the… screws, or whatever they were, up top. Show off. He could have just asked it kindly to play in tune. “I miracled it from our house, of course.”
That didn’t answer much. “And where in the expansive cottage was -- wait, you can play guitar?”
“No need to sound so incredulous,” Aziraphale huffed curtly. Crowley, both as a demon and as Aziraphale’s closest friend (probably), could feel the nerves rolling off of him. He was on the edge of embarrassment. Scratch that, well over the edge. Were his hands trembling? “I’ll have you know that music is an age old art which has been practiced and perfected generation after generation. It’s an important part of worship, religiously, but also has important secular roles as an… expressive, effective mode for spreading love and well being, and--”
“And you want to serenade me,” Crowley cooed. Aziraphale stiffened against him, but Crowley nuzzled against his hair -- the angel was still sitting with his back to him -- and Aziraphale relaxed just a touch.
“Well. Yes, perhaps that was my plan, but we can always call it off if--”
“No,” Crowley rushed. He was positively glowing at the idea of it, warmth bubbling in his chest like a glass of champagne. “No, by all means, my love. Serenade me.”
Aziraphale gave a little huff and settled the guitar more comfortably on his lap. From his position behind the angel it was difficult to see exactly what he was doing, but his hands shifted up and down the neck of the guitar. He plucked and strummed gently, but purposefully.
The intro was soft, a bit bouncy but sweet as well. It sounded right at home here among the candlelight, under the stars, with the angel practically in his lap. Aziraphale played this, and then, he sang.
“It was written that I would love you,
From the moment I opened my eyes.”
An angel singing was no surprise, of course. Celestial choirs and whatnot. While Crowley was certain that Aziraphale could sing, he’d always thought the angel just preferred not to. Oh, he might wiggle a little to a song he particularly enjoyed, or grin on the rare occasion that Crowley felt free enough to belt his heart out in the Bentley. Despite that, Crowley couldn’t recall a single time he’d heard Aziraphale himself sing.
“And the morning when I first saw you,
Gave me life under calico skies.”
Whatever Crowley expected it to sound like, it wasn’t this. This was gentle, cautious, almost, but painfully sincere. His voice broke softly, sweetly, over the refrain.
“I will hold you, for as long as you like.
I’ll hold you, for the rest of my life.”
And there, his hands running up and down the neck again, coaxing out that beautiful tune. Crowley could only sit and listen, transfixed.
“Always looking for ways to love you,
Never failing to fight at your side--”
“I am so sorry,” Aziraphale rushed suddenly. The break in the music jarred Crowley from his reverie. “So very sorry that I said those things about not being on our side, but I suppose in the end you should forgive me because I really didn’t fail to fight at your side, as it were--”
“I -- ngk -- just do the song, angel.”
“Ah, right,” Aziraphale said, and turned to his work with a breath.
“While the angels of love protect us--” and his hands stilled again.
“This whole verse is actually quite ironic if you--”
“Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale fumbled for just a moment, finding his spot again, and played.
“From the innermost secrets we hide.
I’ll hold you, for as long as you like,
I’ll hold you, for the rest of my life.”
Please. Aziraphale’s head was bowed as he watched his fingers carefully. It was bloody dark out here, even with the candles. It looked like he was praying, or more realistically, like he was reading. But this focus was on Crowley, in a way. He’d heard this beautiful song and thought of them.
“Drat,” Aziraphale whispered as his fingers slipped, but ever stubborn, he continued.
“Long live all of us crazy soldiers,
Who were born under calico skies.
May we never be called to handle,
All the weapons of war we despise.
I’ll hold you, for as long as you like,
I’ll hold you, for the rest of my life.
I’ll hold you, for as long as you like,
I’ll love you, for the rest of my life.”
And then the music ended. There was the sound of waves crashing far below, and a breeze over the low grass, and the beating of Aziraphale’s heart. Soft, shaky breaths from Crowley and, he realized with a start, from Aziraphale as well. He was exhausted, maybe. Nervous, certainly.
Crowley had no idea what to say. Nothing he said would give Aziraphale as much as the angel had just given to him in those two minutes.
They sat there silently for a moment too long until Aziraphale broke the tense moment.
“Well,” he rushed, “It was nothing, really. Just a little something I knew. Aha, well, I didn’t write it, of course, that was Paul, that young man in the band all the youngsters were into for a while there. What were they called, the… some sort of animal, perhaps, it was…” Aziraphale shifted slightly, “Oh, I can’t remember. Anyway,” and the guitar was gone, banished, and Aziraphale was rambling about wine or cheese or some such nonsense, moving to pull away, and Crowley finally caught his breath and reached out.
“Angel,” he said, barely more than a murmur. Aziraphale glanced down at the hand on his elbow, then over his shoulder at the demon.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale responded. His voice trembled the same way it had throughout the song.
As though he had anything to be afraid of after all this time. After thousands of years as friends, the decades they spent as godfathers. The years they’d spent at this silly little cottage together, eating breakfasts and taking strolls and just getting to relish in the nearness of each other. As though somehow Aziraphale didn’t know how very much the demon loved him, needed him, adored him.
“The song -- the serenading, I mean, it--” He swallowed, trying to get his mouth to cooperate. “It worked alright, I guess.”
There, finally. Aziraphale’s nervousness slipped into a pleased smile. The very edge of smug, right where he belong. He shifted towards Crowley just enough so he could lean forwards a bit. “Really?”
“Really,” he assured, mouth dry, hand still curled around Aziraphale’s arm. “Angel, will--”
And Aziraphale kissed him. Their lips met sweetly, which was nice, and then Aziraphale was speckling little kisses all over his face, which was nicer.
“Would it be too cheesy if I said you have the voice of an angel?” he whispered, and Aziraphale chuckled right against his cheek.
“My lovely, beautiful dear,” he whispered, and twined their hands together.
After a moment they ended up rather tangled, still sitting up. Crowley was half in Aziraphale’s lap just so he could get the angel wrapped fully in his arms. He ducked his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, feeling very much like a snake hiding safely up a tree. With his angel’s hands rubbing small circles on his back, though, he found he didn’t mind.
Physical affection like this… he’d never known he needed it until now. He’d never had the chance to have it, not really. It always seemed to be tied to other things, things he really had no interest in. He’d seen humans cuddling before, of course, and even kissing and touching and to a certain extent it had seemed rather lovely. (Well, if it could have been with a certain angel.) But then they’d move on to… what they did next, and, well. That sort of ruined the whole bubbly feeling that Crowley had going on.
(Just as well at the time. He was a demon -- he shouldn’t be feeling bubbly like that.)
But now, with Aziraphale here and real and warm, he was undeniably soft. There was no script for this, there was no pressure. He was perfectly content to just hold his angel and be held here in the dark so neither of them had to feel silly about it. He nuzzled into Aziraphale’s neck, pressing his closed lips against it in an effort to feel all of his warmth.
“I love you,” he thought. Then he realized he’d said it aloud, so he repeated it for good measure. “I love you, angel.”
Aziraphale hummed in that overly pleased way of his. “I know my darling. Believe me, I do.” Crowley hugged him more tightly. Aziraphale chuckled breathlessly.
I’ll hold you for the rest of my life.
Crowley could wish for nothing more.