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“Crowley, my dear. Do wake up, please.”
The voice was soft but the hand on his arm, holding tightly, was decidedly less so. He groaned as dramatically as possible and threw his other arm over his eyes.
“Angel, there better be a damn good reason-”
“You’ve been asleep for six weeks, Crowley.”
The information was slow to get from his ears to his sluggish brain, but in the end it managed to hack a path through and get to the relevant cells. Six weeks? That wasn’t so long for him. What had got the angel bothered enough to wake him? Must be important. He was aware, vaguely, that some of the brain cells who’d woken up first were trying to force something upfront and he let them do so, because perhaps they had some idea what was going on.
And why had Aziraphale said it like that, a little bit pissed off and little bit sad, and a little bit like -
Oh shit.
Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he sat up so fast that he almost knocked the angel off the bed.
“Angel, did we stop Armageddon? Oh shit, we did. We stopped it. And you let me - I’ve been asleep for six bloody weeks?”
He’d never known why, but his mouth always tasted of metal after a long sleep, and he poked his tongue out experimentally. The air was cool, and he realised it must be at least October. There was a scent of plant food in the air, chemical and foreign, and he narrowed his eyes at the angel, who had scrambled to his feet and now stood beside the bed, wringing his hands.
“Have you been giving the plants food?”
Aziraphale waved a hand.
“I didn’t let you sleep, my dear. You are your own demon. But yes, you’ve been asleep for six weeks. And yes, I have been looking after them, the poor things, but I’m afraid they rather needed a pick me up. I think that they have been missing you.”
It was a lot of information to take in, and Crowley put his head in his hands. Firstly, they’d stopped Armageddon. Adam had faced down Satan, looked him in the eye and sent him away. Secondly, he’d had the longest nap since the nineteenth century. Thirdly, Aziraphale had been here, in his flat, not only after the world didn’t end but also enough to tend to the plants and then to decide that he didn’t want Crowley to sleep anymore.
And fourthly, his brain supplied, the angel looked different.
That one was new, and Crowley immediately uncovered his eyes to confirm it for himself. Aziraphale still stood there as though he was unsure of his welcome, rocking on his heels, and looking everywhere but at Crowley. He did look different.
Aziraphale, who had worn the same coat for over a century, looked different. For a start, he was wearing a knitted jumper in place of his waistcoat, a jumper in a daring shade of forest green. And his face -
“Angel, call me crazy here but are you - growing a beard?”
“Oh.” Aziraphale lifted a hand to his face and touched it gently. “Um, yes. I am.”
Crowley blinked up at him, hugging his knees to his chest. The hair on the angel’s face was a slightly darker shade of blond than that on his head, trimmed neatly into a short beard. It was such a bizarre thing to have woken up to that Crowley pinched his leg, just to check that he wasn’t dreaming.
“Okay, cool,” he said eventually, when the pinch hurt. “We’ll come back to that. What’s happened? Why did you wake me?”
As he spoke, the rest of Crowley’s brain finally struggled to consciousness. And it was screaming that Aziraphale was here, in his room. In his bedroom. Even on the night before they were dragged in for their punishments, the angel hadn’t come in here. He’d stayed out on the sofa, with a miracled book, and Crowley had spent the whole night tossing and turning and wishing that he was brave enough to go back out and just kiss him, because what if they were executed in the morning? But he hadn’t, and the next day they’d swapped over and gone to their work.
Then the Ritz? Yes, the Ritz. Where Crowley had thought, for a wild moment, that Aziraphale was going to lean across the table and kiss him instead, be the first one to make the move. But he didn’t, and Crowley dropped him off at the bookshop and then - well, he’d obviously come here and slept.
“Um, nothing happened. And I’m sorry that I woke you. But I did think that - now we’re - if you aren’t averse to it -”
“Spit it out, angel.”
Crowley unfolded his legs and got unsteadily to his feet. He was still tired, deep down in what might once have been his soul, and he couldn’t bear to have Aziraphale here. It was hurt, and he was so tired of hurt.
“I had hoped you’d join me for dinner. Just a takeaway, if you’d like. At the bookshop.”
“You woke me up for that?”
“Well, yes. And I suppose that I rather missed your company, my dear. You did say that we were on our own side now and I did hope that might mean we could, you know. Spend more time together.”
Aziraphale was blushing, the same way that he always did when he had to voice any thought that skirted too closely to an Emotion, and the beard on his cheeks made the colour even deeper than usual. Crowley fought a sudden urge to reach out and touch the angel’s cheek, to feel the new sensation beneath his fingertips. A thought flitted through his mind that perhaps other hair on Aziraphale’s body was this colour too, and he swallowed, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Sure, angel. Dinner sounds lovely.”
Between the fact that it was suddenly autumn, and that Aziraphale was looking different to usual, Crowley briefly entertained the idea that he’d woken up in an alternate universe. But the Bentley felt the same beneath his hands, and Aziraphale still clung to his seat as though it would save him as Crowley sped through the rainy streets, so probably he was just feeling buzzed from his nap. He remembered deciding to do it now, how the ache to touch Aziraphale after the Ritz had been too much, an itch as though he was about to shed or to moult, but facing either of those would be easier than facing the idea that the angel still didn’t want him.
He was so tired.
“What would you say to sushi?” Aziraphale asked. “I can order it now.”
And he took out a phone. A mobile phone. Aziraphale took out a phone and he dialled a number, like a person who knew how to use a mobile phone. Crowley gaped, wondering if he had woken in a parallel world after all.
“Angel, how-”
But Aziraphale was already talking, in rapid Japanese, and Crowley decided to concentrate on not crashing the car. This evening was weird enough already.
“When did you get a phone?” he asked, as soon as Aziraphale had hung up. “Who got you a phone?”
“I got it myself, my dear,” Aziraphale said, tucking it back into his pocket. “I thought it was quite time that I did.”
“Oh.”
The bookshop, thankfully, was unchanged. Crowley collapsed on the same sofa and accepted wine in the same glass, and Aziraphale sat on his same chair and crossed his legs neatly in the same old way. And he gave the delivery man the same smile as he took the bag of sushi, and they sat together at the same table.
“Did you have a good sleep?” Aziraphale asked, choosing a piece of dragon roll and holding it out to Crowley, who took it and shoved it in his mouth.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Good.”
“How have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been enjoying the quiet myself,” Aziraphale smiled tightly. “I haven’t even opened the shop. I found that I was quite tired myself.”
“Well, it’s been a tough few years,” Crowley said, accepting another piece of the roll. “Can’t blame yourself for being worn out.”
Aziraphale nodded, his mouth full of his beloved sushi, a small drop of soy sauce catching in the new hair on his chin. Crowley grinned. This was more normal, watching Aziraphale eat, and drinking enough wine himself to knock out an elephant. With that thought, he got lazily to his feet and wandered through to the little kitchen to fetch another bottle. When he came back, he caught Aziraphale gazing at him, for just a moment, and the itch edged up the back of his neck at those blue eyes searching for him. He rubbed it away, and flung himself back into his chair. He could do this. If this was what Aziraphale wanted, he could do it. They could have cosy dinners and drink wine together, and talk about meaningless things, and it would be fine. He’d done it before. He’d done it for six thousand years, and it hadn’t killed him yet.
But there were still a few things to address. Not yet though. He’d let his angel enjoy his dinner first.
So he sat for longer, allowed Aziraphale to feed him choice pieces of sushi, and even ate a steamed bun afterwards, much to the angel’s delight.
Then, with bottle number three, they went to the backroom. Crowley went to his sofa, and Aziraphale glanced at his chair then, very carefully, sat down on the other end of the sofa. Crowley sat back up so fast he was surprised he didn’t swallow his tongue.
“Angel, what the bloody hell is up with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” Crowley took his glasses off and peered at Aziraphale’s face. He wasn’t even messing around. He didn’t know.
“Number one, you’re not wearing your waistcoat. Number two, you’re growing a beard. A beard. Number three, you came and woke me up from a nap which you have literally never done before, even during the bloody First World War. Number four, you have a mobile phone and you know how to use it. And now you sit here, when you’ve literally never sat on this sofa with me, ever. Shall I carry on?”
Crowley counted the points off on his fingers, his voice getting louder and louder until he was almost shouting. Aziraphale grew redder and redder with each one, how his breaths became short, and his hands clutched so tightly at his glass Crowley thought it was going to break.
“Angel, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. Just - tell me. Please.”
Aziraphale lifted his glass with trembling hands, and Crowley’s heart squeezed, like someone had reached in and tried to carve it from his chest. He clenched his hands on his knees to stop himself reaching out.
“It’s like you said, my dear,” Aziraphale eventually whispered. “We are on our own side now. And I just thought I’d try new things, to show you that I understood what you were saying.”
Crowley bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking.
“In Heaven, the rules were so strict, you know. I’d have liked to grow my hair a little bit longer. Since at least the eighteenth century. But I didn’t because Heaven had rules and I did as I was told. Mostly. But now I could. Or I could grow a beard, just because I wanted to. And I go so slowly for you, I know that, and you’ve been so patient, my dear. So I decided to try new things. Like a jumper, or a mobile telephone. To show you that - well, I’m ready.”
Aziraphale was trembling so much by the end of his speech that Crowley could feel it through the sofa cushions. The angel put his glass down and buried his face in his hands, and Crowley’s treacherous heart tried to crawl up his throat.
“Angel, what do you mean? Please - you’re ready?”
Silence, gasping silence, and then Aziraphale took one hand from his face and reached out blindly, searching until he found Crowley’s fingers and holding them tightly.
Oh.
“Hey, angel,” Crowley said. “Look at me, please.”
Slowly, Aziraphale lowered his other hand and glanced sideways at Crowley. His face was still red, and his eyes were wet, but at least he looked. And just as Crowley wasn’t sure he could bear it any longer, Aziraphale shifted and threw himself into Crowley’s arms.
Their first hug, ever. If Crowley found himself clinging a little too tightly, he didn’t think Aziraphale would mind. The angel had such a grip on him that Crowley wasn’t sure he’d be able to wiggle out of it even if he wanted to.
Which he very much didn’t want to.
“When you went to sleep, I was so worried,” Aziraphale mumbled into his shoulder. “I thought - I thought you didn’t feel like that anymore, and you didn’t know how to tell me. I thought I’d missed my chance.”
Crowley felt a sob rising in his throat, and he fought it down, because he had to ask.
“Missed what chance?”
“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbled. “Oh, my dear. I love you so much. And now I can. Our side. Our rules.”
If he was honest, Crowley had stopped hearing anything after the first love word. He slumped back in his seat, Aziraphale falling with him, and he closed his eyes tightly against the tears he could feel forming in them. The press of Aziraphale’s body was grounding, the only thing that was, especially when the angel pulled away enough to take Crowley’s face in his hands and kiss him.
Kiss him.
Aziraphale was kissing him, timid and soft, but kissing him. Kissing him.
It was too late. The tears were already coming, hot and so bloody embarrassing, until he realised that Aziraphale was crying too. Crowley’s hands clutched at the soft jumper and took his first opportunity to bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“Oh my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’m sorry. It’s too much.”
“No, angel. S’not. Just gimme a minute.”
And he did, a rather lovely minute in which he stroked his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and rested his bearded cheek against Crowley’s smooth one.
Eventually, Crowley felt safe enough to lift his head.
“Hey angel,” he murmured, a smile feeling like it would crack his face in half. He ran a thumb over Aziraphale’s lips and watched as his eyes fluttered closed. “I love you too.”