Chapter Text
It was peaceful evenings like these, Aziraphale reflected, that made him quite pleased he and Crowley had managed to save the world after all. Everything felt quieter than usual, right on the edge of lonely, but certainly peaceful. It was nice, it was something he hadn’t felt in a while. Or perhaps he had, and it was simply the sort of experience that slipped from your mind as soon as you left it.
He sipped his tea mildly as he settled onto the bench, looking out through the garden at the peachy sky. The sun was just dipping below the horizon, painting the clouds deep reds and indigos in complicated slips of color.
All as peaceful, perfect, as it should be.
It was chilly, to be sure, but Aziraphale had a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck -- a scarf made by his beloved Crowley, no less -- and a new ring around his finger[1], and--
“Angel!”
Ah, he could almost imagine that a voice was calling for him from the far bedroom of the house, rattling through the shutters rudely. But that couldn’t be, because he’d only just sat down and he’d asked, begged Crowley to give him just a moment of peace. He’d been caring for a seemingly feverish demon for about fourteen hours, but it felt more like fourteen centuries.
Not that he didn’t love Crowley. He did, dearly. But he would also love one blooming moment of rest if such a thing existed any longer.
“Angel!” His voice was surprisingly strong and unbelievably persistent.
Aziraphale shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He reminded himself, for the upteenth time, that patience was a virtue, and stepped inside the cottage.
It was a modest place, but comfortable[2]. The front door opened into the kitchen, and from there one could either walk straight into the den or take the short hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom.
Crowley’s insistent cry rose again from the master bedroom. Aziraphale might have been worried if not for the heavy taste of mischief that radiated out from its demonic epicenter. It tasted like fresh fruit and burning pine and the bright sting of alcohol. It tasted like Crowley.
Aziraphale poked his head into their bedroom. “Yes, my love?” he asked with all the sweetness he could muster.
Crowley was all curled up in a vortex of every single blanket they owned, and a few extra he seemed to have pulled from the ether. His yellow eyes blinked out over top of the pile pitifully. Since he’d been tucked into bed, his pupils had been wide and dilated. Nearly round, really. It was endearing, in a way, but also a bit worrying.
Crowley mumbled something through the blankets, and Aziraphale frowned. Now he felt like being quiet.
“What’s that?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Pretty,” Crowley repeated. His eyes sparkled, partially with fever but partially, Aziraphale suspected, with mischief. “You are. You’re gorgeous.”
Good lord. He didn’t seem entirely coherent.
“Ah, yes, well. That’s very sweet of you, dear,” Aziraphale said, walking over to pat his forehead. When his fingers brushed against Crowley’s skin, he felt as though he’d jabbed a fork into a wall socket. If such a jolt was pleasant.
What a peculiar fever. Crowley was burning up still, the warmth somehow hitting even Aziraphale in an overwhelming wave that flowed through his whole body. It made his head go a bit fuzzy. He’d no idea that snakes could even get this warm. His feet had always been like blocks of ice if he curled around the angel in his sleep.
Aziraphale tried to remember what he had been doing. All he wanted to do was to curl up around Crowley and never let him budge again.
“Is that all you wanted?” Aziraphale asked. “To… comment on my appearance?”
Crowley shut his eyes and leaned into the touch, humming. “Radiant. Ought to tell you more often,” he said. “Think it all the time.”
Aziraphale was only blushing a bit, a fact which he was rather proud of. He felt he ought to pull his hand away from Crowley, but couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason why. “Well. Ah, thank you, my dear --”
“Husband,” Crowley whispered, his own hand snaking -- hah -- out from the blankets so he could stare at the ring on his fourth finger. When he’d tried to propose to the angel with a ring he’d bought in town, Aziraphale had returned the favor by granting him his own golden ring. It looked quite dashing with Crowley’s eyes, even bright with fever as they were.
“Well, we aren’t married quite yet,” he reminded Crowley, and good lord once more because was he tearing up? “But soon,” he comforted, brushing back a few locks of hair that hadn’t actually fallen into Crowley’s face. “We can do that soon, once you’re better, of course.” And once I figure out just what it is from which you need to get better.
“I’m better,” Crowley said. “Never been.”
Aziraphale frowned in confusion. “What?”
“What?” Yellow eyes blinked, fixed intently on Aziraphale.
“You said you’ve ‘never been.’ Never been what?”
“Never been lots of things,” Crowley said, and although he was picking up his train of thought once more, Aziraphale had the distinct feeling that it was heading out on an entirely different track. He’d taken hold of Aziraphale’s hand now and was kissing his knuckles. Aziraphale has a very hard time focusing on anything else. “Never been a … a whale, never been a witch, never been an angel --”
“That’s not true,” Aziraphale pointed out gently. The hush of his voice distantly surprised him. “You’ve been an angel.”
“Never been a demon, then,” Crowley grumbled, frowning into the blankets.
Aziraphale took his hand back and let the point rest.
He had a thought. “Have you been drinking?” he asked, sniffing the air. He couldn’t smell anything, nothing but the soft lilac conditioner that Crowley used, but that didn’t necessarily mean that the demon was sober.
Crowley’s eyes went wide. “No. Want to?” He had a hand poised, as though on the brink of summoning a bottle.
Absolutely not. Aziraphale decided to ignore the question.
“Dear,” he began, mustering all the patience at his disposal. He found his reserves to be running unnaturally dry. “You called me in here and told me that I was… well, you commented on my appearance --”
“Pretty,” Crowley interrupted.
“--Yes, pretty, very well.” He sighed. “Did you need anything?”
Crowley seemed to think very hard about this. Aziraphale tensed with each passing moment. He could practically feel the grandfather clock ticking all the way from the den.
“Do I… need…” He trailed off until he was simply staring at the angel. Aziraphale was struck with the distinct fear that this silent staring would continue indefinitely as he remembered that Crowley didn’t actually need to blink.
“Yes, yes, or want anything. What would make you feel better, my love?”
“Soup,” Crowley said brightly.
Aziraphale blinked in disbelief. “Soup?”
Crowley grinned dreamily. “Yeah, soup. Love the stuff. From the… the place we go, with the people.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “From the restaurant in town?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. You’re smart,” he added, as though related. “Always smart, you.”
“You want… What kind of soup would you like, my dear?” He was trying very hard to keep Crowley focused. It seemed like he had to address him directly every few moments or he would get this dazed look and stare at some random part of Aziraphale without blinking. It was charming and off putting in equal parts.
“M’ favorite,” he said, as though that would help.
“Crowley, I have never seen you eat soup a day in your life.”
Crowley giggled -- giggled -- and Aziraphale wondered whether he’d perhaps fallen asleep, and this was all really a dream like Crowley had once mentioned.
“What?”
“A day. Like I’d eat soup at night. Jus’ -- imagine, at night, and -- eating soup.”
Aziraphale put a hand to his face for the briefest of moments. Deep breath, there’s a chap, he told himself, before opening his eyes again. He reached down and took Crowley’s hand in his, patting it gently. Dear, even his hands had that bubbly wall socket quality about them.
“Alright. I’ll go grab some soup for you then, how’s that?”
“Thanksss, angel,” Crowley said, eyes already drifting shut. In another moment he was asleep.
Aziraphale walked out of the house in a daze. Thanks. Crowley had actually thanked him, Aziraphale thought, slipping into the Bentley and turning it on with a snap. In all their years of knowing each other, it had been Should I think you? this and Better not that. He could hardly recall a time Crowley had actually thanked him, he reflected as he took a right from the driveway onto a dirt road, heading towards Sudfield. Always danced around the word. Things were different now, weren’t they?
It was that moment that he realized something very different indeed. He was driving the Bentley. And he was speeding.
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Footnotes
1 If there were to be a story told about this scarf and ring, it would probably be approximately thirteen thousand words long, and it would probably be titled The One Where Crowley Knits. It would also likely be in this same series.
But, if you’d rather simply get on with this story, it’s simply important that you know Aziraphale and Crowley proposed to each other while making about as much of a cock up out of it as you’d expect. Also, some metaphysical shenanigans happened and Crowley nearly froze to discorporation. But it really wasn’t as dramatic as all that, and he’s quite safe and happy at the moment, as will soon be shown. [return to text]
2 And if they had taken a few liberties to stretch out it’s space in ways that would make any realtor jealously confused, well, that was just between them.[return to text]