Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometime mid-October 2010: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

Crowley was locking his bike, strapping the lock to the iron rod it needed to be attached to in order to not get stolen in the godforsaken university town, when there was a frustrated huff from behind him. Mind you, huffs of frustration were not uncommon at universities, but it seemed out of place since it was 6.30 on a Sunday morning and no one but Crowley was usually insane enough to have left their house yet. Intrigued, Crowley turned around, pushing his tinted glasses up his nose.

The noise, though noise would imply that it was an unpleasant and unwelcomed sound, appeared to have come from a blonde man in a light beige dress coat. From the looks of it, the man was trying to rest his bike against a lamp post, for what reason Crowley could not fathom, without much success. Smirking, Crowley sorted out his own bike before clearing his throat. “Oi!”

The man, the ridiculously blonde man, looked up as if a deer caught in headlights and furrowed his brows. His bike fell, much to Crowley’s amusement, as he stepped away from it. “What?” His voice was kind, if a voice could be described using such a four-letter word, verging on nervous.

“Whatcha doing?” Crowley raised an eyebrow and could not stop the grin that spread over his face as the man bent down to pick up said bike--the man was struggling far too much for it to not be hilarious.

“I, uh, well,” The man sighed and dropped the bike again. “I need to lock my bike, obviously.”

Crowley smirked at him, unusually happy for the time of day. “Obviously.” Crowley took a step closer, flinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “’S just that using the lamp post isn’t allowed.” Crowley gestured to the large red and white sign sat on an identical lamp post right opposite the blonde. “’S right there.”

The man looked at where Crowley was pointing and gave such a genuine gasp that Crowley actually found it endearing. Really quite endearing, in fact. “Oh.” The man said, yet again leaning down to pick up the bike that did everything but agree with him, it seemed. Crowley took pity on him and strutted over, reaching for the bike himself.

“I’m Crowley.” He said casually, lifting one eyebrow at the small flush that rose from the man’s neck and spread with impressive speed to his face. Not that Crowley was looking or paying attention, he just appeared to be observant. Clearly.

“That’s a lovely name, unusual, I haven’t he-“

“’S my surname.” Crowley put the bike down next to his own, reaching his hand out for the lock and the key that were still dangling from the other man’s hands. As the man, say your name so I can refer to you as something less impersonal, stepped closer Crowley could see that his eyelashes were as light as his hair, that his eyes seemed to be a mix of blue and hazel, and that he had a rounded, yet strangely stoic, face which looked nice. Another undignified four-letter word, though there really wasn’t another way to describe it, so he let that slide.

“Well, it’s very nice.” The man’s voice took on a stubborn tone and Crowley smirked. The man with the kind voice, the nice face, the beige coat, and the bad luck with bikes, had a temper to accompany it all, how very intriguing. “It’s rude to interrupt people, by the way.” He sniffed but appeared to be unable to supress a smile as Crowley handed him back his key, having successfully locked the bike in probably a tenth of the time it had taken the other man to simply get it to stand up.

“It’s rude to not introduce oneself in turn when someone tells you their name.” Crowley pointed out without any heat to the words. He wasn’t much for being very polite, but he presumed that being rude, or even remotely neutral, would not sit well with the man before him.

“Aziraphale.” The man said, tiling his chin downward. It was still relatively dark outside, but Crowley could still see the way Aziraphale pressed his lips together as if waiting for some type of reaction.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley chuckled and took a step closer to the man. At this proximity Crowley realised that the blonde, on top of everything else, smelled good too, of rose and something more herbal. Not that he noticed. Much.

“It’s the name of the angel who guarded the eastern gate in the garden of Eden.” Aziraphale explained.

“That’s, uh, cool.” Crowley said hesitantly, and he was surprised to realise that he actually meant it.

“I have to go. It was lovely to meet you, though.” Aziraphale said softly, reaching out his hand. Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his shades, seriously what century did they live in, but shook it, nonetheless. Aziraphale’s hand was soft, though he somehow found that entirely unsurprising. “And thank you. For the bike.” The man nodded towards said bike and headed off before Crowley could reply, half jogging towards the theology building.

Crowley just shook his head and headed toward the modern and medieval language and linguistics building.

Well, that was a thing.

Later that same October: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

It was lunchtime, well lunch time was hardly A Thing, but it was 3 pm and Crowley was getting lunch in the cafeteria of the theology building of all places--his regular spot had closed due to water damage. Ridiculous, if you asked him.

The theology building was always eerily quiet, one of the reasons he never went there, and it was always filled with similarly quiet people. Sighing as he scanned the cafeteria, he did a double take as, from the corner of his eyes, he spotted a blonde head of familiarly curly hair, turning in said direction before he could register what his body was doing. Aziraphale was sitting at a table by himself and it looked terribly lonely, Crowley thought, especially in a room milling with people.

Having made up his mind, it took Crowley ten seconds to move over to the table, dumping his tray carrying a single sandwich and a cup of coffee haphazardly on top. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped his takeaway cup of (tea, coffee, hot coco? Crowley would have to find out) something, but a bright smile broke out on his face at the sight of Crowley.

“Crowley?” It was a bit breathless the way Aziraphale said it, almost serene. “What ah,“ He looked around, appearing to search for the right words. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Thought I’d change degrees.” Crowley huffed out, taking a seat and immediately reaching for his coffee.

“Oh really?” The genuine excitement in his eyes made Crowley wince a bit.

“’S--actually, no. It was a joke. Just lunch.” He stated sheepishly, gesturing to his sandwich. “The café in the MMLL is closed. ‘S why I’m here.”

Aziraphale had the audacity to look disappointed at his words, nodding his head as he took a sip from his mug. “Oh, I see.”

“Do I really look like a guy who studies theology?” He joked lightly and it seemed to do the trick. “Whatcha reading?” Crowley continued when the other man just stared at his hands, having taken note of the book resting beside the blonde’s hand, open to some page in the back. The book looked old and the only thing Crowley could think of that was old and related to theology was the bible. It didn’t really look like a bible though; the text was too big.

“Little Women.” There was a small smile on the other man’s face as he replied, carefully closing the book. Well, that certainly wasn’t the bible.

“’S it any good?” Crowley leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, nodding towards it. “It looks old.”

“It’s a beautiful story.” Aziraphale said softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “It was a birthday gift. From my parents.” He explained, a hint of anxiousness in his tone. Crowley furrowed his brows slightly.

“Well,” Crowley started, unwrapping his sandwich as he spoke. “I’m glad it’s good, then.”

The other man hummed and looked at Crowley properly for the first time since he sat down. His eyes looked positively sky blue in the bright and sterile surroundings that made up the theology building.  They were actually rather beautiful, much like the man to which they belonged, Crowley noted. “What do you do at the MMLL then? Modern or medieval languages, or linguistics?” Aziraphale asked.

Impressed that he knew what MMLL meant, Crowley chuckled softly. “Linguistics, MPhil and combined PhD. What do you get up to in the theology building? Nothing unseemly, I presume.” He wiggled his eyebrows jokingly, earning a small laugh from the man opposite him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Linguistics has always interested me, language is everywhere. It must be fascinating.” Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. “I’ve just started my PhD, I’m focusing on the New Testament, though I won’t bore you with the details.”

Aziraphale’s dismissal of his studies confused Crowley slightly. All the PhD students Crowley had had the (dis)pleasure of talking to were all (too) eager to share the exact ideas, outlines, and possible outcomes of their theses, never caring that Crowley had no clue what they were going on about. “I’m not easily bored.” Crowley lied, though he had this strange suspicion that whatever Aziraphale had to say would be worth listening to.

“It’s all right, I really ought to get to the library anyway, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said quietly and gathered his things, standing up and offering Crowley a lopsided smile. “It was lovely seeing you again, thank you for the company.” He said before he turned on his heel and walked away from Crowley for the second time.

Frowning, Crowley couldn’t help but track the man as he left, taking note of the slightly hunched shoulders and the way the blonde head was tipped towards the ground. Shaking himself out of the concerned trance he had found himself in for some unknown reason, he noticed some of the other students starring at him.

“Bloody theology building.” Crowley muttered to himself as he, too, gathered his things and walked hastily out of the cafeteria and out into the cool-ish afternoon.

A Tuesday in late November 2010: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

It was late, well kind of late anyway, dark, and Crowley was biking rather too quickly for it to be completely safe, or so the passers-by kept telling him in annoyed voices as he passed. 

He was passing by King’s College, shivering as heavier rain started to fall, when he saw the head of blonde curly hair he hadn’t seen in a few weeks. Despite Crowley having spent almost every weekday ‘lunchtime’ in the theology building, Aziraphale had been nowhere to be seen. Not that Crowley had been keeping track, of course, one just notices these things.

Slowing down, Crowley smiled to himself as he jumped off his bike, jogging the last few steps to where Aziraphale was walking. The man had headphones in and wasn’t carrying an umbrella, so his curls were dripping onto his beige coat. “Aziraphale.” He all but shouted and tapped the man on his right shoulder.

Aziraphale turned to him, wide-eyed and kind-of-really drenched, and gave him the most dumfounded expression Crowley had seen in a while. “Crowley?”

“Where’s your bike?” Crowley asked nonchalantly, realising that it made no sense for Aziraphale to walk since he did own a bike. Rule number, well, one as a Cambridge student: if you can bike, bike, if you can’t, walk really fast or get a cab. “Got it stolen already, did you? Chained it to another lamp post perhaps?” He joked as he reached into his rucksack. He wasn’t one to usually think about being practical, but he did always carry an umbrella with him. England tended to do that to you.

He cowered the both of them with the large black umbrella, Aziraphale giving him a grateful little smile before removing one of his headphones. “I gave it away.” The blonde mumbled quietly, focusing his gaze on the wet pebbled road on which they were walking.

Crowley stopped and raised his eyebrows over his tinted glasses. “You what?” He chuckled.

“I gave it away.” Aziraphale said louder this time, turning to look at Crowley with overdramatic despair glowing in his eyes. “I gave it away, okay.”

“What, why?” Crowley laughed as Aziraphale kept walking, taking a few brisk steps to keep up with him. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“My friend got her bike stolen and, well, I live much closer to our lecture building, so it only made sense for her to have it.” The man said lowly, running a hand though his wet hair. “Obviously.”

Crowley, ever so tactful and subtle, nearly dropped the bike he was leading, gaping slightly. “No, no. Not at all obvious, actually. So, what? You’re just walking everywhere now? Without an umbrella?” He gently bumped their shoulders together. “Not your smartest move.”

Aziraphale tilted his head towards him and scowled, sighing. “Look, she couldn’t--she doesn’t have the money to buy a new one and I don’t mind walking. As for the umbrella, if you must know, I lost it and all the shops are now closed so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to purchase another one.” Aziraphale’s voice had softened significantly, and Crowley felt a sudden but unmistakably strong wave affection rush over him as he kept looking at the man.

“A literal angel, who would have known.” Crowley said quietly, but apparently loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, judging from the shy smile and awestruck expression the man so obviously tried to hide by looking the other way.

“Hardly.” Aziraphale chuckled quietly. “Anyone would have done the same.”

Shaking his head, Crowley pressed the button at the zebra crossing, looking at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “Whatever you say, guard of the eastern gate.”

“I should never have told you that.” The other man said curtly, his eyes bright.

Crowley had a sudden impulse to reach out and wipe the man’s cheek free of water with his gloved hand but thought better of it. Instead, he cleared his throat and glanced to his right. Downing college, his godforsaken home for the coming four years, was a mere two-minute walk away. “Where’re you heading to?” He asked as the light turned green.

“Home.”

“And where’s home, if you don’t mind me asking? What college?” Crowley asked, frowning at a particularly unobservant by-passer who wacked their shopping bag into his bike.

“Oh, I’m in private accommodation, near the station. Jesus didn’t have any accommodation that suited me, really.” The man said and as they passed some closed shops, Crowley being able to see his face more clearly thanks to the light from the various lit up signs. He looked tired, he had dark rings under his eyes, and something about the way he held himself made Crowley wish his college wasn’t a few meters in front of them.

“You okay to walk by yourself?” He heard himself ask, closing his eyes in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. What the hell are you doing?

Luckily, Aziraphale just laughed and stopped to look at Crowley more intently. “No, I’m incapable of walking the short walk to the station.” He shook his head but smiled nonetheless, his eyes a dark hazel this time around. Really quite gorgeous, Crowley thought to himself.

“Jesus College, really? Theology researcher, named after a literal angel, and now you belong in Jesus. It’s precious, really.” Crowley said which earned him another one of those scowls that really looked more like a smug version of some kind of mischievous smirk.

“Oh, do shut up.” Aziraphale said softly, taking a step toward Crowley as people tried to pass behind him. “Where do you live, then?”

Crowley lifted his hand from his bike and gestured down the road. “Downing.”

Aziraphale smiled at that and took a step back. “You should get going then, wouldn’t want you to spend more time in this weather than absolutely necessary. Especially since you were kind enough to walk with me.”

“My pleasure, really.” Crowley said earnestly, handing the umbrella to Aziraphale. “Take this, wouldn’t want the rain to ruin your coat.” The other man just stared at the thing thrust into his hands, looking up at Crowley as if he had just saved the world from all trouble-both past, present and feature. It was Crowley’s turn to blush. “Oh, don’t look like that. It’s an umbrella, not a bloody diamond.” He mumbled and refocused his attention on his bike.

“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale whispered, pressing his lips together. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Shut up.” Crowley huffed and lightly clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder, feeling the wet fabric through his gloves. “Well, off you go then.”

Pressing his lips together, the blonde nodded his head and put his headphone back in. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Goodnight, Angel.” Crowley said quietly, Aziraphale making no indication of having heard his reply. Which was for the best, Crowley thought as he got on his bike and carelessly crossed the street, turning onto the college grounds.

***

The following day, as Crowley was sitting by himself eating lunch it the dammed theology building, a black umbrella was suddenly placed beside him, a light blue sticky note attached to it. Crowley lifted his glasses and scanned the cafeteria, catching the back of Aziraphale’s head as said man rushed out of the room.

Chuckling to himself, Crowley un-stuck the note and felt that same wave of affection from the night before wash over him as he read it.

Crowley,

Thank you for lending me your umbrella. Here’s my number, in case I can ever be of assistance to you in return.

Best,

Aziraphale Fell.

Crowley opened his phone and quickly entered the number into his contacts.

To Aziraphale (14.03):

No problem. :)

Midday, 14^th December 2010: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

Crowley was walking with a first-year student called Pepper, elbowing his way through herds of Christmas-crazed people milling about market square as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Having been chosen to show the exchange students around the Christmas market was almost insulting, Crowley had spent most of his time at Cambridge being nothing but snarky with just about everyone, and he could say with unopposed certainty that he’d rather be anywhere but here.

As things tended to not work out the way he wanted them to, here he was all the same, pointing at random things in an attempt to show off the Christmas spirit surrounding them.

“It wouldn’t kill you to try and enjoy Christmas.” The girl pointed out, humming along to one of the Christmas carols currently being played somewhere nearby.

Crowley just glared at her. “I think it just might.” He didn’t hate Christmas, per se, he was just not a people-person so being surrounded by people was not his idea of an ideal, and enjoyable, December-day.

Glancing around, he did a double take as he spotted Aziraphale across from them, an older woman holing him by the arm, and three other people close to his own age, two male and one female, walking just head of them. They were all dressed in similar colours; bright, neutral, and sterile shades of brown and grey. Aziraphale, much to Crowley’s amusement, was even wearing a bowtie and while Crowley would never admit to every having liked bowties, it rather suited him.

As if on cue, Aziraphale glanced up just moments later, almost as if he could feel Crowley staring at him, and gave him a wide smile, lifting his hand in greeting. Before Crowley could do anything other than smile and offer a small wave in return, Aziraphale was ushered away by one of the others in his group.

“I didn’t know you had it in you. Smiling.” Pepper said from his side, a smug expression covering her face as Crowley turned to glare at her.

“Shut up.” He sneered and marched onward.

He still disliked being in charge of the students but at least his day had now gotten just that tiny bit brighter.

December 25, 2010: Mayfair, London.

They were watching the Queen’s speech, Crowley’s family talking through most of it. He really didn’t mind his family, but he couldn’t help but feel like Christmas just became more of a chore as he got older. He tapped away on his phone, listening with half an ear as the Queen blessed everyone and their mother, rolling his eyes every now and then.

Out of nowhere, his phone buzzed quietly in his hand, notifying him of a new text. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

From Aziraphale (15.05):  

Merry Christmas, Crowley.

Smiling, Crowley typed in a quick reply, glancing around and feeling notably happy all of a sudden.

To Aziraphale (15.05):

Merry Christmas Aziraphale

Present day, Early February 2020: London, Greater London.

Anthony J. Crowley, supposed bad-mouthed-difficult-to-work-with actor and self-proclaimed botanist, was having a tremendously average Monday. Hoisting his messenger bag higher up on his shoulder, in the same effort making certain that the cap he was wearing properly covered his face, he left the comfort of the town car and strode towards the modern multi-storey building in which they were meeting.

He wasn’t entirely certain why he had been summoned, only that his presence was needed at the table read and general run-through of an upcoming project he was to star in. The entire premise of said project did resonate with him--kind-of-good warlock trying to save the world from itself while juggling thousands of years of having loved and lost particularly interesting mortals. It was a heart-breaking story, really, Crowley couldn’t put it any differently, and despite his feigned nonchalance to the whole ‘we’d like your input in the last creative stages’, he was reluctantly honoured to be asked to be a part of the development of a project of this kind.

Having said this, however, the meeting today would not consist of the general throwing of ideas but rather of a read through of the rough script and a discussion with some specialist from some top university to ensure historical accuracy. With Crowley’s academic ‘career’, he was rather looking forward to being thrust back into that general scholarly ‘this is wrong because X said so’ elitist mentality. Also, it was always a truly lovely start to the week when creative minds met academic bigots--while Crowley’s idea of a good time did not generally involve such a recipe for disaster, it would be hilarious to witness, nonetheless.

“You’re late.” A voice said from his right as he entered the building.

“Barely.” He muttered and removed the ugly cap, rolling his eyes.

“You listen to me,” Bea, also referred to as Beelzebub albeit behind closed doors (the devil incarnate, well and truly), clipped, yanking him to a halt by the sleeve of his leather jacket. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to them expectantly. “The only reason Hastur hasn’t fired you from this job yet is because you’re bloody good at what you do. This is unacceptable, you’re thirty minutes late, Anthony.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley set towards the lifts. “’S not my fault you lot decided it would be a good idea to meet at noon.” That earned him a light slap on the shoulder from his manager and he couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m good at what I do, huh?”

“You’re impossible.” Bea sighed and pressed the button to the 10^th floor. The silence in the lift was tangible and he wasn’t sure if it was entirely his doing but the pissed-off energy radiating from the only other person there seemed to suggest that it was. “Listen, the bloke they’ve called in to consult is,” They trailed off and pursed their lips. “he’s peculiar so don’t go and scare him off, okay? He’ll have to run through your lines and the correct wordings-“

“Alright, hold one for just one moment.” Crowley snarled. “I’m a bloody linguist, I don’t need to be told how to properly word things.”

“Yeah? Because last time I checked you did your thesis on gay slang and not on diachronic verbal infections and theological rituals.” They pointed out and exited the lift.

Crowley followed their lead as they made their way past various offices, annoyed. He wished the people at Cambridge had told him that a PhD, having a literal doctoral title, would get him nowhere outside the inner circles of academia. Preposterous, if you asked him. “Who is this person anyway? A linguist? I thought he was a historian.” He muttered.

“Oh, you’re going to love this.” Bea looked at him and gave a wicked smile, mischievous as it lit up their face. “He’s a theology scholar, specialising in books of prophesy and historical theological literature.” Bea said overly-dramatically, beaming as they stopped in front of a closed door. “Now, be nice and, for God’s sake, apologise for your tardiness.”

Crowley just rolled his eyes, again, and plastered the kindest smirk he could muster onto his face and followed his manager inside. He gave a quick survey of the room, as one does, taking in the—what 20-ish?—people currently sat around what looked like a seminar classroom table, gaze passing over, and quickly returning to, a man sat immediately to his left.

The man’s hair was blonde and curly, his eyes were sky-blue in the brightness of the room, he wore a beige tailored suite with a blue button up shirt and a bloody bowtie, and Crowley suddenly had to grab onto the door frame to keep himself from toppling over right there in front of everyone.

 After a few moments, he willed his eyes to raise from the floor only for them to automatically refocus on the man before him. He looked slightly older now, of course he does you idiot it’s been six years, but he still carried himself with that innocence Crowley had found so endearing when he first had met him. Despite the panic rising in his chest, Crowley was aware of Bea trying to speak to him, catching the “take five minutes then come straight back here” and thus, naturally, bolted out of the room. 

He took the stairs, jogging down to the ground floor, and stepped out into the grey London weather, wasting no time in lighting a cigarette. The burn from the smoke eased his racing heart a bit, clearing his head just enough to notice a few people doing a double take as they passed him on the pavement. He tried to school his face into something more neutral as he leaned against the exterior of the building.

If he was going to be photographed smoking, he might as well look good doing it.

The doors to the building opened a few moments later, and Crowley looked down just as a familiar voice said. “You’re not allowed to smoke here.”

Closing his eyes, Crowley couldn’t help but bark out a laugh at the obvious throwback to their first meeting. "Yeah?” He breathed, daring a look at the other man. Aziraphale was smiling softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling more prominently than it had all those years ago-it was like a blow to the face, Crowley realised, all the memories flooding back of the two of them being young and naïve and so fond of each other that neither of them had known what to do.

He cleared his throat and dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the asphalt with the toe of his shoe.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, taking a mall step towards him. He twisted his fingers in front of his stomach, a nervous habit Crowley had used to find both insanely annoying and unfairly endearing. “If I had known—Crowley, if I had known you’d be here I would have declined or tried to get in contact with you. I had no idea, please believe me.”

Crowley just shook his head and pushed himself off the wall, taking a few steps towards the man. “’S alright.” He said softly, reaching out his hand for Aziraphale to take. “I was just surprised to see you, you look—you look well.” Crowley said, smiling tentatively as Aziraphale shook his hand.

Something flashed in the other man’s gaze then, sadness and something Crowley didn’t dare think about. “You as well.” Aziraphale breathed, dropping his hand.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, Crowley thought as their eyes met again, Aziraphale’s that bright hazel colour that complemented his skin tone so well.

Chapter Text

February 1^st, 2011: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

It was Friday, the busiest time of week for the local theatre company in Cambridge, and Crowley was wiping his stage makeup off. Smiling a bit to himself, he chucked the last wipe in the bin and gathered his things, walking the narrow corridors--left, then right, then left again--until he reached the backdoor.

It was cold so he tugged his coat tighter around himself as he left, still smelling the hairspray some lady had coated his hair in. “Hamlet didn’t have crazy hair” she’d said to which Crowley had muttered “and how would you know?”.

Not many people knew about his little hobby, Crowley had made sure of it—he could recall a handful of professors who had seen him, congratulated him, and made Crowley hate them and himself and the theatre in the process, but that was the extent of it. This (and very much the fact that the backdoor led to an empty and gloomy alley) was, Crowley told himself, why he jumped and cursed aloud when a voice called out for him from behind. No other reason.

He turned and smiled nervously. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale, standing about five meters away, was wearing a bespoke suit, a well-fitted waistcoat, a dark beige dress coat, and a floral silk scarf tied loosely around his neck. His hair was tamer than usual, parted to the side and combed neatly to the left. Crowley felt a rush of endearment run through him, the nervous grin quieting down to a fond little tilt of the lip as the blonde opened his mouth. “Oh Crowley, you were marvellous.”

Crowley ducked his head down, tucking his chin into his chest to hide the deep blush that was currently travelling up his neck. “What are you doing here?” He managed to croak out.

Smiling and taking a few steps towards Crowley, Aziraphale twisted his hands together as he said. “My family and I usually travel to London to see a West End play on Fridays, but the trains were cancelled today—something about the wind. I seem to recall it being due to the wind, at least,” Aziraphale trailed off and Crowley chuckled fondly--rambling, such a textbook nervous tick. “My brother Gabriel managed to get us some tickets to Hamlet instead and, well, you can only imagine my absolute surprise when I saw you walk onto the stage, Crowley.”

Crowley shook his head and straightened his back. He found it difficult to look at the other man, distracting, so he settled his gaze on a lamppost behind his head instead. “Aziraphale,” He sighed, the brightness of the lamppost near painful in the darkness, despite his glasses. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”  He said, and for good measure… “Ever.”

“Why ever not? You’re phenomenal. My parents knew something was up with me, they kept looking at me. What if, if I can’t tell them why I was acting like a—a, well, not like I usually do, they think I’m on--drugs.” Aziraphale whispered loudly and somehow that oxymoron fit right in with his aesthetic. “Or something.” He said, his mouth rounded into a scandalised o.

“Stop spiralling.” Crowley groaned. “’S--just ‘cause, okay. I don’t like people--knowing.” He tugged his coat even tighter around himself as a cold gust of wind rustled his har across his forehead. It had gotten a bit long now, wavy at the ends. He should have remembered his hair tie. “And drugs? Really?” He snorted and returned his gaze to Aziraphale, to his hair to be precise.

“It’s a great shame.” Aziraphale breathed and tugged his scarf from around his neck. “Also, take this. You look like you're about to die from hypothermia, Crowley.” He placed the material around Crowley’s neck, tying it once. It wasn’t a warm scarf, it was silk for God’s sake, but the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne (the one with rose and herbs) and the very sweet smell that was Aziraphale himself made it burn like hellfire. “And maybe I do drugs, what do you know?” He huffed. 

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Crowley’s eyes found Aziraphale’s--they were a mix of deep blue and brown in the darkness. Swallowing, he let his eyes travel further down, to Aziraphale’s button nose that stuck up at the tip, to his slightly rose-red cheeks, to his jawline, to his chin, and to his pale pink lips. They were tilted into a small smile, genetic dimples positioned on either side, and Crowley desperately tried to catalogue it all. His heart clapped unevenly as his eyes returned to Aziraphale’s again. “Get a drink with me?”

They didn’t really do this. They ate lunch and sometimes walked home together.

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, at the phone he fished out of his pocket, and then back at Crowley. He frowned. “A drink? At this hour?”

“Aziraphale, it’s 10 on a Friday evening.”

“Well, if you put it like that,” Aziraphale glanced at his phone again before pocketing it. “How about Jesus College? They have wonderful chardonnay.”

---

A phone was ringing, but it was nearly inaudible over the sound of people laughing and shouting. The only reason Crowley knew a phone was ringing was because Aziraphale had his on the table, faced down, and it was lighting up from underneath.

It was also, incidentally, the third time in twenty minutes said phone was ringing.

“Why don’t you just answer it?” Crowley mumbled into his beer, looking at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses.

Aziraphale, still glaring at the now quiet phone, sighed and finished his second glass of chardonnay. “Because, Crowley, I don’t feel like ruining our night by talking to Gabriel.”

“Your brother’s really that much of a shit, then?” Crowley asked dryly.

“Unfortunately,” Aziraphale muttered and locked eyes with Crowley. “They’re trying to,” Deep sigh. “Remember the friend I gave my bike to?” Crowley nodded and smiled into his drink. Of course he remembered. “Well, her name’s Emma and we’ve been, well, ‘seeing each other’. As of late. She was with us at the theatre just tonight. I bet Gabriel’s not very pleased that I left her there.”

Crowley’s eyebrows had travelled to his hairline by the time Aziraphale finished. “Wait, wait, wait,” He started. “She’s your girlfriend?” He asked, trying to ignore how badly the word stung.

“My parents, well, they think she’d make a suitable life partner, certainly.” Aziraphale said and picked at some crumbs left from the previous patrons on the table.

“Uh right,” Crowley said automatically. “And your parents live in Cambridge, then?” Crowley realised, wincing in sympathy. The whole point of going off to university was to get away from the family.

“They do,” Aziraphale sighed, pursing his lips. Crowley realised that was the first time he’d seen him remotely angry. “For the record, she’s not my girlfriend.” He continued. “Not as far as I’m concerned, in any case. My parents can believe what they like.”

“Well, shit, Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed and finished his beer. “I’m really sorry.” He genuinely was. Bloody idiots.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale gave a bitter chuckle. “What about you, got a girlfriend?”

“Uh well,” Crowley tried not to grimace. Here goes nothing. “Girlfriends, not really my scene.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, eyes round. “That is to say...?” He trailed off.

Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m gay, Aziraphale. Thought that was fairly obvious.” Crowley wasn’t particularly obvious in regard to his sexuality (for instance, he didn’t go snogging men left and right), but he was certainly camp enough that people usually got the memo.

“I don’t make a habit out of assuming a person's sexuality, Crowley.” Aziraphale said sternly, but not unkindly. When Crowley looked at him there was warmth in his eyes.

“Good,” Crowley said, grabbing Aziraphale’s glass. “We need more of this, I assume?” He wiggled said glass around.

“I rather think we do.” Aziraphale said and stood up along with Crowley, rounding the table to stand next to him. If they walked a bit closer together than they usually did as they got their drinks neither of them mentioned it.

Wednesday, about a month later: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

It was warm, Crowley had his leather jacket stuffed into the basket of his bike as he and Aziraphale walked back from the library.

“My family has an extra ticket,” Aziraphale said after a moment’s silence, just as they crossed the river shoulder to shoulder. “Les Mis, in London.”

“Emma not going then?” Crowley asked, not bitterly per se (he had no reason to be bitter, so he most definitely was not).

“She won’t be going any longer.” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley was looking straight ahead but he could feel Aziraphale’s gaze on him.

“That’s good,” Crowley smiled. “Gabe finally fucked off then.”

Aziraphale tutted at him but Crowley, decidedly not looking at the other man, could hear the smile in his voice. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” He said, clearing his throat. “Would you like to come?”

“Me?”

“Is there anyone else here, Crowley?” Aziraphale deadpanned, gesturing to the nothing-of-significance that surrounded them.

“Right, yeah, sure. Good. I’d love to.” He looked at Aziraphale, he shouldn’t have, because the other man was looking at him with so much endearment in his eyes that Crowley actually blushed. In the middle of Cambridge surrounded by dozens of people.

--

Crowley cried when he watched Les Misérables, silently, and tried to wipe his face free of tears as discretely as he could. Halfway through, just after the intermission, Aziraphale handed him a handkerchief—it smelled of rose and herbs and was soft against his cheeks.

“This show always gets me, too.” Aziraphale said into his ear.

Crowley removed his sunglasses then—they were so smeared at that point that it was hard to see through them—and turned to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale looked at him, his eyes appearing a dark brown, and smiled. “They’re wonderous at this distance.” He breathed and it only then occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale had seen him without his glasses before. On stage.

“Coloboma.” Crowley explained quietly and Aziraphale nodded, briefly rested his hand atop of Crowley’s.

Les Misérables continued like it always did, number after number, but Crowley was no longer paying attention.

A Tuesday afternoon, late April 2011: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

Crowley was biking down West Road when he spotted Aziraphale in the distance, pedalling just a bit faster before jumping off the bike near the junction at the end.

Aziraphale was waiting by the zebra crossing, hands clutching a by-the-looks-of-it heavy book bag to his chest. It was a normal sight, save for the distant look in his eyes. “Aziraphale?” Crowley said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Aziraphale turned to him and pulled his earphones out. “Crowley, it’s so good to see you.”

Smiling, Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Had a good day?” He asked as they crossed the road, the back of King’s college a grand sight before them.

“Not really, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said softly, hoisting the book bag into a better grip.

Crowley just stared ahead, noticing that the city council had finally let the cows that sometimes roamed the back gardens of King’s college out for the summer. “Anything I can do?” He asked after a moment and looked at his friend, heart contracting at the sad frown curving his eyebrows.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale took a deep breath and smiled a bit. “Just seeing you is making it better.”

Crowley pursed his lips and looked up at the sky, uttering a quiet ‘alright’ as a flood of endearment rushed through him. Looking at the ravens that circled the skies above them, Crowley let himself bask in that feeling for once. He let himself because it was spring and because Aziraphale’s hair had gotten a bit long and was bouncing slightly as they walked, and because he made Aziraphale’s day better, too, so it couldn’t be all bad. He cleared his throat. “Listening to anything worthwhile?”

Aziraphale stopped walking and turned to Crowley, grabbing one earphone and gently positioning it in Crowley’s ear. Aziraphale’s fingers kept holding onto the earpiece, the heat from his hand absolutely impossible to ignore as Freddie Mercury's voice sang 'I want to ride my bicycle I want to ride my bike' through the little device.

Crowley threw his head back and laughed, Aziraphale’s hand dropping to his shoulder in the process. Absolutely brilliant, Aziraphale. He looked at his bike and a mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “Come on,” He said after a moment, taking the bag of books from Aziraphale and putting it in the basket. “Take that,” He took off his own rucksack and thrust it into his hands, getting on his bike. “And get on, angel.”

Aziraphale looked at him as if he were insane, mouth twisted into a curious little smile and eyes rounded in confusion. “Two grown men can’t go on one bike, Crowley, it’ll break.” He said but took a step closer, eyeing the cargo rack.

“Wanna bet?” Crowley asked, wiggling his brows a bit.

Aziraphale laughed and shook his head. “You’re absolutely mad, you know that?”

Crowley smirked and steadied the bike as Aziraphale got on. “Right, hold onto me.” He said and took a deep breath as Aziraphale’s arms circled his waist.

“We don’t even have helmets.” Aziraphale mumbled into his shoulder but laughed loudly as Crowley took off. People were looking at them, biking this way was more difficult than Crowley had imagined, but he eventually got a hang of it, flying through the streets and feeling happier that he had in a very long time.

Eventually, they got off the bike at Downing college, Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed from the wind--his lips were parted slightly, a bit chapped, and he looked happy and it was an absolute sight to behold. “Would you want to,” Crowley started, gesturing over his shoulder with his hand. “If you have time, would you want to—”

“Yes.” Aziraphale cut him off.

--

Crowley’s room was small but, and he would be the first to say it, it was impeccably clean. Everything was in its place, clear surfaces—save for the various bookcases—with plants positioned everywhere. Crowley kept a curious eye on Aziraphale as he walked around, watching as he caressed the leaves of the plants. “These are beautiful, Crowley. I didn’t know you were a green fingered man.”

Botany was another one of Crowley’s hobbies, which nobody—save for his parents and, now, Azirapahle knew about. He put Aziraphale’s book bag and his own rucksack down on the floor. “Shut up.” He huffed, absolutely no heat to his words, as Aziraphale moved on to inspect the big bookcase that covered a large portion of the wall above his bed.

The majority of the books on the bookcase had been gifts from his father, a peculiar man who collected things left and right. Crowley rarely looked at them--many of them were fiction, despite his love for the theatre Crowley had little patience when it came to novel-length books about alternative universes and made up characters, but he’d kept them firstly because they looked nice in the bookcases, and secondly because he didn’t want to start an argument with his father.

He was brought back from his wandering thoughts by Aziraphale toing off his shoes, stepping up on his bed, and reaching for a book on the top shelf. His waistcoat had ridden up a bit on his back, his shirt underneath had come untucked, and a small line of skin could be seen. It looked soft and Crowley quickly averted his eyes. “Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was breathless as he stepped down from the bed, a brown leather-bound book held carefully in his hands. “This is a Bible.”

“Is it?” Crowley raised one eyebrow and stepped closer. It was. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well spotted.”

“Oh, come off it, Crowley.” Aziraphale laughed and opened it. “Oh look,” He exclaimed and flipped the pages back and forth. “It’s been annotated.”

Crowley groaned and flopped himself onto the bed. “Listen, if you want it, you can have it. Can’t go around having bibles in my room.”

“You can’t just give this away, Crowley.” Aziraphale said softly, looking at him. “It’s clearly been cared for and it’s very old. 1706, it says here.” He held up the book and showed Crowley the title page.

“Listen,” Crowley sat up and took of his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Just take it. It’s a gift, from me to you, and you can’t go ‘round declining gifts.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, eyes darting around the room. “Crowley, I don’t--I wouldn’t--I don’t know how I would ever repay you. This is too much, truly. Ridiculous.”

Crowley sighed and stood up, eyes level with Aziraphale’s. They looked green in his room, perhaps as a reflection of the many plants. “You don’t have to repay me. If I didn’t want you to have it, I wouldn’t have offered it to you. You’re always reading those old books anyway,” He walked over to one of his plants, tugging at one of the leaves. A spot. “Isn’t it better that it comes to good use with someone like you, rather than being stuffed at the back of a bookcase?”

When Aziraphale didn’t answer for a while, Crowley glared at the plant once more before turning back to him. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have, because Aziraphale had a hand over his eyes, head tipped down. He sniffed quietly and Crowley thought, for a moment, that his own heart was going to break in half. “Aziraphale?” he asked, taking a step towards him.

Aziraphale shook his head and ran the hand down his face. “I’m not used to—you’re so good. Genuinely good.” His voice caught at the end. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got to stop saying stuff like that.” Crowley muttered but extended his hand towards him, resting it on his shoulder. Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and big, and Crowley thought, for absolutely not the first time but more calmly than before, that he was, by far, the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“Let me buy you dinner, please. As a thank you.” Aziraphale said, unmoving.

Squeezing his shoulder, Crowley pressed his lips together and nodded. “Fine.” He huffed, his eyeroll purposefully overdramatic.

Aziraphale’s face lit up and Crowley wasn’t sure if it was that precise moment that triggered it, or if it had been a long time coming, but he realised then that he was irreversibly in it. Absolute irrevocably fucked, also. “How about some crêpes? There’s a little café near here that makes their own Pear sauce.”

May 22^nd, 2011: The Botanic Garden, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

Thesis in hand, Crowley was lying on his back in the Botanic Garden, a big place filled with the most peculiar plants. Aziraphale was lying next to him, to his right, with his nose buried in some book that wasn’t, probably, related to his immediate discipline. Crowley couldn’t help but smile at him.

Aziraphale must have sensed him looking because he lifted the book from his face. “Anything the matter?”

“Nope.” Crowley said, popping the p. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him but resumed his reading, leaving Crowley to observe the way he licked his finger as he turned a page, and the way the wind blew his, by now, long-ish hair across his forehead in peace. Shaking his head, Crowley turned back to his own work after a moment or two, every now and then glancing to his right. Sometimes he would catch Aziraphale looking back. It was like some kind of ridiculous dance, one where they both were stepping on each other’s feet.

Crowley was in the middle of a particularly problematic section of his thesis, groaning inwardly at how much of an idiot he was, when Aziraphale sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees, cheek resting so it was turned away from Crowley. “Do you believe in good and evil?”

Taken aback, Crowley dropped his highlighter and bundle of papers atop his chest. “Uh,” He racked his brain for an answer. Looking up at the sky, he cleared his throat. “No. Not in the biblical sense, anyway. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.” Aziraphale turned his head and looked at Crowley. He had his serious look on his face.

Crowley sat up. “Sure, I mean some things are worse than others. But as far as humans go--people, I think are,” He waved a lazy hand around. “Less box-y. Just depends on how you look at it, I think.” Crowley smiled sheepishly and tilted his head. “But what do I know, I’m just a linguist." He tugged at a strand of grass. "And if God exists, he’s a bloody psychopath, in my opinion. Take Noah’s Ark, Sodom and Gomorrah. Bloody nuts he is. Can’t go ‘round listening to psychopaths.”

That made Aziraphale smile. “I suppose you’re right.”

That shocked Crowley, somehow. “What about you? I mean this is your area I’m—”

“I’m gay.” Aziraphale said, looking right at Crowley.

“Oh,” Crowley breathed, stunned, hand itching to reach out to the other man. You’re so brave, he wanted to say as well, but didn’t. just like his hand remained firmly on his knees.

“I haven’t said that out loud before.” Aziraphale said and tugged at the shirt-buttons near his wrist, eyes a bit unfocused.

“Thank you for telling me.” Crowley’s voice was hoarse, heart soaring.

“The thing is, I’m worried that it makes me—” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I don’t even know. My parents—I don’t know. God.” He closed his eyes.

“Listen,” Crowley moved closer. “Whatever anyone’s told you, whatever some prick has said to you about any of this. Insinuated. It doesn’t make you a bad person, Aziraphale. You’re the bloody best person I’ve ever met. Doesn’t matter who you fancy, if you’re good you’re good. And you are.” Crowley heard himself say, frantic and worried and appalled. He was. The audacity of some people.

“I’m so glad that I met you, you know that, right?” Aziraphale said.

Heartbeat fast, Crowley tugged Aziraphael closer. It was awkward, knees in the way, but he felt Aziraphale sag into him, head heavy against his shoulder. I know, I know, and you must know I feel the same he wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, Crowley buried his nose in Aziraphale’s hair, one hand at his nape and one on the small of his back. “There is nothing bad or, nkg fucking evil whatever, about love. S’in the Bible. Corinthians or something.”

“Don’t quote me on this but I thought you said reading the Bible, or any religious text for that matter, was above you.” Aziraphale mumbled and leaned back a bit. Their noses were nearly touching, and Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had a freckle right on the tip of his.

“Sod off.” Crowley said softly, leaning back a bit further. Aziraphale’s mouth twisted into a smile.

Somewhere in the distance, at the garden café, a familiar song began to play. Crowley hummed along and turned so his arm was circled around Aziraphale’s shoulders, resting his head near his left shoulder blade. Aziraphale hummed along, too, and rested his head on top of Crowley’s.

It was a feelin’

I’d never known

And for the first time

I didn’t feel alone

Early February 2020: Mayfair, London.

Crowley wasn’t, and had never been, a nail-biter, had always found the habit a bit disgusting to be honest. Now, however, he was chewing through his right thumbnail, pacing his kitchen like a bloody madman.

He groaned and ran a hand through his hair, it had just been cut a few days before and the nervous habit was, as a result, irritatingly unsatisfactory. “Fuck” He said to nothing in particular and stomped over to his phone. “You’re pathetic.” The therapist he’d seen for the past few years would have told him that it was unproductive to call himself that, but he was too tired to lie to himself.

Hating himself a bit, he opened Instagram and quickly typed Aziraphale Fell into the search bar. Only one name came up and Crowley, who’d seen Azirapahle struggle with far less complicated technology, couldn’t help but laugh. Of course he had figured it out.

The page was headed by Dr. Aziraphale Fell, Reader (not professor: note to Beelzebub) in Theology and Prophetical Literature at the University of Cambridge, and while Crowley had known this--Crowley had kept an eye on Aziraphale’s career partially because he was objectively interested, academically, and more prominently because, if he was honest with himself, he’d never really stopped caring about the bloody bastard—, the pride that surged up in his chest was palpable. Absolutely and entirely all-consuming. Aziraphale had 1503 followers (impressive), followed 4 people (always a bit of a nob), and the three top pictures were of books. Old ones because of course they were old ones.

The three following pictures were of books, too, save for one of the man himself. He looked just like Crowley remembered him, just how he’d looked five hours ago in the seminar room and outside on the pavement. The only difference was that he was smiling, that one specific smile that crinkled his eyes and made smooth skin dimpled and that resulted in double chins and rounded cheeks. He was standing in a lecture theatre with a party hat sat on top of his head.

The caption: Such wonderful students. Its date: September 03, 2019.

Crowley felt sick to his stomach, remembering other September 03s, birthdays spent in his old dorm, not far away from where that picture had been taken, sharing Tesco angel-cakes and stories in hushed voices and bottles of wine. I hope life’s been kind to him, Crowley found himself thinking, double tapping on the picture.

Cause and effect, Crowley drank himself silly after that and fell asleep on the sofa. He awoke at precisely 06.23 by his phone ringing, suspecting that someone must have shot him in the head the night before because it shouldn’t hurt this bad. “What?” He snarled into the phone, arm over his eyes.

Bea scoffed on the other end and that was not his idea of a good morning. “Hangovers are for 20-year olds.” They said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, fuck off.” He bit out and considered hanging up. He didn’t, mostly because he knew they’d just call again. And again, and again. They really were a bloody pain in his ass. Therefore, he also considered firing them on the spot.

He thought better of that, too.

“I just received an email from Professor Fell.” Bea started and Crowley, clearly not in his right mind, decided that interrupting and correcting them (it’s Reader, not Professor use the right sodding title) was his best move. It seemed to put them off because they went quiet for a moment. “Right, smart-arse, care to tell me how the fuck you two know each other and what exactly happened yesterday?”

“No, not really in the mood for it. To be honest.” He said and swallowed, that horrible fermented grape taste in his mouth making him shudder.

Never drinking again, he lied to himself as he sat (sat is too strong of a word for it since it was far more like dragged himself) up.

“You knowing the consultant can easily become my business, Crowley. Especially if you do something re-“

“What. Do. You. Want?” He snapped, silencing them.

Bea’s frustration was easily detectible over the phone. Crowley smiled. “Reader Fell asked for your number and since you’ve been a complete shit, I’m sending it, along with your address, to him as we speak. Without your permission.” They went quiet for a moment, then… “There, done. I hope for your sake he’s not a serial killer.” They hung up.

Crowley, suddenly exhausted and feeling that long-gone betrayal of his heart breaking into a million unfixable pieces, swore and hurled the phone across the room.

He let it lie there, in a corner next to his second favourite plant, for about three minutes before he went and picked it up.

Aziraphale’s text came through 4 hours later, not that Crowley had been counting. It was, like any text from Aziraphale had always been, straightforward and polite and Crowley felt himself smile a bit. He hadn’t quite realised how much he’d missed it (he had but he’d just ‘ignored’ it, mostly).

Dear Crowley,

I wanted to apologise for how things went yesterday. Even so, I was wondering if you’d like to meet up some time, to talk? Feel free to decline.

All the best,

Aziraphale Fell.

Biting his thumbnail again (he’d deal with it clearly becoming a habit later), Crowley replied and went to take a shower--he had a promotional shoot for a crime drama he’d just recently finished which was just great. Great as in not so great, as it were. The shoot, not the show, just to be blatantly clear.

He ordered Alexa to play some music and just as an unreasonable amount of shampoo went in his eye, Queen’s You’re My Best Friend started playing.

February 21^st, 2020: Mayfair, London.

Aziraphale arrived at 8, like they’d agreed, wine bottle in hand and a nervous smile on his face. Crowley smiled back and accepted the bottle, taking Aziraphale’s coat.

“You’ve got a lovely place, Crowley.” Aziraphale said as he toed off his shoes. He was wearing argyle patterned socks, yellow and blue and green. His hair was combed neatly to the side, but he no longer smelled of rose and herbs.

“Thanks,” Crowley rubbed his neck and glanced around. He hadn’t quite planned this out. “Right, so,“ Crowley trailed off and returned his gaze to Aziraphale who had taken a few steps closer. Sandalwood, that’s what he smelled like now. Crowley raised one eyebrow.

“Yes, right,” Aziraphale started, voice quiet. “I wanted to speak to you.” He continued, tilting his head to the side in that curious way of his. His eyes appeared light brown and they were fixed on him. “I’m sorry, I must ask,” He said hurriedly, as if wanting to get it over with. “Is that a snake tattoo on your face?” He gestured to his own cheekbone.

Chuckling, Crowley bowed his head and removed his shades. “Yup.” He looked up at Aziraphale through his lashes. The blonde had one corner of his mouth twisted upward, eyes round and happy. “Would you believe me if I said I was drunk when I did it?”

Aziraphale laughed, it bounced off the walls and it was just as alive and heartfelt as it had always been. “Certainly, though it looks rather lovely. Suits you.” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley poured them some wine then—red--and they sat on the sofa, a good, respectable distance between them. Crowley kept glancing at the other man, and he kept glancing back, the infamous dance at play where a look turned into a gaze which turned into a, well…

Crowley wasn’t sure who said the figurative ‘fuck it’ first and leaned in but it happened and Aziraphale’s lips were on his and from one moment to the next the world was burning. Crowley tugged him closer, hands in hair and mouths open, Aziraphale’s weight on him familiar and warm and oh I’ve missed this. They stumbled to the bedroom a while later, Aziraphale having muttered a quiet ‘fuck’ which just wasn’t on, and that was that. Definitely not the plan (talking had been the bloody plan) but the best goddamned shag Crowley had had in, well, six years.  

They awoke, as they had fallen asleep, tangled together on the black silk sheets, cold feet brushing out of habit. Crowley was the first to speak, voice hoarse. “Good talk.”

He felt, rather than heard, Aziraphale chuckle. “Quite.”

Silence fell over them then, Crowley’s eyes roaming the room until they settled on Aziraphale again, narrowing in on his left shoulder. He let his fingers gently trace the skin. “Still there, then?” He gestured to the little demon tattoo right above the collarbone. It was still vibrant and red, just as it had been before.

“Still there,” Aziraphale breathed and lifted his hand, fingers brushing the near matching pattern on Crowley’s right shoulder. Crowley’s tattoo was just as vibrant, the angel and its wings a light blue against his skin. The guard of the eastern gate, he’d told the tattoo artist when he’d asked what he could do for him. Aziraphale dropped his hand. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. For everything.” He whispered, voice thick.

I forgave you a long time ago, Crowley wanted to say. Instead he just closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek.

--

Two days later, Crowley retrieved a small box from the attic. It was filled with receipts and pictures and handkerchiefs and theatre tickets. He grabbed one picture at random: it showed him and Aziraphale huddled together under an elegant, black, umbrella. Crowley’s hair was long, must have been late 2011 then, and Aziraphale was smiling at the ground. He was wearing a blue tartan bowtie and he was clutching a book to his chest.

Crowley placed the picture against a plant pot on the mantelpiece in his sitting room and decided not to read too much into it.

--

Another three days later, an interviewer asked him about his love life. Crowley looked at the guy--blonde, nice-looking face, obnoxious smile--and told him to fuck off, in exactly those words for once. He didn’t read too much into that particular lapse of judgement, either, but had enough self-awareness to understand that he’d need to call his therapist again.