Work Text:
Sometime near the end of June...
.
He wakes gently, with a warmth like sunlight creeping across his skin. He’s wrapped up bed - a tangled mess of limbs and sheets - pillows wedged under one arm and around his head. He's comfortable. Replete. At first, he can’t figure out what’s woken him. Then, there’s another brush of that distant familiar warmth. Recognition rises, bringing with it the memories of a lilting voice and familiar scent - of cologne and the fabric conditioner the angel uses to wash his shirts.
Crowley cracks an eyelid, peers around.
The bedroom is painted in shifting shapes of grey and blue. Sunlight dapples a nearby wall, lighting the specks of dust hanging on front of the window. Everything appears exactly the same as the demon left it when he slipped into bed, however-many days ago. A trailing plant hangs, in the corner, not daring to have wilted. A glass of water sits, untouched, on the bedside table. The soft blanket that usually hangs over the end of the bed is pulled up, around his waist. He must have been cold, at some point, but he’s not cold now. He feels warm, comfortable, calm in a way that means Aziraphale is nearby.
“Good morning,”
The angel’s voice sounds, over to his left.
Squirming over, Crowley looks up and finds his friend standing at the far side of the bed, hands folded in front of him, a nervous smile in place.
“Bloody Hell…” he squints, grumbling - because he’s not sure what else to do with an angel in his bedroom. He’s only had one in there once or twice, and he’d always been conscious. Waking up to Aziraphale was new. “What the Heaven?” Crowley rubs a hand over his face. His vision is blurry from sleep. Everything is moving very slowly inside his mind. “You alright? Everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely fine. Don’t worry yourself, dear boy.”
“Right…” Crowley arches his back, feeling the stretch pull at his liquid muscles, his sleep-stiff joints. “What are you doing here?” He blinks and his vision finally clears. He squints around, finding the alarm clock on the bedside table. The small numbers tell him that today is fourteen days before it is set it to go off. He looks back over at Aziraphale. “I thought we were all supposed to be staying in.”
"Oh, that." The angel is beaming, in that tight, slightly manic fashion that Crowley associates with nerves. “Well, as it turns out, lockdown is finally over. So, we’re all free to go about as we please, now. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Crowley yawns.
“Wonderful.” Another second yawn catches the first. He gives his head a little shake. “Ugh. So, how long’s it been over for?”
“Oh, about two hours.”
The demon feels a little squirm, deep in the pit of his belly.
You didn’t waste much time…
“Well, nice of you to pop over and tell me,” he says, stretching one leg out experimentally. The air beyond the covers is pleasantly warm. “Did you get a taxi, or just-,” he mimes snapping.
“Oh,” Aziraphale shifts on the spot, fiddles with the front of his waistcoat. “No. I walked, actually. Maintaining appropriate social distance at all times, of course.”
“Of course.”
Their eyes meet and Crowley’s insides give another little squirm.
Under normal circumstances, he’d tease Aziraphale something dreadful about ‘maintaining appropriate social distance’, but he holds back, this morning. This is the first time they’ve seen one another in four months. They’ve not spoken in two. The last time they did, Aziraphale had apologetically turned down Crowley’s offer to spend the rest of lockdown holed up in the bookshop together.
The demon hadn’t been all that surprised, if he was honest, but he had been disappointed. He'd like to be doing a good impression of being a bit miffed now, actually - the only problem is, he keeps getting distracted by how pleased he is to see Aziraphale.
“You can sit down, you know,” he tells the angel, glancing at the far side of the bed. “No need to hover.”
Aziraphale fusses, then agrees, taking up prim residence on the edge of the mattress.
“So, what’s been going on? What have I missed?”
“Oh, just bits and pieces.” Crowley's friend folds his hands in his lap. “The young chaps across the road have painted their shopfront orange, to be cheerful, and the rest of the street is in uproar. I’ve been down to the corner shop to see Audrey and the children, and they seem to be coping. Couldn’t pop in for tea, of course - social distancing - but it was nice to catch up. Young Adam called to tell me that Pepper broke her leg, falling off her bike. And…” Aziraphale frowns, searching for anything else he’d gleaned of the world since coming out of seclusion. “Oh, yes, and there was a little car accident, on Dean street. Some gentlemen were being chased by the police and overshot the corner. Drove right into the post box. Would you believe it?”
“Sounds like an action-packed two months.”
“Yes, it has been. Goodness... has it really been two months?” Aziraphale fiddles with this thumbnail, throwing a somewhat anxious look over at Crowley. “How time flies..."
“It's almost July.” Crowley glances again at the alarm clock. “Only a couple of weeks until I was planning to wake up.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale eyes him, apologetically. “I probably should have left you to it, but I thought you might have forgotten to set the alarm, or perhaps set it for the wrong year, or something. You do sleep so deeply, my dear.”
"Like a log.” Crowley yawns, once again. “Or a dead... something. Ngh.”
They sit, watching one another.
The demon can feel apprehension growing in Aziraphale. It is clear, from his body language, that he’s dithering over saying something and Crowley is fairly sure what he wants to address. If he were any more awake, the demon would have come up with something clever and sarcastic, to diffuse the tension - to let the angel know that they didn’t need to talk about this - but his brain is sluggish and he’s still trying to unpick himself from his tangled sheets.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale pulls a face and shuffles a few inches closer. “My dear, I just wanted to say that I am very sorry about not inviting you over, the other week.”
“Wh-,” the demon squints at him. "Oh, that," he grumbles, as if remembering. As if he's not thought twice about the thing since. "Don't worry about that."
"No, but really, Crowley. I should have done."
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would have driven you mad, cooped up there for six weeks.”
“It’s just that, I have rather a thing about rules, if you must know.”
Don’t you just...
“Even if it’s only human rules,” Aziraphale chances a look up at him. “It makes me terribly nervous, the idea of breaking them. There’s all this expectation, you see? About what I’m supposed to do and what I’m supposed to be. And I know that it’s silly, really, but I suppose it comes from all of those years worrying about Heaven’s rules - meeting Heaven’s expectations - and there are a whole host of things there, all bundled up together in my head. And, sometimes, it can be a bit much. And I do wish I could just snap out of it and react a little better, to these things. I do try. But I’ve always been this way. And-,”
“Angel.”
The word stalls Aziraphale’s tirade. He looks over, eyes wide and apologetic.
Crowley gives a little shake of his head.
"Honestly. Don't worry about it."
Now that his friend is here - that this is actually happening - he is suddenly, absolutely sure that he doesn’t need an apology. He doesn't need Aziraphale’s worried little frown, or the way his hands are twisting over one another, in his lap. He doesn’t want to hear the self-deprecating sharpness, in his voice. He wants Aziraphale to be sitting comfortably somewhere, instead. With a glass of something drinkable. Plus or minus cake. Relaxed and safe and secure.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, giving a little shrug. “We're fine.”
“It was terribly rude.”
“It wasn’t. Don’t fuss.”
“It was, Crowley.” Aziraphale looks down, gives a little distressed sigh. “You’re my friend and I shouldn’t make you wait.”
“Don’t be daft.” Despite himself, a little smile is pulling at Crowley’s lips. Because the whole thing is just so Aziraphale and he’s so incredibly glad to see him. It’s been too long - even for a sleeping demon. “That's just you, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale looks up, frowns.
“Just me?”
“Yeah.”
Crowley blinks at his friend, a little surprised that he's not feeling a rush of nerves.
Talking about emotions has never been his strongest suit. He spent the first few centuries of his earthy existence convinced that he wasn’t even supposed to have feelings, and that something must have gone wrong, in the making of him. He has always considered it to be a bit of a failing, for a demon - to be able to get attached. And talking about it has always seemed like a daunting prospect. But not today, it seems.
“You know how you are…” he shrugs. A bit old fashioned. Slow to pick up on new slang and at least two centuries behind, on music. Dressed in clothes that went out of fashion before they were tailored and completely set in your ways… “You take an hour to get ready for dinner when you could just snap your fingers.” Warmth pulls at the inside of his ribs - still mysteriously unaccompanied by fear. “You write letters rather than replying to me by text. You make me wait, sometimes. It’s just a thing.”
Aziraphale’s brow creases.
“...I’m sorry.”
“Aziraphale," Crowley’s smile grows, settling firmly into his cheeks. “I’m a demon who naps for months at a time. Who spends weeks setting up temptations that play out in seconds. Don’t you ever think that - maybe - there’s reason we fell in together?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mind waiting, you idiot. It's fine. And I get it. You’ve just got... you know… angel, stuff going on, in there,” he motions towards Aziraphale’s head. “I know you’ll figure it all out, eventually. So," he shrugs, "it’s not a big deal. I can wait.” He tilts his head, re-capturing Aziraphale’s gaze. “I’ve not fucked off yet, have I?"
"No," the angel murmurs.
"And we’ve known one another a while, now.”
“Sixty centuries..."
“Sixty cen-, oh, come on, now. Say it like you mean it. Give it the respect it deserves! Six thousand years. Six thouuusand years.” Crowley tilts his chin back, hams up the voice for dramatic effect - the movement drawing a little smile from Aziraphale's lips. “S’a bloody long time.”
“Yes.” the angel chances a glance up at him, then down at the duvet cover again. He plucks at the silk, then smooths it flat again, with his fingertips. “It is, really.”
“Yeah…” Something shifts, in the conversation. Crowley feels the tone slide towards something serious. He doesn’t intend for it. It just feels right, in the moment. “I’m not going anywhere, you know. You can take your time.”
A very shy smile pulls at the angel’s lips.
“Right.”
“I mean-" a gentle push, back towards levity “-within reason. Telling me to bugger off for a few thousand years would be seriously sub-optimal.”
Aziraphale laughs, lines appearing in the crinkled corners of his eyes. He continues to watch his fingers, playing with the bedspread. Then, eventually, he looks up and meets Crowley’s eyes.
“Thank you, Crowley.”
It’s a strange little moment - an acknowledgement of something that they’ve rarely allowed themselves, in the past. But they can do this, now, Crowley thinks. Because time is tripping on, again, and the world isn’t ending. It's July, and the world isn’t ending. They are free and on their own side. And Crowley is feeling hopeful. He’s always been an irritatingly optimistic demon, even at the worst of times, but he’s feeling particularly hopeful this year. This year might be the start of something new. He’s almost sure of it.
“Fancy grabbing a drink somewhere, since I’m up?”
Aziraphale gives an affected little roll of the eyes.
“It's eleven o’ clock in the morning!”
Warmth pulls at Crowley again. The fake outrage is perfectly done. Almost as perfect as the vulnerable, honest expression of a few seconds before - that grateful little look from beneath pale lashes.
“Alright. Lunch, then?” He suggests. “Or breakfast? Or…” Frowning, he cranes his neck to look over at the illuminated numbers of the alarm clock. “What wold be appropriate? Tea? Elevensies? Linner? Snack? Brunch?”
His angel laughs - the noise escaping him in a helpless little rush of mirth - in a way that makes Crowley feel even more optimistic. Yes. It’s going to be a good year.
“Brunch sounds ideal.”
“Alright, then. What’s open, these days? Do restaurants exist, anymore? Or do we now eat from an amorphous government-funded trough?”
“Restaurants still exist. Most of our usual places have pulled through, actually.”
“Miraculous, that.”
“I had nothing to do with it!” The angel puffs, indignantly. “It’s all down to human ingenuity. They really are very good at managing themselves, you know - adapting, to fit the times. All the little cafes in the area have had staff out, delivering food - isn’t that brilliant?”
Crowley grins.
“Very good.”
“Yes. And they’re taking all payments on these clever little machines that you can just tap. No cash involved. It’s really rather ingenious. And all off their own back! Well, almost...” His cheeks pink, slightly. “The electricity board may have lost track of some payments for a few months, back in April when some places were having a bit of trouble, but that’s neither here nor there. Paperwork is a horror to keep track of and spring is always a difficult season…” He makes a prim little adjustment, pulling at the hem of his waistcoat. “It seemed a shame to deny the neighbourhood those wonderful jam tarts, in a time of national crisis.”
“Mm...”
“It was for morale.”
“Of course it was.”
“It was. People need these sort of things, to bolster the spirit.”
"People."
"The humans."
“I love you.”
Aziraphale blinks. His mouth falls open.
“I- you- what?” He breathes, after five seconds of stunned silence.
“There’s no need to be dramatic about it.” Crowley stares back. For some completely confounding reason, he’s still feeling calm. Maybe his amygdala isn’t functioning yet, after nearly two months of unconsciousness. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s just the right time to start saying those things out loud - to use the right words, rather than the euphemisms which have carried them through the past six thousand years. “It’s not like you didn’t already know,” he tells the angel, a bit gruffly.
Aziraphale blinks at him, expression half excited and half terrified. His eyes are suddenly overbright.
Crowley tries to ignore this last part. He’s always been an empathetic crier.
“Anyway, there’s no rule about not saying that sort of stuff on our side, is there?” He shrugs. (There have been no rules agreed upon at all, actually, so Crowley is making this up as he goes along - but what is the point of having your own side if you can't make up policy decisions on the spot?) “We can say those sorts of things if we want to.”
And, finally, the rush of anxiety does come - a tightening in the demon’s belly, a swooping sensation that crawls up the back of his throat - because the next part’s not on him. He has to wait, now, for an answer.
Aziraphale stares.
His lips part.
And then, finally;
“I suppose we can.”
And the choking, panicky feeling releases, because Aziraphale is not going to run. He is not going to deny all association. He has not pushed Crowley away or told him he’s going to fast. Instead, his shoulders have relaxed and his expression eased. And he’s staring at the demon as if he is something brilliant, and new, and wonderful. And Crowley feels fear slide away.
A few seconds pass, and rather more than a few heartbeats. Then, Aziraphale gives a shaky sigh, mouth curving into a smile.
“I love you too, Crowley. Very much.”
The demon releases a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.
“Right… well…” he’s not sure what to say, now. He doesn't really have a plan. But that’s not the end of the world, he thinks. The end of the world involves four men on horses and a lot of aggro. This is the bit that comes after the end, when life keeps on going. This is his future, if he's brave enough to take it. “I kind of knew, you know,” he tells Aziraphale, managing to force a semblance of his normal voice. “S’not as if you go bursting in on other demons, bothering them out of sleep.”
The corner of his friend’s mouth twitches.
“No. I suppose I don’t.”
“Yeah, well… there we go.”
They stare at one another for a long few seconds. Then, normality returns, wrapping around the moment. Smoothing the edges. A new normal, Crowley thinks, feeling his cheeks burn with an embarrassment that’s not entirely unpleasant.
“Right.” He clears his throat, sits up, feeling suddenly awake. There is potential in the coming afternoon. And endless potential in the year that stretches out, after it. Crowley suspects he won’t be sleeping for any month-long stretches for a long time. There is life to explore, first. “What sort of brunch are you after?” He asks the angel. “Breakfast-type brunch, or lunch-type brunch?”
“Isn’t the point of brunch that it is something in-between?” The angel replies, a little weakly.
“Yeah… but you still have to choose. You can’t just go flaming mad and start ordering pancakes with beans. Or…” he searches his brain for words, “pickles dipped in orange juice.”
Aziraphale smiles, dazedly.
“I’m sure both those things are available somewhere in the world.”
“Probably America. Anything goes, over there.”
Aziraphale laughs.
"Probably.”
“Well, then. Lunch brunch or breakfast brunch?”
“Oh…” Aziraphale gives a little sigh. “I suppose breakfast is more appropriate, really. You have just woken up.”
"Don't decide on my account,” the demon grumbles, pushing at his covers as he tries to extricate his legs. “I was only going to order a drink.”
“Crowley, it's not even lunchtime!”
“It’s five o’ clock somewhere.”
“But everyone will stare...”
“I am supposed to be setting a bad example.”
“Crowley-”
“Oh, keep your halo on. I was only going to have a mimosa. Wasn’t about to dive straight in with bourbon.” He works up a little frown - a pretence of irritation. “But if it pleases you I’ll have a coffee or something." If it pleases you, I'd let you sit on my back and paddle me down the Thames... "You’ll owe me a drink, though, he tells the angel. "And I’m collecting next week, at the latest.” His heart rate gives a little jump as his system clocks the fact that he’s about to go fishing for a date. “Maybe that new place with the roof garden and the ferns? Should be warm enough, now that it’s June…”
Too much, too much, too much, his brain hisses.
But Aziraphale's eyes only twinkle.
“I suppose that could be arranged.”
“Cool.” He breathes out, lets his heart rate slow again. “Well, that's a deal, then. I'll get dressed.” They stare at one another for five seconds. “I’m not wearing anything under these pyjamas, by the way. So I’d sod off, if you’re not here for an eyeful.”
A blush spreads across Aziraphale's cheeks and he throws Crowley a reproachful look. His eyes perform a dip down to the shadow of the demon’s collarbones, however, telling Crowley that he’s not nearly as flustered as he is pretending to be. Food for thought, thinks the demon.
“Take all the time you need," Aziraphale says. "I’ll wait in the kitchen.”
“Right.”
Standing, Aziraphale picks his way back across the room, throwing a smile back at Crowley before he slips out into the hall. He leaves the door ajar - a not-separation between himself and Crowley naked.
Definitely food for thought.
Crowley pull himself free of his t-shirt, listening to Aziraphale pad down the hall and around the kitchen. He listens to his friend potter as he swings his legs out of bed and stretches. Then, he hears the angel's footsteps head towards the plant room and a frown creases his forehead.
“Hey," he shouts. “Don’t go talking to them!”
“Hmm?” comes the distant echo of his friend’s reply.
“I said don’t-,” the demon curses as he trips on his discarded pyjama bottoms. Kicking them away, across the floor, he snaps his fingers and finds himself showered and dressed. He doesn’t bother with sorting his bedsheets. Order can resume when he gets back, this evening. For now, he has an angel to brunch. “I said, don’t go saying nice things to those plants,” he shouts, in the direction of the hall. “They were intolerable after the last time you were over. Flowering all over the place. Pollen everywhere. I was dosed up on antihistamines for a week!”
“I can’t hear you, dear boy…”
He definitely can. His voice had carried back through, to the bedroom, as clear as day.
Muttering darkly, Crowley runs his fingers through his hair, forcing it into casual disorder.
“Just... stay away from the aspidistra!” He warns, tugging his watch straps closed around his wrist. “I have it-,” he grabs a bottle from the dresser and anoints himself with a spray of cologne, “-exactly where I want it!
“Oh, yes. It is rather vibrant. You’ve done a marvellous job, Crowley. Aren't you beautiful...”
“Aziraphale - fucking stop it! Stop I-, ugh! For Satan’s sake…” He shoves his wallet into his back pocket.
“What wonderful leaves…”
“Angel!”
One shoe on, and the other in his hand, he trips out the door, after his friend.
.
The plants are intolerable for the next two weeks. Crowley has to move them to a greenhouse on the newly installed balcony to cope. And, though he gripes about it terribly, he can’t quite find it in his heart to blame them. He supposes its hard not to flower all over the place when there’s an angel popping in, for tea, every few days. Even a demon could get a bit dizzy, with that sort of attention.
.