Work Text:
1963
“I can’t believe we were both trying to assassinate the same bloke,” Crowley hissed. “You’d think our sides would coordinate better.”
“Just like the last World War all over again,” sighed Aziraphale, fidgeting. The broom cupboard was very small, and he was afraid his girth had been increasing lately. He’d been inclined to stoutness since the end of rationing. He didn’t want to make Crowley uncomfortable by bumping his stomach against him. The devil was so very lean, and stylish, and attractive, and yes there definitely should be more space between them for safety’s sake. He pressed himself further against the wall, aware of a broom sticking into his back, and tried to make light conversation. “Do you remember being young, innocent intelligence agents, sent after the same General?”
“I do. First time we ever got drunk together and exchanged spy stories. Start of the Arrangement. Those were the days.” Aziraphale was almost sure Crowley was leering in the darkness. Maybe it was wishful thinking.
“No, they were not,” Aziraphale said firmly. “It was a horrid war.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Crowley deflated a bit. “War is foul."
They were both quiet as footsteps went down the passage outside the room, but no one entered, and they relaxed.
“Besides,” Aziraphale said belatedly, “I don’t assassinate people. I was going to peacefully accost him.”
“And if he resisted?”
“Sometimes I am forced to resort to self-defence,” Aziraphale said primly, and Crowley snickered.
“Your lot are such hypocrites.”
“Just because MI5 don’t go around killing and blackmailing willy-nilly.”
“Like Hell you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, maybe not you.”
“Certainly not me.”
There was a change in the atmosphere. It was colder and more dismal and frankly Aziraphale just wanted to escape from there. Any residual excitement from being pressed in a small dark place with his… adversary… had dissolved.
“Did I say something wrong?” Crowley asked, eventually.
“My dear fellow, of course not.”
“Urgh, yeah, I did. I know that tone of voice. What did I say?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me when you’re ready.” Really, how could the Enemy, ruthless and evil as they were, sound so deceptively gentle and patient? But then, that was the trick and temptation of it. Crowley’s side dealt in temptation.
“It turns out that Vassall was indeed compromised in a honey trap with an attractive young man.”
“Oh. Um, nnnnrgh yeah. Wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t suggest it was. Besides, no one would describe you as an attractive young man.”
“Low, low blow. Look, have I ever blackmailed you?”
“Yes. Obviously. It’s what you do.”
“Saying let’s go get pie-eyed and think up how to explain to both our sides how we didn’t actually bollocks this up is not blackmail, Aziraphale.”
“What if I’d said no?”
“You never say no.” Silence. “Fine, that was the wrong thing to say too. Is this about that article in the Sunday Mirror?”
“What article?” Aziraphale’s voice was higher than he would like, and Crowley shushed him. They both stayed quiet a while, but he hadn’t been heard, and the tension decreased a little.
Naturally, Crowley decided to make things worse.
“You know the article, the one on how to spot a fairy as a security risk in the MI5. A gay little wiggle, his tie has the latest knot, an unnaturally strong affection for his mother. Aziraphale, tell me again how your mother is a literal goddess. And that tie does look very dashing on you, at least from what I saw until we had to hide in here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Gay little wiggle. I did wonder if the reporter had ever seen you eat devil’s food.”
“Crowley.” This was it, Aziraphale supposed. Start sending information to the KGB or… whatever Crowley belonged to, he’d always been a bit cagey about his exact allegiance, or be blackmailed as a security risk. But Aziraphale had nothing to be blackmailed about. He had been completely celibate ever since—well, since his enemy had pulled him out of the way of a bullet in 1952 and told him never to mention it, and he’d seen electric light reflected in odd yellow eyes, and somehow no potential suitors seemed interesting again.
Of course, Aziraphale had been celibate before then, but a bit less purposefully.
“You can’t compromise someone for having high standards of dress.”
“Of course not.” Crowley seemed subdued. “Look, Aziraphale, I know we’re enemies, but how long have we been friends? Decades. If there was… someone… I wouldn’t use it against you. I’m a spy of my word, I should hope.”
“There’s no one,” Aziraphale said, a bit bitterly.
“Not for me, either,” Crowley said. “I’ve had a dry spell since 1940.”
“My dear chap, surely you jest. It’s not plausible that someone as handsome and charming as you wouldn’t have a girlfriend for over twenty years. Why, that would mean you hadn’t had a lover since… since….”
“Since I met you, yeah.” Crowley wasn’t articulating very clearly, so it came out more like sinimetaaaaargh, but Aziraphale had practice in decoding his noises. He found it easier than most of the things he had to decode in his profession, actually.
“Why ever not?”
Crowley spluttered, which failed to explain anything at all. “Look. Look. My lot don’t like homosexuals much either. It would be a bit hypocritical for me to blackmail you, okay?”
“I thought you said you have been having a dry spell.”
“God, Aziraphale, are you intentionally being stupid? Look, you, you, you wiggle when you eat something nice.”
“Yes. We’ve been over that,” Aziraphale said coldly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Look, I’ve been carrying this article around. Pressed to my heart.”
“As reference material?”
“Because it reminds me of you. And how utterly bloody adorable you are, and the thought that anyone would use that to hurt you, I am going to hunt that bastard down, I swear it, and—do you know you have a very appealing backside?”
“What? What are you implying?”
There seemed even less room in the cupboard. Crowley was pressing against him. He couldn’t possibly have moved forward. And there was no space, but that didn’t explain why arms were creeping around his waist.
“When you’re drunk your cheeks turn pink. And there’s been at least five times you should have shot me and you’ve talked politely to me instead. You’re always nice, but sometimes you seem really irritated by having to be nice, like being nice is a curse you can’t escape. And you fold your hands over your belly like a prissy bitch. And you’re so clever, and you look like a fat moonbeam sometimes, and your clothes are so dapper, and sometimes you wear those ridiculous half-rimmed glasses, and you’re so… soft…”
Aziraphale was feeling a little light-headed. Crowley was so... so… Utterly beautiful. They were in the dark, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t memorised every sway of Crowley’s hips and freckle on his nose and line of his glorious legs. Crowley was simply trying to fool and seduce him. This was the honey trap, at last.
Somehow “fat moonbeam” didn’t sound like a compliment out of a honey trap handbook. It was arguably insulting. Aziraphale didn’t feel insulted. He felt…
“I want to kiss you. Can I?” Crowley asked, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s lips.
“Are you trying to compromise me?”
“We can sort of, you know, compromise each other. If you like.”
Aziraphale should say no. he wanted to say no. He told himself, very firmly indeed, that he wanted to say no. It just didn’t come out.
“No one need ever know. And after all, if we get caught hidden together in a broom cupboard, we’d be in trouble for a lot more than kissing.”
“That seems a reasonable assertion.”
“Can I kiss you? Please?”
It was impossible to say yes. Saying yes meant giving up on everything. His career in the secret service. His role as a Protector of Western Democracy. His patriotism and loyalty to the Queen. His pretences that he was anything but a flaming homosexual. Impossible to say yes.
Somehow, though, it wasn’t impossible to tilt his head a little and kiss Crowley himself.
Crowley gave a little mmmph of surprise and then his lips were clinging, eager, pressing Aziraphale even harder against the wall, and his hands were filling themselves with the backside he just declared appealing, while his own back was so thin, so muscular and yet slender, just as if it was designed for wrapping arms around and crushing close. A tongue was pressing delicately against Aziraphale’s lips, and his jaw relaxed of its own accord, and oh that tongue was warm and soft and exploratory and just a little desperate, as if there was twenty years of need behind it.
The broom fell over with a crash.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Aziraphale.
Too late. They turned to the door just as running footsteps arrived and somehow they had forgotten to release hold of each other, as they looked into the glaring face of Aziraphale’s handler.
“Oh, damn,” said Crowley. “I was thinking about defecting anyway. Hey, Michael, I give up!”
“Ah, Michael,” Aziraphale said awkwardly. “I did want to raise the possibility of coming in from the cold. Is this a good time?”
Michael closed her eyes. “I did not see this. I did not see this. As if we didn’t have enough scandals right now. Go home, Aziraphale. Your time in MI5 is over. Of all the incompetent…”
“Oh, splendid. I'd given up on the spying business anyway. Talk to you later, so nice to see you. This is Anthony Crowley, by the way, he needs to discuss defecting, sure he will be helpful.” He tugged Crowley out of the closet by the hand.
“I’m only cooperating if I get to take Aziraphale with me as my protector,” Crowley called over his shoulder as he was hustled away. “I think we should run away together,” he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear. “Somewhere they’ll never find us. Australia.”
“I detest Australia. Too many snakes.”
“You could learn to love them?” Crowley asked hopefully.
“I suppose, really, I already do.”
“Oh, fuck. Let’s go somewhere I can really kiss you.”
“That wasn’t a real kiss? It… it was the best kiss of my life...”
“Oh, angel, I adore you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Going to spend the rest of my life watching you eat pudding and give gay little wiggles. Going to spend forever being madly in love with you. Hope that’s fine with you.”
“Yes. Yes, I rather think it is.”
“Tell me you love me too.”
Twenty years, Aziraphale thought. Twenty years of being alone, of not compromising himself, of not admitting to himself that every golden moment of his life involved a rake-thin adversary with a wicked smile and truly terrible language. Twenty years of being a good little spy and doing his duty by an organisation that considered him a security risk because he knotted his tie nicely.
It felt good to give up.
“I’m completely and utterly besotted by you. Yes. I love you.”
“Oh fuck,” Crowley said happily. “Don’t worry about grabbing our things. I have a secret bank account in Australia. Let’s go straight to the airport. How does it feel to have fallen at last?”
“Marvellous,” admitted Aziraphale, and they escaped into the warm sunlight.