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Aziraphale had, for all intents and purposes, moved in with Crowley. Or perhaps, Crowley had shacked up with him. The details were unclear. They always slept under the same roof nowadays ever since Armageddon didn’t, and often in the same bed[1] . They were hardly ever far from each other, and Crowley could say with certainty he had no intention of changing that any time soon. They practically lived together. The confusion came from where.
Aziraphale loved his bookshop, and Crowley loved it too. It was comfortable and cosy, in the way that only his domain could be. Obviously, he had to keep it safe from thieves[2] , and it would be rather difficult to peruse his own collection if he was a 10 minute drive away. The flat above it was more of a formality than anything else, and was very, very dusty, and had a nasty draught. Of course, they could renovate it with just a thought, except-
Except Crowley had a lot of plants. Like, a lot of plants. And houseplants can be… fussy. Moving them, getting them settled, arranging them all in positions where they get the right amount of light, making sure none of the furniture interferes with them[3] - it was all going to be an ordeal. It took him longer than he’d care to admit to make sure they know the only excuse they have is their own lack of potential, and besides, he actually had a bed, and a kitchen, and- most importantly- central heating. And Aziraphale really liked the place quite a bit.
So far, they made do with regular visits from the flat so that Crowley could yell at his plants, and stayed in the flat above the shop when necessary. It had a place to sleep now, mostly by force since it wasn’t really meant to be a home, but it worked well enough. And for now, there wasn’t really a better option.
Aziraphale opened his eyes at 7am, as he did every morning now. He sat up with a stretch, glanced over to see Crowley, snoozing away, and smiled for a quiet moment, before turning his attention to the copy of The Divine Comedy by his side[4] , cracking it open to the black feather bookmark he’d left, and reading until he felt for something warm. With his waistcoat and tails manifested, he made his way to the kettle, prepared a cup of tea- cream and sugar, as he liked it- and cooed, “Aren’t you all sprouting nicely?” to the greenery before him, and nodded sagely as they bowed in thanks. He tucked the book under his arm, and with the content smile of someone who knows he is exactly where he should be, he opened the front door and made his way downstairs to the bookshop.
Crowley woke up far, far later with a bleary eyed pout, and found himself with a colder bed than he liked, as usual. He yawned dramatically, and shambled through the act of spritzing down his plants and making a mug of coffee.[5] Then, half-asleep and still in sweats, he slunk down a flight of stairs. It occurred to him that something about the journey seemed a touch… off. He turned the thought over in his mind. ‘ Stairs… I’m going… down… stairs… to find-’ He opened a door.
“Good morning! Slept well, I hope?”
Aziraphale beamed at him from across the shop. ‘Not usually here in the morning, is he?’ He yawned, and crossed the room, and leaned against him as he shelved. He was so warm, and bright, and Crowley couldn’t help but drape himself over his shoulder, and try to soak up as much of his light as he could, until he finally flicked his tongue against Aziraphale’s neck, and settled in, nicely coiled around his shoulders for a post awakening nap.
‘That must be it.’
“...owley… dearest, do wake up.” He opened an eye.
“Hmm?” He found himself laid on the settee in the shop. Aziraphale must have taken him off his shoulders while he was asleep. “What time is it?”
“It’s a bit after noon now, I think. Time for lunch, perhaps?”
Crowley sat up. “S’pose I could do with something to eat about now.” He yawned. “Anywhere in mind, Angel?”
“It’s been far too long since I last had some nigiri. There’s a place between here and Mayfair that just sprung up, and I think I should like to give theirs a try.”
“Give it a try?” He led the way to the door. “What d’you mean, ‘give it a try’?”
“Exactly what I said.” He paused. “See if it meets my standards.”
“‘Standards’? It’s raw fish and rice. How can you mess up raw fish and rice?” He opened the door, to find the Bentley, right where he always left it. ‘Don’t even remember parking it these days. Second nature now, I s’pose.’
“I- well, you’d be surprised,” He declared indignantly. “I’ve encountered sushi where the rice was undercooked- Like eating sand, honestly, what on earth was the chef thinking - and there’ve been occasions where it was more like a fish and rice pudding! It was dreadful, an awful sticky sludge-”
“Ah, course. Now that sounds disgusting. Never heard of anything like that.” Aziraphale scoffed, and Crowley opened the door so he could pout in the passenger seat.[6]
“We’ll pick some up on the way back then?”
Aziraphale peered at him sulkily, and sighed in resignation. “That’d probably be best. I’d rather eat at home, I think.”
Crowley smiled, and started the car. “Home it is.”
Otherworldly entities are magnificently powerful, and Physics is more often than not an afterthought for them. As such, if an entity or two have only recently acquired free will, and have only just really admitted to a 6000 year old crush, and have never actually experienced the perfect peace or all’s-right-with-the world-ness that comes with making a home with someone you care for deeply and truly, then it’s not impossible that there may be an intersection of these two truths. It’s also not impossible that they don’t immediately notice.
All in all, it took them a month and a bottle of wine.
“‘S a bit petty, I think.”
“You reckon?”
“I mean-” Crowley took a sip. “I mean, ’s already dead, innit? And leaving him unburied like that, ‘s gotta attract something. Bears maybe.”
Aziraphale squinted. “There’s bears in Greece?”
“Aren’t there?”
“Are there?” He looked at his wine, befuddled, and drained the glass.
“I don’t- Look, bears or- or bear-like… things. The point is, something might eat him, right? And then you’ve got a- bear-esque problem.”
“They had lions then, didn’t they?”
“And then- ” His wine sloshed, obediently avoiding the carpet. “Did they make sure he was upwind? ‘S gonna sstink up the place eventually.”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “ Eugh. ”
“Way I see it, she did them a service, trying to cover him up. And what’d she get? Murdered!”
“‘N a dead husband.” He peered into his glass and set it down.
“‘N a dead husband.” Crowley nodded, and settled back into the sleek black couch. “Antigone was right,” he said with a sip, and looked up. “Thass my hot take.” Aziraphale was nodding off in his armchair, next to the monstera he’d obviously been caressing, when his eyes shot open suddenly.
“Oh, bugger.” He stood up unsteadily.
“What?”
“I got a book from the- the-” He waved his hands by way of explanation.[7] “And I left it in the- the- the thing.” He tripped toward the door.
“The thing?”
“The thing! Your thing! Hang on,” and he stumbled downstairs, leaving the door wide open.
“ My thing…?” He muttered. “I’ve got lots of things… Whole flat’s half my things. Not very specific.” He topped off his glass.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called from downstairs. “Where’s the Bentley?”
“How d’you mean?”
“I can’t- Er. I can’t find it.”
“Sober up then.” An indignant sound came in response. “Ugh, fine. ” He closed his eyes and took a final sip, then, with a dramatic sigh, made his way down the stairs, into the bookshop, past a swaying angel, and swung open the door to find his car parked where it always was.
“‘S right there,” he slurred, matter of factly.
“It- It wasn’t! A moment ago, it wasn’t there.” He blinked. “I’m sure.”
“You’re sloshed. Prob’ly missed it.” He began to head back up the stairs. “Get your book, angel.”
“...Oh, you’re probably right. I’ll just be a moment.”
The door to the shop opened and closed, and Crowley made his way up the stairs. ‘Something’s off.’ He kept walking. ‘I’m- I’m walking up the bookshop stairs.’ Unsteadily, he climbed. ‘One foot in front of the other. To get to…’ He reached the door. ‘To-’ He stepped through the door. ‘Oh.’
The shop bell rang again. “Aziraphale?”
“Hmm?”
“Where are we?”
“Sorry?” He stared at him, bewildered, from the bottom of the stairs.
“Like- where are we? Right now?”
“...Home?”
“Right- Yeah.” He nodded frantically. “And where’s that?”
“...What? Crowley, are you-”
“Look- where are you, angel, right now.” Aziraphale looked around.
“Er. The bookshop?”
“Right.” He nodded. “Right, and where’s that?”
“...Soho.”
“Great. And where am I?”
“...Upstairs?”
“And what’s upstairs?” He gestured expectantly.
“The flat…”
“And the flat is in…?”
“Mayf-” Aziraphale’s eyes widened in shock. “ Oh. ”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Oh.”
A beat passed in silence. “Should… should we do something about it?”
“Wha- Shouldn’t we!?”
He shrugged. “Should we?”
“I-” Crowley thought. “I dunno.”
“Not like anyone else goes up these stairs,” Aziraphale said. “And it’s not like anyone else is going into the flat.”
He considered it for a moment. “I s’pose a bit of non-euclidean interior design never hurt anybody.”
“It’s our home, we get to make the laws.” He yawned, and made his way up the stairs. “Classical mechanics are far too limiting. This should be a place we can put our feet up, so to speak.” He buried his face into Crowley’s chest.
“Newton was a wanker anyway.”[8]