Archive of Our Own ^beta

November 1995

Crowley idly flipped through the telephone book, looking for interesting little dining nooks  Soho's least receptive second-hand book dealer possibly hadn't visited already. He had gone up to check in on The Malls in Basingstoke, one of his personal projects, and Aziraphale had asked him to drop into Silchester to deliver a divine revelation on the way. It wasn't strictly necessary to report back in person, but it was a good enough excuse to take the angel out to dinner and stare at him eating, in the name of the Arrangement.

Or at least so Crowley hoped. His finger hesitated over a listing for a tiny fusion café that he had heard had a four-week waiting list for reservations. He had seen Aziraphale only last week, albeit a brief meeting in the interval of a concert. Was asking him out to dinner again already moving too fast? What was too fast, anyway? Surely too fast meant they would get there eventually if they went at the right pace. But it had been only three decades since Aziraphale had given him that pleading look, three decades of lying awake at night turning every word, every tone, every look over in his mind, searching for meaning in that lovely profile in the street lights. It was almost worse, having hope. Having that idea that if he read Aziraphale's intentions correctly and went just fast enough they might get there before the end of the world.

The problem was that most days were all right, really. Most nights were fine. Most of the days and nights of the twentieth century were more than fine, actually, they were a great time to be a demon. Crowley plotted out his major projects, spread mischief and misery, and enjoyed everything this spectacular planet had to offer. He might technically be subject to eternal punishment, but he had fun. Most days and nights, he could be around Aziraphale and simply relish his company, secret love for the angel humming in the background like some kind of comforting stew with the spice of argument and bickering and endless fascinating differences. Even if Crowley didn't see Aziraphale for years, the knowledge that the angel was safe and happy was there, bubbling away in the background.

And then, without warning or reason, there were times the thought of Aziraphale burned, when longing for him made Crowley's head muddled and his stomach ache and existence became a tormenting fire of Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale and want and can't have and hunger. Those were the bad days and nights, the times he couldn't be around Aziraphale without turning bitter and sharp and cruel, lest in his greed he reach out and do or say something that couldn't be taken back, causing Aziraphale to finally cut things off between them at last.

This was shaping up to be one of those days, and Crowley didn't like it. If he kept brooding like this, he was in real danger of completely decimating his plant population, just to ward off the danger of getting shit-faced on three-hundred-year-old brandy, and ringing Aziraphale up to blurt incriminating confessions about being willing to do anything, anything if Aziraphale would just confirm, just once, that he was in love with him too, let him hold him just once, taste his lips just once... And yeah, he was a demon, getting his hands on him more conclusively was definitely an ambition, but the important thing was that he fucking adored Aziraphale, would fight Heaven and Hell for him, would...

No. That way, disaster lay. That way lay Aziraphale, prim and virtuous and denying that they were even friends, they were adversaries, what on Earth was Crowley talking about? Even daytime telly was better than risking that. In any case, watching often allowed Crowley to take pride in a bad job well done. And he could laugh at other people's problems instead of sobbing into a pillow about his own. Perhaps one, small glass of whiskey to help it along. He waved his hand and the telivison switched on. There was a morning talk show playing, with some American woman giving self-help advice. Even through the mist of his burgeoning self-pity, Crowley found himself mildly interested. He'd come up with quite a few things in the self-help line, and had the shiny row of commendations to show for it. Greed is good, ah, that had been a great one. He missed the eighties.

"...the biggest romantic mistake to make is going too fast."

Crowley's attention snapped to the screen. He didn't believe in omens. That would be stupid, he was a demon. Aziraphale might find books of prophecy amusing, but Crowley had usually caused the "revelations" leading to them. Coincidence, that's all it was.

"I know, I know, we're all modern and independent women now, we want to take initiative. But our grandmothers knew better. Men like to be the ones to chase, and if you chase them, they turn tail and run. Nothing kills love faster for them than being pursued."

That night, as Crowley clutched the thermos, Aziraphale had almost been trembling with fear. You go too fast for me, Crowley... Aziraphale wasn't a man, strictly speaking, any more than Crowley was a modern, independent woman. But the angel had brought the holy water, he had suffered terrible risks to keep Crowley safe, and surely, surely that was a sign of something more than ordinary friendship. So Crowley had pushed, had held out his black heart on a silver platter, and Aziraphale had fled the car as if it was blazing with the flames of hell.

The host didn't seem convinced by her guest, judging from the set of her shoulders. "Surely that kind of thing is manipulative."

The American woman's laugh tinkled. "Not at all. It's the natural order of things. Besides, isn't it better to go slowly and end up with a ring on your finger, than chase your true love away and end up all alone watching the TV? I can guarantee that, if you earnestly memorise and follow the Rules "-- Crowley could hear the reverently capitalised R -- "you will win the heart of the man of your dreams, and keep it."

The heart of the man-shaped being of his dreams. Had to be worth a shot.

Crowley stared at his whiskey. It caught the light from the television screen, and the liquid shimmer seemed to whisper to him: Go on. What do you have to lose?

1. Be a Creature Unlike Any Other

"Well. If that's typical, then this is going to be really bloody easy," Crowley told The Rules, for lack of a better conversational partner.

Well, he told it to the magazine article giving a précis of The Rules, in any case. He'd briefly considered buying, or at least shoplifting, the actual book. But then Aziraphale might sense he had a book and start smugly making reading recommendations and then Crowley would just have to go take up residence in Dis for a few hundred years until the angel forgot about it. Satan knew the little old lady downstairs was a better neighbour than he would find in Hell. She'd taken to dropping off delicious smelling containers underneath his serpent doorknocker, on the grounds that if he didn't get some meat on his bones he'd never find himself a wife, and demons never remembered how much white pepper Crowley liked. Besides, Sloth was a Vice, and he had his infernal standards. How much context could he possibly be missing?

In any case, he had Rule One in the bag, and it was doing wonders for his confidence. Of course, technically Crowley wasn't the only demon around. Aziraphale had met quite a few, one way or another, and had always proved too polite to smite them, although he did complain about their own manners. But Crowley was pretty sure he didn't have much in common with that lot except the job description, and in fact, Aziraphale had told him quite warmly that he was entirely different to the other demons. Said it with such reverberations of meaning in his voice that Crowley had metaphorically engraved the words on his heart and filled them with gold to cherish always. No, just like Aziraphale was the angel in a way that had nothing to do with those other self-righteous pricks, Crowley was pretty sure he was the demon. The one and only Serpent of Eden.

Of course, Crowley was still rather like a snake, when he thought about it.

He flexed his jaw carefully, running his tongue over his fangs, letting them protrude a bit. Too snake-like? How unlike any other did he actually have to be? Was it all right to be a bit like a snake when you weren't one? There weren't many snake-human hybrids running around, at least not since Medusa. How much serpent was the correct amount of serpent? Glasses on or off?

Crowley was miserably aware that he was just trying to keep his mind off the next Rule. It sat there on the page, trying to catch his attention. Smirking at him.

2. Don't Talk to a Man First (and Don't Ask Him to Dance)

Well. The second half of the Rule was easy enough to follow. He'd tried to lure Aziraphale into some of the more bodily contact involving dance forms at several points in history, but with little success. Little, not none. He may never have managed the angel in his arms with plausible deniability, but he could usually elicit a blush and a flutter and a stammering denial, an alluring display actually more than worth the price of the rejection. Still, it was easy enough to give up asking him

The first half of the commandment, though. Had the author ever met Aziraphale? Aziraphale, who was so absent-minded, so caught up in the wonders of everything, and so easily offended that it might be years until he ran into Crowley again. On those occasions, he greeted Crowley like Crowley was the sun in winter, like he was the most welcome sight in all the history of this wonderful planet, the one being in existence that Aziraphale wanted to see. His entire face lighting like a lamp, faint rose on his cheeks, that perfect beam that deepened fetching little wrinkles around his mouth, his eyes round with joy at the sight of a demon, his natural enemy, as if it was all perfectly understandable that Aziraphale was the one being in all the world happy to see Crowley.

All right, Crowley thought, heat creeping up his neck. Maybe he could stand to let Aziraphale be the one greet him first. Just in the cause of not going too fast. But he was going to have to give Aziraphale plenty of opportunities to speak first. Plenty of business to carry out in Soho, after all. Regular den of iniquity. And he should check out Saint James' Park every now and then. All those spies meeting at the green and pleasant hub of the Cold War, exchanging secrets and sandwiches. It would be neglecting his duties not to be there, too, spreading mischief. Then there was an estate of one of Aziraphale's most bitter book collecting rivals going up for auction in Surrey in a week, not that Crowley kept an eye out for estates with rare libraries attached or anything. He should be there, just in case there were any pesky grimoires with demon's true names in them or anything else that had to be kept out of the hands of meddling humans. No reason that Crowley being there would have anything to do with Aziraphale. He quite fancied sushi, too, and what was the name of that fascinating little Japanese restaurant Aziraphale loved so much?

There followed one of the most frustrating periods of Crowley's existence. The angel seemed determined not to leave his shop. Only reaching cautiously out for his aura reassured Crowley that Aziraphale was even in the city. It wasn't unknown, of course, for Aziraphale to vanish into his haven for months, lost in his books, to be lured out only by music and new chefs and book sales, or pushed out by terse notes from Heaven and Crowley's refusal to do all his work. But before, even before the world had grown smaller and faster and more full, Crowley had known he always had the option of slithering over to get Aziraphale's attention. Having it taken from him, even by his own choice, made him feel like he was whirling unmoored in space.

"Mr Fell hasn't been here for how long?" Crowley demanded of the owner at Aziraphale's favourite trattoria. It was just Aziraphale's kind of place, an unprepossessing doorway in an alley leading to soft candlelight, the pleasant chinking of silverware and muted conversation, a secret menu just for regulars and a wine list that rivalled the entire national budget for some countries. Romantic, that was it. If he ran into Aziraphale here, it would be the perfect setting to entice him into romance. But he hadn't shown up, and Crowley had learned to know the entire staff (Mark, his son and his daughter) by name, despite his general reluctance to bother to learn human names.

"Does he owe you money, that you look for him so hard? I would let it go, if I was you. He's bad business, Tony." Mark's heavy jowls quivered with emotion. "Bad, bad business."

This was an aspect to Aziraphale that Crowley hadn't fully considered before. He considered it. "Nah, can't be. It's not like you offer all you can eat."

"Not that kind of business. Bad business. I heard that some of the boys in Soho went to have a talk with him about selling his shop. Prime real estate, that. And," Mark's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned across the table, "they never came back."

Crowley lifted an eyebrow above his glasses, intrigued. "Any idea what happened to them?" he asked, as mildly as he could, trying not to give away any thrill at the revelation of Aziraphale's smiting side emerging in this modern world.

"Frank went to work in an AIDS charity and Len is spending more time with his wife and children. Neither would say what he threatened them with."

Crowley reflected. "Wow," he said admiringly.

"Yeah. And he seems like such a nice, polite gentleman. Like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. They often do, though."

"Practically angelic." Crowley tapped his fingers on the starched tablecloth. "But you don't need to worry about Aziraphale and me. We're old, old friends. Strangers in Paradise." It could only help his sinister reputation, being known as the companion of the mysterious terrifying bookseller, he reasoned.

"Why don't you just drop into his shop, then?" Mark spread his hands. "He is there most of the time."

"Oh. Well, you know," said Crowley, who found he got a long way with humans by not actually answering questions and allowing them to fill in the gaps in any way they chose.

"Ah, it is like that, is it?" Mark was clearly filling in the gaps. "Do not worry, Tony. My own nephew... I will let him know you have spoken of him if you see him, how about that?"

"Nnnnah, no, absolutely not," Crowley said, and Mark laughed indulgently. Humans. They made no sense. Just a moment ago Mark had been warning him off Aziraphale.

"I see. Well, I am sure your quarrel will be forgotten soon. You are a very handsome man."

"Ah, thanks." Quarrel. They hadn't quarrelled, not for a long time. Not since the holy water. They had quarrelled a lot before then, often drunkenly, but these days they were more careful about arguing in case things went too far. Aziraphale would sometimes charge Crowley with all the ills of the universe, but without much heat behind it, just as a matter of form. As if it was only too easy to break the tenuous bonds they had re-established. But Aziraphale had given him the holy water. He had chosen Crowley. He hugged that knowledge to himself, and waited.

February 1996

3. Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much

He finally spotted Aziraphale at the Proms. He felt the familiar tug at his heart before he turned his head to see Aziraphale seated in the same row, looking elegant and old-fashioned, his light clothes making him stand out like sunshine among all the dull dinner jackets. There was a blue cornflower in his lapel, of all things. The Albert Hall was right for Aziraphale, the right kind of setting for him, luxurious and cultured and golden.

Aziraphale turned his head as soon as Crowley found him, and blinked. A tiny pleased lift at the corner of his lips that lit Crowley's ancient blood up like fire, replaced by a prim look of disapproval as if he had just caught himself delighting at the sight of a demon. It should have been irritating, and in a way it was, but it was also so Aziraphale and it was impossible for Crowley to control the surge of love even as he, as was his own role, sneered. They both knew how this should go. They would jostle each other during interval drinks, Crowley would say "Knew a new Respighi piece would draw you out," and they would bicker about the music and the conducting and the inferior champagne. Crowley would tempt him to a better drink and a late supper in some little place, where candlelight would make Aziraphale's hair glow like a halo and in the early hours of the morning the proprietor would wonder why he had forgotten to shut up for the night. Crowley would drink in every moment of being together and hoard it in his heart as jealously as any dragon, to count his treasures while alone.

Then Aziraphale would go back to his bookshop, and Crowley would go back to his cold, exclusive, unliveable flat. Alone. Like always, back to a dark, frigid existence with just flurries of light and warmth around his angel.

When Aziraphale met his eyes again and smiled hopefully, Crowley averted his gaze. Don't stare at him, he reminded himself. A quote from the article floated behind his eyes. It is never necessary to make eye contact. Right. Well, he had slipped up there, but maybe the sunglasses had saved him. He would be more careful in future.

When the interval came, Crowley sloshed the champagne around in slow circles in his glass, watching the sheer wonderful gold of it, like Aziraphale's aura, waiting for the accidental running into each other, the decision that it would be uncivil not to spend the evening together just because they were adversaries. He could do this. Even though every instinct was telling him to sidle up to Aziraphale, circle around him like the predator he was. He'd decided to trust the humans on this one, right?

Even if he missed out on spending this evening together, it would be better in the end. Aziraphale had to want him. A line from the article floated in his head. ""The Rules are not about getting a date, but a husband. Don’t win the battle and lose the war." Husband, he had read, and his heart had constricted with all kinds of feelings and dreams half-repressed, impossible dreams, impossible things he wanted more than in existence, a cottage somewhere, just the two of them, the future belonging to them both. Well, Crowley had been losing this particular war for six fucking millennia, he reminded himself. Something had to change. All he had to do was look less interested, look like he had his mind on things other than the angel, let his man-shaped being come to him. The article had been very firm on the dangers of looking anxiously around to see if The One was approaching. What had the author advised instead? Ah, yes. Simply smiling at the room and the universe in general, and looking relaxed and approachable.

Crowley adjusted his posture carefully, weight on one hip, one hand holding his glass slightly up, the other hand dangling carelessly. Perfect. James Dean couldn't have slouched better. Now to smile. How the heaven did smiling work? He managed it sometimes when anxious, or amused, or when looking at Aziraphale, but standing in this room, waiting for Aziraphale to approach him, he seemed to have forgotten how to control the complicated series of muscles required to look happy and approachable, but definitely not interested or obsessive. And not smirking. Smirking would be bad. Right. Lift the corners of his mouth--fuck, was his eyebrow meant to go up as well? Too late, the left one had determinedly ascended--part lips. Relax jaw. Probably okay to show some sharp teeth, after all, he was a creature unlike any other. Not too many teeth, he decided hastily, as a small child shrieked. Oh yeah. This was good. This was really good. Sexy, sultry, a bit sinful. Tempting. Tempting was approachable, right? Don't look at The One. Draw Aziraphale over with his relaxed, approachable, sexy presence as he surveyed the room. Don't smirk. Smile.

When the warning rang for the end of interval, Crowley looked around. Aziraphale was only a few yards away. He was blinking, eyelashes fluttering, looking flustered and shy and rosy, all according to plan.

But not at Crowley. The man Aziraphale had been next to, who Crowley had disregarded as being human and fundamentally nothing significant to do with the angel and himself, was adjusting the cornflower in Aziraphale's buttonhole. Clearly one of Aziraphale's human friends had attended the performance with him. That was distinctly irritating. Aziraphale was supposed to be alone when Crowley accidentally ran into him, the better to practice the Rules. Humans had no business getting in the way of Crowley's plans, and Aziraphale had no business encouraging them. It would serve that presumptuous human right if Crowley blasted him with hellfire, if he targeted him for the next ten years, destroyed his soul bit by bit the old fashioned way, sent him to the sulphur pits and the chain gangs and the flames for eternity. Or at least sidled across and was obnoxiously rude to him, while addressing Aziraphale as angel in his most pointed way.

Don't talk to a man first. Don't go too fast for him.

Crowley swore under his breath in every modern language he knew and quite a few dead ones, and left before the second Act. Freddy Mercury wailed "Sometimes I feel I'm always walking too fast (so lonely)," over the radio until Crowley growled and wrenched the volume off, taking the rest of the drive in silence.

Aziraphale had been aware of Crowley's presence the moment he entered the auditorium. The taste of Crowley's idiosyncratic brand of evil was in his mouth, not a rotting, festering taste like some demons Aziraphale had met, but with a sharp bright tang that was Crowley's alone. Like salt, Aziraphale thought sometimes, adding depth to the world around him, making the taste richer, the flavours more vivid, the joy that was living just that more delectable. Too much sin was bad for you and rather horrid, he thought, but just a little... Just a little made everything better.

Of course, he would never say as much to Crowley. For a start, Crowley would roar with laughter at being compared to salt. Aziraphale loved and patronised poets, but he had not the imagination to find a poetic metaphor. Even the salt thing was taken from that clever man Sartre. A kiss without a moustache was like an egg without salt, and so too was Good without Evil, he had said. Aziraphale was aware his mind merely latched on to convenient thoughts from humans and applied them to his own, rather than being creative.

He was also aware that, speculations about moustaches in certain periods of time or not, he was not in a position to think about being kissed by his own particular embodiment of evil. He was certainly not thinking about being kissed when he glanced to his left and saw a pair of dark glasses turned towards him. Or that he had missed him. It really hadn't been all that long since he had seen Crowley, in any case. They had used to go so many years apart, before the Arrangement. It had been safer that way, of course. Perhaps setting up a permanent home and job -- cover, he reminded himself sternly, not job -- had been a mistake. Far too easy for Crowley to get in the habit of prowling through the bookshop door, casually offering tickets or treats that he had just happened to pick up and had no use for. Demons were like that. Dealt out temptation as easily as breathing. They were so very tempting, at least this one, with his swaying walk and knowing hiss and unexpectedly sweet and open smiles.

Not that Crowley was looking at Aziraphale at all right now. Aziraphale fiddled a little and tried to concentrate.

In the interval, Aziraphale waited for Crowley to join him, and was slightly put out when he didn't. When he finally found him, without looking at all, of course, Crowley was standing all by himself, glaring at the Prom-goers with a smile so terrifying that several were hurriedly finding somewhere else to be. How very peculiar. He must be on some kind of mission from Hell, and hadn't approached Aziraphale because he was too considerate to involve an angel in whatever beastly business he was carrying out. Aziraphale felt quite a lot better about things.

How very beautiful Crowley was. How could anyone mistake him for human when his aura hung like coal smoke in the atmosphere? No, not smoke, not that stuff Aziraphale remembered hanging in the smog in a killing pea-soup while Pestilence stalked Victorian London, something more substantial and less foul but still threatening. Like a deadly snake, dark and sinuous, just the flame of his hair as a warning of his dangerous nature. But what a dear boy too, really, so kind and chivalrous... Familiar confusion fell on him.

"You friends with the bloke dressed for a funeral?" asked John, who was newly employed at the adult bookshop next door, and had never experienced the joys of classical music before, poor thing. When Aziraphale had heard, he couldn't wait to bring the neglected dear to a really good performance. The boy was humming a line of some kind of popular music that Aziraphale didn't recognise,^[1] when his head should have been full of the joys of a brand new performance of that daring Resphigi. 

"Absolutely not, we have absolutely nothing to do with each other," Aziraphale said automatically, then, realising John would probably see Crowley and his somewhat identifiable car around, "He's an old work acquaintance. We catch up sometimes and exchange notes."

"You have some strange friends in the book trade. Lucky for me." John reached up and adjusted Aziraphale's buttonhole, solicitously brushing away a few grains of pollen. He was surprisingly kind and chivalrous, too. "Let's go back in, the bell has sounded."

"I suppose we must." Aziraphale repressed a disappointed sigh. Crowley clearly had other things on his mind, and he would get back into contact when he was ready. He always did.

The second half of the programming was sublime, but it lacked Crowley's presence and the accompanying excitement, and Aziraphale caught himself wondering why he hadn't returned to his seat. Not that Aziraphale was fretting. Whatever Crowley was up to was none of his business. If it was something in which Crowley had been amusingly clever and nefarious, he would no doubt tell it to Aziraphale in private, where Aziraphale could be properly disapproving. If it was truly awful, he would come to Aziraphale anyway. Aziraphale had a certain amount of practice in cheering up drunk, traumatised, guilty demons without either of them admitting that was what was going on. It didn't happen often these days, not like the early days of the world, anyway. Downstairs and Upstairs alike had been rather hands-off for decades, and Crowley was very talented at avoiding unpleasant work.

"You really do live at the bookshop?" John asked, as the cab drew up outside it.

Aziraphale shook himself free of his thoughts. "I have some private rooms there, yes. It's a matter of convenience, and I do like to be surrounded by books."

"You really live for your work. You should get out and have some excitement some of these days."

"I manage more  excitement than you'd think." Aziraphale let his mind go to some of the more interesting events he had attended throughout history, and how annoying and often sad they were. "But there's a lot to be said for peace and quiet. Did you enjoy the concert?"

"It was great," John said slowly. "A bit old and stuffy, but gorgeous." In the darkness, his eyes were fixed on Aziraphale's face, glittering in the streetlamps. "Really gorgeous. Just my type."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "That's nice. I'm so glad, my dear. You should really accompany me again one evening."

"I'd like that. You know where to find me, yeah? And you've got my number."

"Well, good night." John seemed to be gazing at him expectantly, waiting for something more, so Aziraphale kindly patted his shoulder, and left the taxi.

Curled up on the sofa with some F. W. Loring to read and some sweet cocoa, intending on a good old sentimental cry over the book, he nonetheless found his mind wandering. He realised he was waiting for Crowley to swan in and fail to mention the fact that he had cut Aziraphale at the Proms, but make up for it in his sideways way. Possibly with chocolates. Was something wrong between them? Surely not. There had been silences before. But Crowley might be so good as to let him know how Silchester had gone so he could make his report, Aziraphale decided, with huffy annoyance. So selfish, demons.

He was sure he would see Crowley soon. Best to stay around the bookshop, just in case. He realised he had been a tad reclusive lately, and had lost track of how long it had been since he left until he got into a conversation with John over a misdirected parcel, but, after all, Crowley knew where to find him. Perhaps it was better, after all, not to be preoccupied with someone else when he saw Crowley again.

The conversation he had been rehearsing in his head floated through his mind again. I think, after all, I am ready to move a little faster. Thank you for waiting for me.

It was easy enough to say in his head when he was daydreaming in front of the fire, a book on his lap. In his daydreams, Crowley's face would light up in joy, the same unselfconscious pleasure he had shown in Eden. Crowley would say wonderful things about loving in return for thousands of years. There would be kissing, and perhaps tears, and everything would be lovely.

In real life, he knew Crowley was prickly, and not always very serious, and worried about Hell, and what if Aziraphale was wrong? He was almost sure Crowley loved him. After all, Crowley was a demon. Surely demons didn't generally go out of their way to be kind to angels, spend time with them, do them favours, protect their books. But perhaps it was a long game. Or perhaps it was just friendship and loneliness, and what read as flirtation was just Crowley being the tempting creature he was designed to be. Perhaps Aziraphale was wrong.

Crowley, handling the holy water like it was something precious and not at all dangerous to him. Crowley's voice thick with emotion, promising to take him anywhere he wanted. Layers of meaning beneath the words.  And Aziraphale had known he should have refused outright and had instead asked for time. Crowley had looked so sad... Aziraphale couldn't be so wrong about it.

He'd tried writing to Crowley a few times in the last few months. Writing to Crowley had always been a thrill, the danger of putting pen to paper, code names and secret rendezvous. Having heard sometime in the Cold War that the head of MI5 used green ink, Aziraphale had gleefully adopted it to give his missives an extra dash of illicit contact between enemy agents. The one thing they had both avoided was using their own names. Time to change that.

It was no good. Even the salutation froze the marrow in his bones, before he could even get to thinking out the exquisitely embarrassing wording of the confession.

If I am not quite mistaken, you might have feelings for me, and if so, I thank you for granting my previous request for more time to consider. I find that, on contemplation, I am ready

Ready for what? To go on a picnic? To be swept off his feet? To defy Heaven? To become lovers? That thought sent a frightened, delicious squirming into the pit of his stomach. And what if he was wrong? 

Some things should be done in person. He was the last one to have called Crowley and asked him to dinner and for a favour, just as he had been the first one, back in Rome. Crowley would take his turn, he always did, and they could end up in the bookshop afterwards, and Crowley would relax and cast his glasses aside to show his beautiful golden eyes and Aziraphale could tell him. Or kiss him. Yes. Perhaps he could kiss him, at that. He had kissed people, if not with romantic intent, in the times iot had been a custom to kiss lips or eyelids or cheeks, and a kiss from an angel to a demon... well. That would be definitive. Crowley might scoff, he might pull away, but it wouldn't be as permanent as a letter. Wouldn't leave evidence that might damn him, quite literally, even while his fearful heart was broken.

Aziraphale's hopeful heart told him that Crowley might kiss him back. Tenderly. Shyly. With fierce demonic passion that would end up with Aziraphale with his back to the shelves. Anything would do. He just had to be patient.

A fortnight later, during which Aziraphale definitely did not jump for the phone every time it rang or take to glaring sternly at it when it didn't, and fended off increasing overtures to friendship from John in order to stay around for any phonecalls that might happen to come in, he took matters into his own hands. It wasn't really allowed to directly contact a demon, but he had Crowley's phone number for emergencies, and this was... Yes. An emergency. Gabriel would get decidedly tetchy if he didn't report on Silchester soon.

He reached for his phone, and slid one finger into the dial.

4-6. Don't meet him halfway or go Dutch on a date. Don't call him and rarely return his calls. Always end calls first.

Crowley pounded away on the keys of his sleek, black, brand new computer, fudging his paperwork, and not calling Aziraphale. He was doing his monthly report, which given how distracted he had been by trying to arrange for accidental encounters and not calling Aziraphale, mostly involved buying a heap of newspapers and taking credit for anything he saw. The bestsellers list was full of John Grisham, Danielle Steel and Michael Crichton, that would probably do. Getting Aziraphale started on the subject of books about dinosaurs--no. He wasn't thinking about Aziraphale. He wasn't thinking about that bloody presumptuous human laying hands on him. That was inconsequential. Human friends came, human friends went, and Crowley and Aziraphale's friendship endured.

"I am a creature unlike any other. I am interesting and mysterious," he said aloud, and felt better. Naturally, he was interesting and mysterious. He was the great and cunning tempter who slid through history, spreading rebellion, sin and minor inconveniences. No one could stand forever against the temptation he represented. Even an angel.

Why the heaven hadn't Aziraphale approached him at the interval? Maybe this book was a pile of nonsense. What was he doing, trusting a self-help book when he had all but invented the genre? Maybe he should have slithered across the room, knocked the human aside, and claimed Aziraphale's mouth in a possessive kiss for all to see. No, that really would be going too fast.

Humans were so blessed inventive, that was the thing. Have a great idea, encouraging them to write books of inane advice that would backfire, and the clever bastards couldn't be trusted at all not to run with the idea and write something actually useful. Love, romantic love and courtship and all that stuff, was really their preserve, even if Crowley felt like he had personally invented it standing on the wall in Eden.

Get some fresh air, that was the ticket. Staring at the walls of his bloody boring flat was getting nothing done. He should get into the Bentley, take her out into the country, really let her rip, and find a nice nursery, because Satan knew his houseplants were getting a bit thin on the ground these days. Get some better behaved, easier to discipline plants. And some locally made jam and honey from the stand they always had at the right kind of nursery, too, because Aziraphale really did prefer homemade, and some fragrant, freshly baked bread, maybe go down to Devon for some really good butter, and drop casually by the bookshop and... no no no. Just buy plants. Good thing he had the Rules slowing him down.

When he returned to his flat, cradling a moth orchid with fragrant yellow flowers, the red light on his answering machine was flashing. He waved a finger to turn it on, very coolly, very casually. Was probably a telemarketer or something. He was proud of telemarketing, one of his greatest inventions, the souls of the telemarketers tarnishing with every call, the souls of the people they talked to darkening with irritation and unkindness. It would cheer him up. Definitely.

A voice which a less infatuated demon might have called querulous came out. "...do you mean, you're Crowley, Anthony Crowley and you're out saving the world? I highly doubt it. " Crowley cringed a little. That greeting had seemed so cool when he'd picked up his Ansaphone in the late sixties with You Only Live Twice ringing loud in his head, and he supposed he had forgotten to change it. And Aziraphale never could register that he was talking to a recording device before the beep. "Listen, I---oh, I can't possibly talk to this device. Do pick up, Crowley." There was a silence. "Well, please give me a call when you hear this. I think we should meet up to exchange notes over lunch. It's been a while."

Crowley dived for the phone as if Aziraphale might still be there. Only the dial tone met his ears. It had worked, it had really bloody worked. That plaintive tone at the end, oh, Crowley could just see the wide eyes, the slight pout. Aziraphale had missed him. Aziraphale was practically pleading to see him. All Crowley had to do was wait for him to come to him, and now he had to ring back and --

Oh. Shit.

Crowley buried his head in his hands. Surely he could ring back. Surely this was the exception. Aziraphale had clearly been ringing to arrange a date. The words floated in front of his eyes in perfect newspaper print:

Not calling back will leave him desiring you more, make him want to see you again and call you again. Men always call again. When they call you, they're doing the dialling, they want you, miss you at that moment, can't wait to hear your voice.

He could hear Aziraphale's voice echo in his head, the plea to pick up. Being a demon, Crowley was naturally superstitious, if it could be called that; it wasn't really a stretch to believe demonic magic was behind things when you did a fair amount of demonic magic yourself. Maybe this book really was a magical spell, a contract written by Asmodeous or some other demon. Aziraphale had called him. Aziraphale missed him. Whatever it was, it was working. Breaking the Rules might break the spell.

What had the Rules advised if you really wanted to hear your beloved's voice? Ah, that was it. Ring their answering machine when they're out and listen to the greeting without leaving a message. Well, Aziraphale didn't have an answering machine attached to his antique telephone, but he had left a message. Crowley could listen to it a moderate amount of times, say, twenty or thirty, obsessing over the pleading note that emerged Aziraphale got over being irritated by the answering message, and then release his tension by putting the fear of Crowley into his new acquisition.

And get a car phone installed in the Bentley while he was at it. He'd meant to get one anyway.

He patted himself on the back for his forward-thinking when the car phone rang. He was heading for Blockbuster to insist on the three latest new releases at 10.20 pm on a Saturday night, and definitely not waiting for Aziraphale to call. He wrenched the phone off its cradle so fast he missed a pedestrian.

"Hi. A. J. Crowley is the name, don't wear it out." He couldn't stay too long on the phone, he reminded himself. The hand not grasping the phone flicked a button on his watch.

"Hello? Is that you, or your infernal device?" Aziraphale was sounding annoyed before Crowley had even said anything much provoke him. It should be irritating. It was bloody irritating, only it happened to be bloody adorable as well.

"Speak after the tone, and your soul will belong to the Devil. Beeeeep!"

"Crowley! It is you!" Aziraphale's beam rendered itself in audio form and half-blinded Crowley, much to the concern of a lady walking a cocker spaniel on the pavement. "You really are a difficult demon to reach sometimes."

He was a busy creature like no other and his time was in demand, filled up with activities and other men, and he should give no explanation, Crowley reminded himself. "Yeah. You know me, evil never rests. What's up?"

"Why didn't you say hello to me at the Proms?"

I thought you were busy with your date, the acid saliva in Crowley's mouth wanted to say, but jealousy was definitely against the Rules. Rule 16, in fact, Don't Tell Him What to Do. Besides, it probably wasn't a date at all. Aziraphale attracted friends like a flower attracted butterflies, but he avoided courtship like it was herbicide. "Work."

"Ah, yes." Aziraphale sounded relieved. "In any case, I wondered if you'd given any thought to meeting up."

Crowley steered with one finger. This, he supposed, was where he offered to foot the bill, used his knowledge about local eateries, treated his angel. But the Rules had been clear on that, that it was Aziraphale's responsibility to choose a place convenient to Crowley, and pay. After all, Aziraphale liked taking him out, introducing him to new things. Oysters in Rome, crêpes in France. He took glee in introducing Crowley to new things, tempting him to pleasure like he was the demon. Perhaps it was actually selfish to want to take control. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Well. Ah." There was a pause in which Crowley had time to wonder if he had miscalculated, and then Aziraphale said, all of a rush, "I thought perhaps we could dine at the Ritz. Does Wednesday suit?"

Crowley pulled the Bentley onto the side of the road, into a gap that hadn't been there a moment before. In his head he was back in Soho clutching a thermos, Aziraphale looking ridiculously gorgeous with the street lights glowing in his hair, making vague promises of someday, and not letting Crowley know when the time would come. The time was now, apparently. Crowley's ridiculously human heart was stuttering in his chest. He checked the date on his watch-- good, it was Saturday, he wouldn't be breaking Rule 7 (Don't accept a Saturday date after Wednesday.) It was quite the opposite way around. The whole thing was obviously meant to be. Someone was watching over him. Asmodeus, maybe.

"Sure," he said with elaborate casualness. "That's good and close to home. Pick me up at seven?"

"Pick you up? Crowley, have you forgotten which one of us drives that terrifying motor?"

"She's not a terrifying motor, she's..." The alarm on his watch began to chirp. Oh, fuck. But the Rules were working, and they felt like magic. He was actually getting somewhere. What if he broke the geas and it all fell apart? "Gotta go, Aziraphale."

"What do you mean---"

The phone crashed back into its cradle, and Crowley whooped aloud with joy. The Ritz. And then, he hoped, a picnic. He was clearly going at exactly the right speed at last.

Rule 8: Fill Up Your Time Before the Date

The Rules advised that it was best to fill his time and be busy and a bit breathless when answering the door. They suggested a bubble bath and manicure, which was more Aziraphale's style -- Crowley had a very expensive high tech shower he never used -- or a nap, when he was afraid he would oversleep by a few hours or months, or going to a movie. He settled on watching Attack of the Killer Tomatoes on the couch with his new moth orchid, as a warning of what to expect if it got above itself.

A polite knock signalled that Aziraphale had arrived and ignored the sign that said "Ring the Doorbell, Yes, That Means Soho Booksellers." Not that Crowley had expected him to respect it. He'd just put it there to be annoying, which the Rules didn't exactly prohibit, at least in the abbreviated version he'd read in the newspaper. He was pretty sure, in return, that Aziraphale had chosen to knock to be annoying on his own part, so they were even.

He only realised as he went to the door that he'd never actually invited Aziraphale to the flat before. Of course, he knew where it was, he had sent notes there well before giving in and adopting the telephone, right in the Victorian era when Mayfair had first become fashionable. Crowley liked to be reachable in case of emergencies like Heaven finding out about the Arrangement or Aziraphale running out of his favoured powdered chocolate. But Aziraphale was the more cautious of the two, and he had never actually seen Crowley's flat in person. It was a major concession to come there, Crowley realised. And he'd probably want to be invited in...

Crowley cast a hunted look around before he opened the door, maniacally rehearsing to himself. "Hi, angel, let me give you the tour. This is the eagle I stole from that church, remember, because you looked at me like you loved me and I needed a memento, so I built it a shrine. Here's the fucking thrones I saw in Harrods and thought were a great idea. Here's a statue of Good in the form of an angel being, ah, conquered, by Evil in the form of an demon. Nude. Here's my bedroom, I suppose I should keep it private except for some highly intelligent reason I thought glass walls would be a great idea, there's the bed I retreat to when I think too much about your bare shoulders in Greece or your feet in Eden or the way you look sidelong at me sometimes and the ache gets too much, nothing embarrassing at all here to see." He opened the door.

Aziraphale, however, just gave him a faint smile and said, "Ready on time. How very unfashionable," and waited for him to emerge. Crowley locked the door behind him, manually, to give himself a moment to think, and be appropriately breathless.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. "You can't wear jeans to the Ritz."

"They'll never notice."

"I suppose they won't. Well, shall we?"

"Did you catch the bus? Or ride a moped?"

"Very funny. I walked. It's not far at all, and a beautiful day. Why are you breathing so hard? We don't even need to breathe."

"No reason. Let's go."

Walking had its advantages. Aziraphale's hair gleamed in even the watery sun which London was producing as its best attempt at a beautiful day. The crowds as they headed for Piccadilly practically forced them to walk side-by-side, close together, the plump figure intoxicatingly close to his own. They didn't talk much; Aziraphale seemed thoughtful, and Crowley was concentrating on being a creature unlike any other, and working out exactly how sharp his teeth should be.

The Ritz had loomed in his head for three decades as a Symbol, an impossibility. It was almost a surprise that it was just the same hotel across the road from Boots he had seen so often, tourists and guests eating in the restaurant. He hadn't booked, but then, he never booked anywhere. Fortnight long waiting list or not, a table had just become available.

And although the Ritz restaurant was just a restaurant, the Georgian gorgeousness of it was the perfect setting for Aziraphale, the gold and creams and deep red-pinks flattering him, the old chandeliers enhancing his glow, flowers surrounding him as if his natural angelicness had caused him to blossom. Even the ceiling was painted like the sky, like Heaven had been before it all went wrong. Crowley had often thought the Victorian era was Aziraphale's natural home and that he had become stuck there. After all, Aziraphale was very much the Victorian ideal of the golden mean: moderately aged, moderately fat, moderately tall, moderately well-endowed (sometimes Crowley had peeked in public baths and fuelled his imagination for centuries), possibly immoderately beautiful only to Crowley. Now he remembered how Aziraphale had shone under the luxury of the Georges, his pale hair and his fussiness matching the fashions of the time, the allure of silk stockings on his well-turned calves and lace cascading around those pampered hands. Blooming with joy over his new book shop, his "cover" which conveniently allowed him to do exactly what he most wanted.

Crowley opened his mouth to ask Aziraphale if he remembered, then his jaw snapped closed.

Rule 9: How to Act on Dates 1-3

• Don't tell him all about your day
• Remember you are a creature unlike any other
• Show up, relax, and pretend you're an actress in a cameo in a movie. Be light and sweet and smile.
• Don't fill up lulls in the conversation. Make him do the work
• Act nonchalant
• End the date first. Sigh, glance at your watch, and say "Well, this was really great, but I have a really big day tomorrow." Don't say what it is you're planning to do tomorrow.
• Don't invite him to your flat or go to his.

Aziraphale could feel his heart hammering in his chest, quite as though it was needed to pump blood. Odd, the relationship between emotions and corporations. He knew he was distracting himself from his own nervousness.

Crowley looked astounding in a setting like this. The fashion of the times suited him, Aziraphale thought. Centre-parted, softly dishevelled hair curtains, the waves defined by some kind of hair product, falling around the fine bones of his face, the lines of his iridium glasses as sharp the gaze they hid from everyone but him. Not that the glasses were truly new in style, any more than the long-ish hair or the structured shoulders and loose drape of his jacket, all things Aziraphale had seen on Crowley in some form or other over the years as fashion cycled. Still, he drew attention like an unexpected shadow. A snake in a room full of placid human prey.

Aziraphale felt, just a little, like angelic prey, and, just a little, relished the feeling.

It would go well, he told himself. Crowley surely understood the significance of this venue, of the invitation. And he had come anyway. He wasn't particularly showing any signs of romantic tension, lolling back in his seat as he was inches away from putting his feet up on the table, and glaring around the room as if deciding who to eat, but perhaps extreme relaxation was the dear boy's way of showing nervousness.

Aziraphale had to be right about him. They would eat, and perhaps Aziraphale would reach for his hand across the table. Perhaps they would kiss. And definitely, absolutely definitely, if Crowley wasn't moved by the romance of it all to confess first, Aziraphale would confess his heart. And afterwards... Oh, he had planned it all perfectly.

Crowley let him order, which was touching. Aziraphale fancied he was an expert at wine and food by now. Besides, he had his own reason for not wanting Crowley to see the menu. He wondered if Crowley had noticed all the flowers. Then there was the wine to approve, and a civilised interval to make conversation before the arrival of the first course. "So," Aziraphale said brightly, "tell me about your day. What have you been up to?"

Crowley's head whipped around to face him, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he saw stark panic on it. "Nothing." Then a sickly smile spread across his face, and he fixed his gaze halfway across the restaurant.

"What do you mean, nothing?" Aziraphale asked, a little prickled despite himself.

"Ngghrgh. Nothing. Kept myself busy, you know me, always in demand. Don't want to talk about it."

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to say something, anything, explain why he did nothing, ask about Aziraphale's own day. Crowley just kept that awkward, saccharine grin pasted on his face, his teeth showing, and oh my, weren't they ever so sharp. Aziraphale had certain fantasies about those teeth, but he had rarely seen them so pointed. If he was honest with himself, those fantasies were quite enhanced by the sight. But Crowley wasn't looking at him, and it was all wrong.

"If you're keeping work secrets from me, my dear," he said, hating the pettishness that crept into his voice, "you need not. The Arrangement is still in place."

"Nah. Nothing like that." Crowley simpered at him, or at least a few inches away from his face. Something was definitely wrong.

They sat in offended, at least on Aziraphale's part, silence, until the first course arrived, and Aziraphale was too transported with anticipation to be offended. The ceviche of scallops was as dainty as a work of art, blushing curls of flesh nestled in shining citrus liquids and bright petals of shaved vegetables. "Oh, how lovely!" He all but clapped his hands.

Crowley actually glanced at him then, and instead of the disturbing smile there was a heat that felt like familiar fondness, and something else, more profound. Aziraphale immediately felt better about how this evening would go.

"You always did like raw seafood, Aziraphale."

"Anything but the most delicate cooking destroys the subtlety of the flavour," Aziraphale admonished.

"I prefer fish and chips myself." Crowley leaned forward, watching Aziraphale take a forkful of scallop, his irises huge and his expression avid through the smoke of his glasses. "Thick, fatty, sinful, scrumptious--" And then as abruptly as it had returned, the feeling of intimacy shut off. Crowley broke off mid-word, smiled, and returned his gaze to his plate.

The tart reply already on Aziraphale's lips felt like acid when he swallowed it down. Surely the Ritz didn't usually serve such rubbery seafood. He should have a kindly word with the chef.

The spiced honey duck was no better. Crowley drank a lot and wolfed down his own food in a few bites, as was his custom, but he seemed distracted, and not even interested in whether Aziraphale enjoyed the duck. He was staring vacantly at the other guests and the flowers. Did Crowley realise they were all couples there? Was he alarmed, or looking for an excuse to leave? Aziraphale's bubbling optimism was deflating. He could almost hear the popping of bubbles--no, wait, that was the champagne.

"I do wish you'd tell me about your day," he found himself saying, hating himself for sounding pathetic.

"Told you, nothing to tell, angel." At least there was the endearment. Perhaps it wasn't an endearment. Perhaps it was a mere acknowledgement of the differences between them and Aziraphale had started misunderstanding it when humans began using it in a different sense. "Tell me about your work."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm interested in your day, Aziraphale." There was a distinct note of irritation, which was unfair.

"Why?"

"What d'you mean, why?"

Aziraphale frowned. "You won't tell me what you're up to. But you are very interested in my work, all of a sudden. Is this the Arrangement, or have you been given specific instructions to report on my activities back to Hell?"

"W--what? Aziraphale, no."

"You've been acting very strangely," Aziraphale said plaintively.

"Well, I am strange. I mean, unique. I mean, unlike any -- nnnnnnnngh. I thought you liked that?"

"Liked it? You're my enemy." And why had he said that? At what point in his plan for confession and romance and desperate love had he intended to remind Crowley they were enemies?

"Yes, but a very charming enemy, you must admit." And it was all right again, the teasing note back in Crowley's voice, and thank Heaven Aziraphale could see through the lenses, see the familiar crinkle of laugh lines around yellow eyes. It was all right. It was Crowley, who never took any declarations of enmity seriously, who knew they were on opposing sides but was always there for Aziraphale, helping him when he needed it, offering friendship and companionship and rescue and... love. Surely that was love. The dear, dear serpent. "I watched a film on the television."

"Alone?" Aziraphale asked, not expecting the sudden panic covering up the affection in Crowley's gaze.

"Nggk. Not exactly alone."

"Oh," Aziraphale said coolly. He didn't deign to ask who had been invited around to the flat when he never had.

"Now it's your turn."

"I didn't feel like opening the shop, so I took a turn around the Kew Gardens." No need to mention that the crawling feeling of panic in his belly had made dealing with customers impossible, at least without smiting them.

"Alone?" Crowley echoed.

"John from the bookshop next door had the morning off but had run in to collect something, so he was kind enough to accompany me." It had been a confusing conversation. It wasn't that Aziraphale wasn't used to filling in the gaps between what was said and what wasn't, but normally the conversation was with Crowley, and thousands of years of learning each other's quirks, as well as being made from the same basic stuff, made it easier. There had been some parts of the conversation in which Aziraphale was almost sure he was not understanding what was going on, and he had devoutly wished to be alone to think of Crowley. Then John had seemed quite upset when Aziraphale told him he was meeting a friend for lunch.

"Oh."

Conversation faded again. Why wasn't Crowley looking at him? Crowley always looked at him, circled him, pinned him with his gaze. Was he trying to postpone the inevitable, avoid having to let Aziraphale down and crush his feelings? Aziraphale wasn't stupid. He knew Crowley hated him feeling bad. And maybe this was it, Crowley was contemplating breaking his heart, and hating the thought. Aziraphale felt small and shrivelled up. He had been going to... he was...

He had even been thinking about proposing. Such a fool.

Notes on Rule 4

• Look down at the table or your food, or simply survey the crowd in the restaurant, instead of at your live prey. He will feel crowded and self-conscious if you gaze at him too much. Restrain yourself. Let him spend the evening trying to get your attention.
• Needless to say, there will be moments on the date when neither of you has anything to say. Don't feel the need to fill these silences. Maybe he's thinking about how he's going to propose to you one day. Don't ruin his concentration.

The arrival of the final course cheered him a little. No one could be entirely unhappy when presented with raspberry souffle, in its nest of rose petals, fluffy and delicious and perfect. Aziraphale knew exactly how it would melt in his mouth, like... well, not like manna. Manna had nothing on the riches of the Earth, the ingenuity of human cooks.

Crowley condescended to speak at last. "Pink and red again. D'you think they have some kind of special colour scheme going on?"

And that was it. The moment. Aziraphale took a deep breath.

"Didn't you know? It's Valentine's Day." There was some satisfaction at shocking Crowley at last, even though his stomach was cramping with anxiety. The sharp jaw went slack, the eyes behind the lenses flooded with gold. "I know you weren't particularly fond of Valentinus of Interamna, and of course he was one of ours, but really his fate was unfortunate, and you know he did spend a lot of time marrying couples who were otherwise forbidden to marry. Couples with the fates against them, and yet with hearts united," Aziraphale said meaningfully. "It's still quite a modern custom to celebrate his day in such a way, of course, and terribly commercialised, it makes me wonder if you are behind it, but it seems... fitting."

"Azzziraphale." It was somewhere between a breath and a croak, and the z was hissed.

He plunged on. "I brought you something. A gift. To mark the day." He pushed the box across the table.

Crowley unwrapped the gold ribbon with hands that were visibly trembling, and lifted the lid. Inside it lay a treasured quarto of Anthony and Cleopatra. He had always loved dear William, loved his talent and his spirit, and he had such precious memories of standing in the crowd watching the plays with Crowley, who pretended not to enjoy the romance and tragedy and always got a bit tearful anyway. Crowley had given Will one of his most famous lines, in Anthony and Cleopatra. And surely Crowley would see themselves in those lovers from enemy states, understand what Aziraphale was trying to say. The play even had a snake in it.

"Thanks, angel. Well. It's been great. Busy day tomorrow."

Aziraphale stared blankly at the empty seat where Crowley had sat. He had practically run from the place. Escaping him, escaping Aziraphale and the emotions.

Sticking him with the bill.

He waved a hand, and the optimistically reserved suite with the single red rose, chocolates and champagne became available for some lucky human on the waiting list. He would have to wait a while before he could see clearly enough to make his own way home. Ridiculous blurred vision

Rule 12: stop dating him if he doesn't buy you a romantic gift for your birthday or Valentine's day

• If you don't get jewellery or some other romantic gift,you might as well call it quits because he's not in love with you and chances are you won't get the most important gift at all: an engagement ring. Sweatsuits, books, briefcases, toasters and other practical gifts are the kind of things men give when they like you, care about you (like a sister) but don't want to marry you.

Crowley spent a few years moping, trying not to think about his shattered heart and destroyed hopes, and savouring every snatched moment he could with Aziraphale, still trying desperately not to be too clingy, move too fast or to break the Rules again. They might start working again, after all. Meanwhile, sometimes he had the chance to bask in the warmth and sting of Aziraphale's presence, and that was enough. He might have read He's Just Not That Into You once or twice, but he certainly didn't shed any tears, because he was a hardened and wicked spawn of hell. He might have got rip-roaring drunk a few times, but that was a sin and to be expected.

Then he was handed a baby in a basket, and...

...Rules or no Rules, there was only one person he could possibly turn to for comfort and help.

They spent more consecutive time together in the following eleven years than they ever had. Crowley had thought he loved Aziraphale before; now his love ached almost beyond endurance. He even tried, stupidly, to convince Aziraphale to run away with him into the nothing of space, all alone, nothing but the two of him, but together and safe. Almost safe. A little bit safe. Together until they were caught, anyway.

And at the end, when the world didn't fail, they were on their own side, and Crowley knew that in nearly every way, Aziraphale was his. Their own side. Able to be friends for the sake of it, spend time together because they wanted to, face the universe and heaven and hell themselves and then enjoy a nice lunch and some champagne together. They didn't hold hands, they didn't kiss, let alone anything else, but there was happiness, happiness Crowley had never known, happiness that the fallen should rightfully never have. Aziraphale cared for him, enjoyed his company, turned to him, liked him. They were practically inseparable.

He had nearly everything he had ever wanted. And he slowly forgot he had ever desperately followed any human dating guide in the search for more.

2019

Crowley pushed the bookshop door open, despite being locked (nonsensical to expect the shop to be open in prime shopping hours) in a jangle of bells. "Aziraphale, you in? I fancy some brunch."

Aziraphale was at a desk in the backroom, sorting through paperwork, his ancient computer glowing in blue and white. He had reading glasses on, and there should be some supernatural law against looking as unfairly lovable as he did with them on. "I won't be too long. Just doing my taxes."

Crowley draped himself over the back of his chair. "You should let me do your taxes for you. This place would turn a profit at last."

"Don't tempt me, fiend. Oh, I forgot my ledger of purchases at estate sales. Do be a dear and get it for me. I think it's on the desk upstairs."

He was a demon, not an errand boy. He was dark and powerful and rebellious by nature. And he didn't turn into an obedient puppy dog because someone in reading glasses asked him to be a dear, and being asked like that certainly didn't send a shiver of pleasure down his spine.  He made a token growl of protest, happiness simmering in his heart, and barely resisted the temptation to drop a domestic kiss onto the top of Aziraphale's head on the way past him.

He slouched into the secret rooms upstairs, and immediately hit a problem. There were several desks upstairs, all stacked with paper, books and knick-knacks. Didn't the blasted angel throw anything away? Of course, he was like that. The bookshop was full of mementos and treasures, memories from the Indus Valley and the Renaissance and the 1950s jumbled up together with his books, all around him, messy and comfortable. Crowley curated his memories and built shrines for them in his empty apartment. Aziraphale kept all of his mixed up in his life. Crowley, who liked his desk bare and terrifyingly neat, rolled his eyes with bemused amusement and picked a random desk, starting to sort through it and automatically tidy the chaos.

There was a bundle of letters rolled up, scented with dried roses. Crowley felt a tiny prickle of jealousy at the sight, at the evidence of human correspondents who could write to Aziraphale freely, with no need for secrecy. Well, that was all done with. They could be openly friends now. But -- he could see a few visible words. Green ink. Didn't Aziraphale like using green ink to play at being human spies? No one else had the right to use green ink to write to Aziraphale. Crowley was his favourite enemy agent, thank you very much.

The curl of the letters was familiar.

Of course, he shouldn't pry into his best friend's confidence. That would be an invasion of privacy, and very wrong. But he was still a demon. His fingers shook as he unrolled the letters and spread them. Bits and pieces caught his eye.

The idiot. The idiot angel who never threw anything away, hoarding unfinished letters, even when the notes might have doomed him if someone like Sandlaphon found him. Crowley swept his fingers gently over the paper. How long? How long ago had Aziraphale been sitting here, his gentle, loving heart aching, trying to be brave? How long had Crowley been telling himself to be contented with what friendship and company Aziraphale would give him, while Aziraphale had been pouring his love out in green ink?

It took a few demonic miracles for him to not actually trip and fall down the step. Aziraphale glanced up at him and oh. How could Crowley not have seen the love in his eyes? It radiated from them.

Crowley's brain hovered desperately between I love you too and marry me now and he blurted out: "I love me now."

Aziraphale gave him a distinctly unimpressed look, and sniffed in a way that would have been deeply obnoxious if he were not the most precious darling lovable creation in the whole damn universe. "Congratulations. Only now?"

"You. You. Love--marry--oh, fuck," said Crowley, seized him by the shoulders, pushed him back in his chair, and kissed him.

It was not the most expert kiss in the history of lovers. It was too fast--too fast!--and too hard and had too much teeth behind his lips, but Aziraphale made the most wonderful sighing sound, a sound that embedded itself in Crowley's head for all time, and parted his lips and put his arms around Crowley's waist and yes, yes, it was the most perfect kiss there had ever been. It was Aziraphale. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of tea and oh fucking hell that softness was his tongue, their tongues were touching and Crowley was never, ever going to stop kissing him, it wasn't as if he had to breathe.

Eventually he did stop, because he wanted to know what Aziraphale had to say, and that was a bit hard with Aziraphale's mouth full of Crowley's tongue. "Well?" he demanded.

"Well?" Aziraphale echoed. He was blinking as if he'd been blinded. His reading glasses were a little askew, and Crowley wanted to tenderly set them straight, only that would involve letting go of him, so it was impossible.

"So you say yes?"

"Yes? You mean... oh, yes, naturally, darling, but I don't have a bed."

Crowley was grinning and didn't think he could stop. Ever. There would be a second Apocalypse, and he would still be grinning. Darling. The world had shattered into sunlight, or maybe his heart had shattered, there was no way a black shrivelled demonic heart could hold this much love and happiness, but there it was, and Aziraphale had kissed him, and was pressing against him all warm and soft and touchable, gosh he had always secretly loved that dreadful beige cardigan, and his mouth still tasted of angel and there was the unfathomable prospect of tasting even more of angel soon. "Moving a little fast, darling?" Echoing the endearment back sent goose-pimples down his arms. Saying "darling" like he had the right to. And he did. Oh, fucking hell, Aziraphale was blushing in his arms and wriggling but not to get away, with pleasure at being called his darling. "We're not even married yet. I would have thought for sure you'd want to wait for marriage."

"That's quite an old-fashioned take on it. Current thinking is that--yet?"

The world darkened. "You're rejecting my proposal?"

"Of course I'm not--wait, that was supposed to be a proposal?"

"Wasn't it obvious?"

Aziraphale's cheeks were flushed and oh Someone he looked adorable. "I think that in all the history of proposals, I love me now would have to count as one of the most confusing, and--yes. Yes, darling. Yes." And then they were kissing again, fervent soft kisses pressed all over each other's faces, and Crowley managed quite a few coherent I love yous and even I have always, always loved you, without getting confused at all, possibly because Aziraphale was demonstrating how to say it.

"Wait," Crowley said eventually. "You mean you don't want to wait for marriage?"

"I told you, that's quite old-fashioned," Aziraphale said, turning red.

Crowley couldn't help noticing that Aziraphale was showing quite a distinct sign of interest. Feeling it, at least, right against his hip. His grin grew back. "Race you upstairs, angel?"

"Don't be juvenile, and in any case, I told you, I don't have a bed."

Crowley concentrated, then snapped his fingers. "You do now. Quite a stylish one. Black silk sheets."

"Oh, you would want black silk sheets, you ridiculous snake. And I've already won."

"What?"

"You." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and vanished.

Crowley decided to not argue the point, and followed. His arms were far too empty without an angel in them.

"I messed up the Rules," he lamented, much later, feeling deliciously tired and his arms full of even more delicious, plump angel. "Rule 15 and Rule 26."

"Whatever do you mean, beloved?" asked Aziraphale, which led to more kissing, as it was a new endearment. Beloved. He was Aziraphale's beloved.

"Don't rush into sex--"

"I hardly think waiting six thousand years is rushing."

"--and never be the one to initiate sex once you're in a relationship. That's only part of Rule 26. Rule 26 was complicated. And I was supposed to follow them for life," Crowley lamented, trying not to feel a cold hand of fear. If the book really was demonic... "To ensure a happy and lasting marriage." He tightened his arms around the cushioned waist. He was not losing Aziraphale, not now he knew for real what it was like to love each other openly and fully, and really quite messily, thank Someone for miracles, given the drawbacks of back silk bed furnishings. Worth it, anyway, to see Aziraphale's skin glow like peach against them.

"I have no intention of being the only one initiating sex for all eternity," Aziraphale said firmly.

"All eternity? You mean you truly are mine forever?" Crowley asked, fierce possessiveness rising. "Wait--oh, fuck, that was Rule 15 too, I'm not supposed to discuss the future or our relationship while snuggling in bed."

"I think," Aziraphale said firmly, "you should tell me about these Rules of yours."

Crowley explained, in detail. "And now I've broken them again," he said morosely.

"Well, that's all right, then." There was a suspicious twitch at the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. "You're a demon. Demons are supposed to break rules."

"Common misconception. You certainly have to follow their rules. You have no idea how many rules there are in Hell, angel."

"I think I can imagine. Two sides of one coin. What kind of rules?"

"Show proper respect to those further down, attend meetings, fill in the paperwork, abide by demonic contracts, respond to summoning circles even if you're bored and don't feel like it, don't feed the salamanders to the hellhounds, don't play frisbee with Berial's crown, don't use fly spray, don't smoke--"

"Well, that one's all right. You only ever smoked to annoy people anyway."

"I didn't mean cigarettes or pipes, angel. Do you know how hard it is not to smoke a bit in a lava pit? Feathers smoulder in the worst way. And you can stop laughing! It isn't funny."

"I suppose it isn't, really," said Aziraphale, sobering. "My poor darling, trying so hard to follow these silly rules to make me fall in love when I loved you all along. And I misunderstood, and thought that you didn't want me after all. And you were suffering too... Oh, my love. I'm so sorry for us both."

"I was trying not to go too fast," Crowley said, consciously pathetic, in the bright new knowledge that being pathetic would get him petted and comforted in the same way he had always wanted to pet and comfort Aziraphale when he used those blessed spaniel eyes on him. Wanted to change the world for him, fight God and Satan for him, kiss him on the forehead and stroke his curls and make him cups of cocoa.

The tone worked. Aziraphale rolled onto his back and pulled Crowley along with him,  encouraging Crowley's head to snuggle against his broad soft chest, wrapping his arms close around him. It felt--no, not like heaven, cold and pure. Like safety and acceptance. Like home.

"How many mistakes have we made with each other over the centuries?" Aziraphale asked, and he sounded sad, which wasn't permissible because they were alive and together and they loved each other, and Aziraphale was going to marry him, book or no book.

"I think it was for the best. You were right all along, there was more danger than a thermos of holy water could deal with. I didn't realise they would resort to hellfire and holy water. And we're safe now, we can be together. You really will marry me?"

"Of course I will. With all my heart. I love you, my wily old snake."

"I love you too, you ridiculous angel."

And that, he supposed, was that. That was enough. Forever, or at least until the Big One, that they would face together.

They might have gone slow, but they arrived together in the end.