And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.
— Sylvia Plath

Dear

Crowley,

Demon

Crowley.

I have been informed from Upstairs that “the infamous demon Crawley” is getting in the way of matters that do not concern them. Consequently, to my regret, I have to intervene personally. Just out of a moral obligation. I won’t let demonic interference not to be... thwarted... if I can do something about it. That being stated, I hope our imminent encounter does not make you believe that I would ever accept the inconceivable agreement you have apparently taken to heart. How can you even think I could bend to such a request? Angels do not come to terms with demons. You, more than everybody, should know it.
I am writing this letter just to emphasise my contrariness and to reiterate that I have no intention of accepting your Agreement.
The Agreement does not deserve the capital letter, anyway, I used it just to let you know which agreement I was referring to.
Not that you had proposed any other agreements.
I don't accept any agreement, to be clear.

Ps: There aren't any other agreements, of course!

The Guardian of the East Gate

Angel A

Aziraph

A.

Essex
1381

It’s the summer of blood. Or, at least, this is how the summer of the first ever great popular rebellion in English History will be called, eventually. Crowley isn’t aware of that, at the moment. And he won’t see much blood anyway. 

He always misses the best parts.

Crowley found himself involved in the peasants’ revolt almost by accident, really, after a confusing night (he should really stop drinking so much) spent trying to convince a group of men – of faith, of earth, anyone who stopped to listen to him and possibly offered him a drink – to raise their voices until they will be heard, to question institutions and power, to ask questions and demand answers. Crowley, after the persistent headache and the vague sense of disgust in the pit of his stomach that the fourteenth century gifted him, thought to himself: might as well reach the damned end in style, right? 

He isn’t sure the result of all of that talking he did was exactly right – but doing the right thing isn’t his job anyway, so he shouldn’t worry about it. Devastating noble estates, taking away livestock and burning official documents were not strictly part of the plan, per se, but. So be it. Some spirit of initiative couldn't hurt that much. Could it?

This is the problem with human beings, Crowley ponders, while he finds himself stuck with reins of restless horses – because of the fire or the noise or his own presence, hard to tell – clasped in his fingers, left alone to deal with them. They never know when to stop.

“Good Lord,” a familiar voice suddenly sighs on his right, close enough to be heard clearly despite the ongoing revolt. “What have you done this time, Crowley?” 

Crowley forces himself to ignore the headache that has begun to squeeze his skull again. “You wound me, angel.” He turns just enough to get a glimpse of Aziraphale’s blonde hair and rich clothes, grinning sharply. “Do you really think all this mess is my fault?” 

Aziraphale throws a worried glance towards the horses’ undeterred patter and takes a couple of steps to join Crowley. “How could it not be? As usual, you’re up to no good.” 

“What is good and what is evil, anyway.” Crowley, reins wrapped twice around his left wrist, pulls hard towards himself and finally manages to stop the beasts’ frantic movements. “Just because someone has more power than someone else, it doesn’t mean they deserve it or that they are, morally, the better of the two sides.”

Aziraphale turns to look at him with far too much awareness in his grey eyes.

“Demons have morals, now?” He retorts with a mild smile, striving to maintain a light tone.

“Maybe we don’t,” Crowley concedes. “But are you sure angels do?”

Aziraphale resumes observing the scene unfolding in front of them as if he hadn't heard him at all, while the flames of a nearby fire rise increasingly. The sight takes Crowley back for a second in 48 BC. He can clearly see Aziraphale's shining eyes filled with despair at the evidence of human wisdom turning into ashes.

“Come with me,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley was beginning to believe that he too, like the horses, had grown tired of his presence. “Let’s take a stroll.” 

Crowley goes with him, pulling the horses after them.

“I thought you would have done something about it,” Crowley points at the crowd with his free hand; the acrid smell of smoke makes his nose sting. “You don’t even try to save their pointless, brittle lives?”

Aziraphale looks pained, but: “They told me to not interfere too much,” he mutters, looking back one last time before leaving the revolt behind. “I'm not here for... Them.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“For a stroll.” The angel joins his hands in front of his stomach, intertwining his clean fingers loosely. Crowley is surprised to see him not wearing a pair of white gloves, especially considering the pointy shoes on his feet. “With an old... Acquaintance.” 

“Acquaintance?” 

Crowley’s lips jump up in an amused smile.

“An old enemy, if you prefer,” Aziraphale snaps, embarrassed. “Do they have to come with us?” He asks, motioning to the horses with a dip of his head.

His curls – obscenely white under the sun – dance for a moment and caresses his forehead. Crowley looks away and watches the animals instead. At least they seem to have calmed down.

“You don’t like horses?” 

“Oh – oh, no,” Aziraphale quickly denies, eyes widening. “I love all Her creatures, equally, as it should be,” he asserts, leading Crowley on a path that takes them further away from the village, among the mostly emptied peasants’ houses. “Magnificent creatures. So noble, so stout! I just don't have much... Confidence with them, that’s all. I prefer not to get too close, if I can avoid it.”  

Crowley, intrigued, raises an eyebrow. “Bad experience?”

“The worst,” Aziraphale murmurs, almost as if he didn't want to be heard by the horses, casting a wary, resentful look at them. Crowley gets a little closer, tilting his head to the side to hear him better. “Some time ago, you see, I had to spend days and days travelling on a beast like that for a pilgrimage to Canterbury. I’m afraid I have yet to fully recover.” 

Crowley nods sympathetically. “Yeah, I don’t really like riding horses either.”

One of the two horses neighs with a certain amount of outrage. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a knowing look. 

“It’s a shame,” Crowley adds. “You seem to have a relaxing effect on them. Unlike mine.” Crowley lets the hood of his brown cloak slip over his shoulders at Aziraphale’s frown, allowing him to freely see his eyes. “I guess these have to do with it and, well. All the other demonic bits.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stops for a second and seems to want to say something about it,
but then he starts walking again and moves on to another subject. “Where do they come from, by the way? The horses.” 

“A monastery, I believe.” 

Aziraphale turns suddenly, shocked.

“What? I didn’t take ‘em personally!” Crowley exclaims, trying not to sound defensive. “It really isn’t my fault this time, I still don't wanna have anything to do with the bloody Church.”

Aziraphale’s forehead frowns, this time with worry, but Crowley absentmindedly waves a couple of fingers in the air as if to chase the matter away – nothing noteworthy, angel, don’t fret about it .

“Actually,” Crowley says. “I'm giving them freedom. Yes, that’s what I’m doing. It isn’t what your lot cares about? Freedom for all the blessed creatures?”

“It should be.” Aziraphale stretches his lips in a bitter smile. “It would be nice.” 

The buzz of insects and the patter of horses' hooves on pebbles are the only noises that surround them for a while. Once they are far enough from the village, Crowley gets busy to free the horses' mouths from the reins, leaving the leather straps on the ground. The animals, apparently surprised (as Aziraphale, but Crowley isn’t aware of that) by the unexpected act of kindness, docilely retreat towards the fields.

“It looks good on you.” 

Crowley, distracted by the horses galloping carefree, notices Aziraphale's gaze fixed on him only when the angel opens his mouth.

“Hmm?” 

“Your long hair,” Aziraphale explains, without taking his eyes off the tongues of fire that descend over Crowley's chest, even more alive than usual under the sunset light. “It looks good on you. You cut it so short in Rome.”

Crowley is not sure how to answer, his tongue attached to the dry roof of his mouth. A disjointed sound escapes his lips, before he can push it back down his throat, and Aziraphale's eyes slide over them for a second. It doesn’t improve Crowley’s situation.

“And then in Wessex you wore that helmet,” Aziraphale continues, without paying too much attention to Crowley's prolonged silence, immersed in his own memories. “That was the last time we saw each other. Wessex.”

Crowley nods, eager to cling to a different topic. “Wessex. That’s right. A long time ago, that was... Hence, you had time to think about my suggestion.” 

Aziraphale frowns for a second, but realisation comes quickly.

“Absolutely not!” He says, before turning his back to him and walking away with renewed energy.

Crowley follows him, again, increasing his pace in return and clawing the edges of the long cloak to avoid the risk of tripping.

“It’s nothing as terrible as you make it sound. We both poke our noses into human business, don’t we? A nimble temptation, a quick blessing, what difference can it—” 

“An awful difference!” Aziraphale interrupts him, careful to look furtively around before saying quietly: “I am an angel and you, instead, you are—” 

The demon throws his head back in a tired groan, which causes a flock of crows nearby to take flight. “Yess, it’s difficult to forget that – trusst me – but thank you for the reminder, angel. What I was trying to say...”

Crowley loses his train of thought when a group of young women comes out of nowhere, on the other side of the path, dragging baskets of fruit and vegetables with them amidst muffled laughter and swirls of fabrics. Crowley hastens to cover his head and eyes with the cloak, while Aziraphale gives the gaunt group a polite nod.

“What I was trying to say,” Crowley resumes, when the sound of their footsteps fades away, using a lower tone of voice to calm Aziraphale. “Is that we both have tasks to complete, you and I. Who cares if we help each other if it’ll save time, nuisances, troubles? If it halves the need for uncomfortable horseback riding?” 

A sore grimace escapes Aziraphale's control, but then he shakes his head with conviction. “I do care! And they...” He ostentatiously raises his eyes to the sky; the last rays of sunshine are reflected in his irises. “Also care, Crowley.” 

“Oh, pleasse, they couldn’t care le ss about what you’re doing,” Crowley hisses with an annoyed tone. “I’m sure sometimes they even forget they sent you up here, angel,” he adds, his voice softening before he can help it.

Aziraphale shoots him a furious glance. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, it's an absurd idea. It’s inconceivable.” 

Crowley doesn’t know if the – absurd, inconceivable – idea he is referring to is his proposal or the thought that his fellow angels can forget about him. Probably both, according to Aziraphale's naivety.

“Fine! As you wish,” Crowley surrenders, raising his hands and planting his feet on the ground. “We will continue to meet, then.” 

Evening has now fallen, but the sunlight has not completely dispersed yet. The latest activities in the fields are reaching their daily end and the revolt in the heart of the village has probably been quelled by now. Crowley hopes that this time it will be useful.

He doubts it.

Aziraphale stops in return. When he turns to look at him, his lips twitch in a hint of a smile. 

“Good.”

“I thought you wanted to prevent that,” Crowley says, undoing his hood with a terse gesture in order to meet his gaze without obstacles. “But, if that's okay with you, all right. Be my fucking guest, angel.”

“I frankly don’t see the matter, Crowley.” Aziraphale lowers his gaze, absentmindedly adjusting the silver-embroidered cuffs that come out of his blue silk tunic. “I do like when we meet.” 

Crowley’s racing thoughts pause abruptly. Everything about the riot slips away from his mind, swirling in the air along with the remnants of fresh ash and old dust.

“You do?” 

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side.

“You don’t?” 

Crowley cannot find a suitable answer. He’s lucky that Aziraphale doesn't seem to expect one.

“The day is waning and night is upon us,” Aziraphale sighs. “It's better if we say goodbye, for now. So long, my dear enemy.” 

Crowley follows him with his eyes as he walks away, until the angel merges with the darkness. “Not too long, I hope,” the demon confides quietly to the night.

***

My dea

My

Dear Crowley,

I’m currently at the Convento dei Serviti alla Santissima Annunziata: the friars have told me that you have been here too. You stopped for a few years before leaving without saying anything to anyone. It's funny, isn't it? That our paths keep crossing so often. Well, sometimes I may have done something to make it happen, but that’s beside the point.
The friars here talk about you with disguised respect. I don't think you have made irreparable trouble, not this time at least. They say you brought some colour and, well, that is not difficult to believe, dear. Maybe you’re still in Florence. I could come to town after I complete my assignment. Maybe we will meet again.
What a coincidence that would be, don't you think?
Would you like to see me as much I

Florence
1507

Crowley is the first to perceive the presence of the other being. Sitting at a lonely table in a corner of the tavern he knows by now as the palms of his hands, with his back against the rough wall and one arm left to dangle over the back of the chair, Crowley watches him enter: it’s incredible easy to distinguish him, impeccably dressed, entirely in shades of white and beige, amidst the shabby regulars.

The owner is studying the newcomer too, casting him a distrustful look, but Aziraphale just needs to give her a reassuring smile – and a few words spoken in a low voice – to make her return serenely to her business and ignore his presence; not before placing a cup on the wooden counter, Crowley notices. 

Aziraphale smiles, satisfied. Crowley rolls his eyes.

A hoard of coins – more than the house wine deserves – thuds on the counter. Aziraphale glances at the men huddled at the dirty tables, drinking and laughing and making bets, as if looking for someone in particular. When his watchful eye rests on Crowley, the demon raises his own cup towards him in an indolent toast and enjoys watching the predictable contrasting emotions dance on Aziraphale's face. He is about to get up and join him, taking responsibility for making the wrong choice, when Aziraphale surprises him, filling the space that divides them with an apparently calm pace.

“Crowley! What a coincidence finding you here.” 

Crowley presses the toe of one foot against the leg of the chair in front of him, pushing it aside and gesturing to Aziraphale to sit down. “It really looks like you won’t get rid of me that easily, angel.” 

A smile curves his full lips for a moment. “Ah, thank you,” he murmurs, taking a seat and ignoring his comment. “Did you receive an assignment here, too? Wonderful city, Florentia , by the way. Really interesting!” 

“I doubt any city can be called wonderful in these ages,” Crowley retorts, wrinkling his nose. “And— yes, more or less. I thought you didn’t like talking about assignments.” He clicks his tongue and swirls the wine in his cup with a nimble flick of the wrist. “Rules have changed while I was distracted?” 

Aziraphale takes his time, and a sip of wine, before answering. “No arrangement, no rules,” he states. “I just wanted to take this opportunity for a little chit-chat. And you wear eyeglasses – again! What a lovely pair. They look like the one you had at that nice place in Rome.”

“Oh,” Crowley exhales, caught off guard by his words. “Yeah. They aren’t half bad, eh? Lenses are much better now. Venetian burnt glass, or some kind of devilry like that. They are cunning, humans. Don’t you think so?”

Aziraphale gives him an unamused look. Crowley rolls his eyes, but it’s barely visible due to the thick, greenish lenses.

“A friend helped me make them,” he says. “Great invention. I'm sure people are gonna like eyeglasses... Sooner or later. When they’ll get used to them. They react better to these, at least, compared to bandages.” Crowley points to his face with a wide gesture of his fingers, bending one corner of his mouth upwards. “Oh, but bandages were fun. Especially when soaked in blood, people were terrified! Not that it was really blood, mind you, I could have never bear the smell—”

“A friend, you said?” 

Crowley pauses, snatched from his happy memories by Aziraphale's intrigued and inquisitive tone. “I did. It may surprise you, angel, but I have friends. Lots of friends, actually. Too many, I’d say.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t lose his sceptical look. Crowley begins to find it irritating.

“You. Have friends.” 

Crowley sets his cup on the table with such force that the wine doesn’t slip off the chipped edge only by miracle. “Yes, I have friendss ,” he repeats, unable to avoid an exasperated tone; he bites his tongue to keep himself from hissing openly. “Not everybody finds me insufferable. Shocked, are you?” 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale quickly glances sideways, then at him again. “Don’t be ridiculous, I didn’t mean it like that. I wouldn’t be here if I’d found you insufferable.” 

Crowley narrows his eyes, leaning forward to take a closer look at his face.

“I thought you were here for an assignment. That it was a coincidence, meeting me here. It’s what you said, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale opens his lips and closes them again. His face reddens, but it's probably just due to the scents of the tavern. “Absolutely! I wouldn’t be still here,” he corrects himself. “I didn’t know you were in Florence. Or in this place. Obviously.” 

“Obviously.” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “How could you?”

“How could I,” Aziraphale agrees straight away, refusing to meet his eyes. “Indeed. How could... And, anyhow. Anyhow, what surprised me was that you consider a human being as a friend. I thought you didn’t want to get attached to humans. To their useless, brittle lives, as you said. Have you changed your mind?” 

“Hmm. Guess I did.” Crowley shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “I think I reached the conclusion that existing is much less depressing with someone’s company.” 

Aziraphale seems intent on saying something, but he remains quiet for a beat and, then, smiles. “You’re probably right. I should make some friends too.”

“You’ll be good at it, don’t worry. Who wouldn’t want a lovely angel on their shoulder?” 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees, bringing the cup to his mouth. “Who wouldn’t,” he adds under his breath, without being heard by Crowley. 

“And if it isn’t against the rules, however...” 

“No arrangement—” 

“No Arrangement, no rules,” Crowley precedes him, amused. “Yeah, heard it somewhere. If talking about work isn’t against the rules, say: why are you in Florence?” 

“I had to take care of some blessings in a convent nearby,” Aziraphale answers, evasive. “Nothing demanding. But I’m delighted I’ve found some parchments in excellent condition! Although it is certainly not my intention to bore you with these matters.”

Crowley hides a smile behind a closed fist, resting an elbow on the wobbly table and his chin on the palm of his hand. “Oh, please, angel,” he sighs against the curled fingers. “Do tell.”

He doesn't think he's been able to use the sarcastic tone he had in mind. 

Aziraphale's smile, in the badly lit room, is dazzling.



“Have you been in Florence for long?”

After the goblets of wine turned into jugs and the tavern’s regulars left, Aziraphale and Crowley decided to go away too, not knowing where their destination was but intending to reach it through clumsy and uncertain steps.

Do you have a place to sleep?, Crowley asked, holding back an hiccup, grabbing Aziraphale by a sleeve when his gait became dangerously lopsided. 

No, Aziraphale said, peacefully. I don’t sleep.

Crowley rolled his eyes (a bad choice that made him lose his orientation for several seconds) and let's go to my place, then he decided, expecting a rejection.

The den of the wicked snake?, Aziraphale complained, predictably, with wine-red cheeks, but: Go on, lead me.

Crowley, astonished, led him. 

“Just for a few years,” Crowley says, dropping onto the bed, too tired and pleasantly tipsy to remember how to use his legs correctly. “Came here for a quick job. Haven’t received any other orders since, so I decided to stay as long as I can – take a break, you know, a vacation. You’d need it, too.” 

Aziraphale snorts a laugh. “You don’t know what I need,” he replies, without malice. “Your house is nice,” he adds, then, probably just to be polite, taking a look around.

“Not really mine, just a friend’s. The one who helped with these,” Crowley mutters, pulling off his glasses and handing them to Aziraphale for no particular reason. “He’s incred– incredib– a very smart guy, he is. Really. You’d like him.” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale, more interested in the glasses than his words, takes them out of Crowley's fingers and turns them over.

“He studies everything,” Crowley continues, vaguely drawing consonants as he speaks. He observes the candlelight – lit with a clumsy snap of fingers when they went inside – twinkling in Aziraphale's eyes, caressing the straight line of his nose, hollowing his soft cheeks. “And I help him where I can. Lately, most of our studies are done outside. The plants, the flight of birds... That, in particular, fascinates him.” 

“Flying?” Aziraphale retorts, with a dubious tone. “It’s not something suitable for humans.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Not yet, maybe.” 

Aziraphale doesn't seem too convinced, but lets the matter drop. “He surely did a good job,” he says, focusing his gaze on the glasses. “With these.” 

Crowley, semi-reclining on the unmade bed, presses his elbows on the mattress to keep his head raised. He lazily watches the hypnotic movement of Aziraphale's lips opening and closing.

“It’s a shame that you must wear them all the time.” 

Crowley accidentally meets Aziraphale's gaze; it’s warmer than the candlelight.

“Why?”

“I can never understand what you’re really thinking when I cannot see your eyes.” 

Crowley struggles to sit up and pushes a lock of hair – shorter than the last time they met, but still long enough to brush his shoulders – from his face. It looks good on you. Your long hair.  

Do you like it now?, Crowley would like to say.

He hopes the darkness prevents Aziraphale from seeing him blushing.

Do you even like me, angel?

At least there are no candles near the bed.

“Now you can.”

Aziraphale smiles. He places with extreme delicacy the glasses on a piece of furniture, next to a closed parchment. Crowley watches as he, intrigued, unrolls the parchment without asking for permission.

“Another gift by your dear friend?” Aziraphale asks, once opened, without smiling anymore.

Crowley shrugs. “Just the failed sketch of a new work,” he says, hastily putting himself in the same pose of the drawing. “Do you notice a certain similarity?” 

Aziraphale glances from the parchment to Crowley's face several times. His eyebrows shoot up. “The hair is a bit longer. And the appearance is more feminine, I dare say,” he comments dryly. “But, yes. I do notice a certain similarity. What are you, now, his personal muse?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Leonardo just took inspiration from me, angel, don’t worry. My Virtue is safe,” he jokes, winking at him and immediately regretting it for the look he receives in return. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale says, now visibly annoyed, putting the parchment back and letting it snap shut. The words Al mio caro Antonio dal tuo amico Leo da V. still stick out from the bottom right. “I was just wondering... Well. You two seem very... And, and the eyeglasses, and the sketch, and this is his house, you said so yourself. I was wondering if you two were just friends, or if you thought you had to hide something. From me.” Aziraphale twists his fingers nervously, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor between him and Crowley. “You don't have to. Hide these things from me. There is nothing wrong! It would be totally fine, really.”

“Of course it’s fine,” Crowley replies, vaguely confused, while he tries to understand all the things that Aziraphale doesn’t say. 

Aziraphale's gaze jerks up on him, but only for a fragment of time. “Oh. Of course,” he murmurs. “I better go now, it’s getting late. I don't want to be still here when ser Leonardo comes home... I wouldn’t want to cause a misunderstanding.” 

“Angel,” Crowley sighs, without realising the misunderstanding they have already created. “You don’t have to go. Come on, stay a little longer. Leonardo is too busy to come back tonight, I assure you.” 

“Oh, no, it’s better this way. So I can let you go to sleep!” 

“And you? Don't you ever sleep?” 

Aziraphale, at the door, stops in his tracks with the fingers of one hand resting on the handle. “Hora est iam nos de somno surgere,” he recites in a whisper. “Angels aren’t allowed to sleep, Crowley.” 

“Ah.” Crowley torments the inside of his cheek, trying to think of something. “What a rip-off.” 

Aziraphale lingers in the doorway, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Is it really that interesting?” 

“Sleeping?” Crowley smiles back. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” 

“I just told you, angels don’t sleep.”

“There are many things that angels don’t do,” Crowley retorts. “And that you, instead, do.” He crawls on the bed to scoot further against the wall, making room for Aziraphale. “C’mon, angel, just for tonight. The world won’t end ‘cause the guardian of the East Gate got some rest.”  

Aziraphale approaches the bed, slowly and with a certain hesitation. He briefly glances at the ceiling. Crowley snorts.

“No one will know. I promise.” 

Aziraphale sighs loudly and, slightly reassured, lies down next to Crowley without even taking off his shoes.

“Lying with a demon,” he mutters, meanwhile, with no real resentment in his voice. “The things you make me do, foul fiend.” 

Crowley is delighted to take the blame.

“Be careful with the words you choose, angel,” Crowley admonishes him, lying on his side; he slips a folded arm under his head and leaves the single pillow to Aziraphale. “They could have many interpretations.” 

Aziraphale tilts his head towards him, glaring. Crowley grins.

“Very well,” Aziraphale declares, interlacing his fingers on his chest. “And now? What should I do now?” 

Crowley catches his lower lip between his teeth, amused. “You should close your eyes. Otherwise falling asleep could be really difficult.” 

Aziraphale's eyelids fall shut, following directions. “Now what?” 

“Now...” Crowley eyes the candles and their small harmless flames still alight. “Now I turn off the lights, if you’re fine with it.” 

Aziraphale nods and Crowley snaps his fingers, sliding them into darkness.

“Now what?” Aziraphale asks again, quietly, with trembling eyelids – from the nervousness, the excitement? – and pursed lips.

“Now...” Crowley trails off, unsure. “Just. I don’t know. Just stay with your eyes closed and soon you’ll be sleeping. Think about something.”

“About what?”

“Uhh. A happy memory?”

Aziraphale seems to consider it for a moment, then: "Alright.”

“Hmm.” Crowley smiles. “I bet food is the first thing that comes to your mind.” 

Aziraphale rolls onto his side and opens his eyes, making Crowley's heart leap in his throat.

“I was thinking about oysters, actually. Do you remember?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes. “Was a nice evening.” 

“They always are,” Aziraphale murmurs. “The evenings I spend with you.”

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat. He silently watches Aziraphale closing his eyes again and slowly falling asleep, restraining the urge to hold him close.

***

My dear boy,

This morning I found some dusty paintings in an old trunk forgotten by the previous tenant, whom I personally convinced – with a trifle, really! – to retire early from his profession (I'm getting better with temptations, see? Are you proud of) . One of them depicts an angel, at least according to the human imagination, of course, with lovely long red hair that immediately made me think of you. Or, at least, the first version of you I met in the Garden of Eden, all these eons ago. I kept that one, by the way. I have already improved its condition and hung it in the sacristy. Mrs. Hughes really likes it, too! (Do you remember her? The nice girl I talked about in the last letter?) She said that he is the most beautiful angel that ever existed. I guess she’s right. (I know, I know you're no longer an angel, you don't have to remind me. It would be hard to forget. Forgive me and my stupid thoughts.)
I hope to finish here quickly – I'm very positive about it! – and come back to Soho soon, to my long-awaited bookshop. Back home.
But first I have to focus on Janet and the big plans I have in store for her. When I get home I'll tell you about it and how I convinced her to leave that terrible man she was forced to marry to flee to Paris with her darling, Rose. I know what you're thinking: it sounds more like a blessing than a temptation, doesn't it? Don't worry, I'll make sure to fill your report with all the typical nonsense Downstairs likes so much.
She deserves a happy ending. Don't we all?

Wales
1813

When Crowley arrives at the village it’s a Saturday and the rain is pouring down. 

The imposing church of Anglesey rises with a certain arrogance over the rest of the village, like a dark shadow of doom which Crowley knows all too well. Trying to cover himself with his coat collar, Crowley sniffles and hurries his pace to reach the stone steps of the church as soon as possible. Once he’s in front of the wooden doors, he presses his hand on one of them – gritting his teeth when an unpleasant jolt runs through his fingers, his wrist, his elbow and up his spine – to peek inside.

Seeing Aziraphale has almost become a habit in the last few centuries.

(We need to meet to agree on the details for our assignments, it’s the excuse that Aziraphale uses most of the time when he invites Crowley to have tea together in Pechino, Maastricht, Nantes. Both of them pretend to forget that the purpose of the Agreement was to avoid being in the same place at the same time. They both do like when they meet, after all.)

Seeing each other so often led Crowley to sense Aziraphale's presence more easily once he set foot in a neighbourhood, or a village, or a city. Therefore, while he’s peeking inside the church, he already knows who’s going to find inside before hearing his voice.

“Good evening, sir!” Aziraphale’s cheerful voice comes from somewhere among the benches closest to the altar. His attention must have been attracted by the creaking of the old doors’ hinges. “I assure you that if you come inside you will be better sheltered from the rain. Not the best night for a moonlight walk, I’d say!” 

“Sadly, I have to refuse,” Crowley replies with a smirk, raising his voice to be heard clearly. “I could never set foot in our Lord’s house with muddy shoes.” 

Aziraphale's curly head appears suddenly from behind the altar; his face lights up, overshadowing the light of the burning candles that surround him. “Crowley! There was a certain electricity in the air, then. I thought it was just the storm and I was fooling myself!” 

Crowley forces himself to ignore Aziraphale's smile and shrugs, using a thumb to push away a clump of wet hair stuck to his forehead. Aziraphale's gaze follows the swift movement with attention, despite the distance that still separates them.

“Why don't you come in? You’re shivering.” 

“I’d like to, but.” Crowley grimaces at the floor, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “You know. Holy ground and all that stuff. Would end badly.” 

“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale exclaims, abruptly distressed. “Of course. Use the smaller door from outside, we’ll talk in the sacristy.”

Crowley nods and lets himself be hit once more by the rain, which does not seem willing to stop falling, to pass through the smaller door. He thinks for a moment about the distant memory of the first rain he ever saw and the first act of kindness he ever received. Afterwards, he opens the door.

He barely has time to look around, noticing a table in the middle of the cramped room and a fireplace against a corner, next to a hanging painting (which, after a glance, deliberately tries to ignore), when Aziraphale enters through a narrow side door with a candlestick in hand. 

Crowley lights the fire with a snap of fingers and Aziraphale smiles, visibly glad to not be the one who had to do it, placing the candles on the table.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, going immediately to the kitchenette near the fireplace. “How about a nice cup of tea?” He suggests, retrieving the necessary items from some shelves without waiting for Crowley's response. “If you’re lucky, dear, I could even find a bottle of good whiskey in the pantry.” 

Crowley frees the buttons of the coat from their holes, shaking it off with a sigh. 

“And here I thought men of God couldn’t drink alcohol.” 

“I’m quite sure She has more pressing matters to think about,” Aziraphale replies, lightly, without losing sight of Crowley’s movements as he puts the water to boil and retrieves the whiskey. “Leave the coat near the fire. So it’ll dry, in the meantime.” 

Crowley shrugs, but moves a chair near the fireplace – the chair legs screech against the floor and he winces – to lay his black coat on it. 

“The vest, too,” Aziraphale murmurs, observing him out of the corner of his eye, thinking perhaps that Crowley doesn't notice. “And the tie. If you don’t want to catch a cold.” 

Crowley strongly doubts that he can do that. His fingers run to follow his orders anyway, before he can think too much about it. “Whatever you say, reverend,” he mumbles, sarcastic, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to be able to loosen the tie. “Nice dress, anyway.” 

“What?” Aziraphale brings a hand to his throat, his tone suddenly insecure, brushing the white collar with the tips of his fingers. “You don’t like it?” 

“I – I do, actually. Like it,” Crowley stammers, already regretting what he said; he arranges his scarlet vest on the chair with more care than necessary to avoid meeting his gaze. “It rather suits you. I think.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale, clearly more relaxed, pours the boiling water into two cups and hands one to Crowley. “Well thank you, my dear.” 

Crowley swallows, taking refuge in the familiar warmth emanating from the cup. “Dresses are more my style,” he mutters under his breath, staring at the swirling tea leaves without really seeing them. “That’s all.” 

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale's prim voice retorts, somewhere to his right, as he passes by him. “I still remember that adorable dress you wore for the last night of the Divertissements , back in 1674. All Versailles couldn’t look away from you.”

Crowley closes his eyes for a second, trying to not be affected by his words. (He doesn’t think he is successful, if the heat he feels on his face is of any indication.)

“And what about you, angel?” 

“You know I couldn’t look away, either.”

When Crowley opens his eyes, he accidentally meets the gaze of the angel in the painting, hanging on the wall in front of him. Pushing the image out of his mind, Crowley turns to look for Aziraphale and finds him sitting at the table, blowing over his cup of tea.

Aziraphale gives him a seraphic smile and puts his lips on the rim of his cup. Crowley looks away, feeling incredibly naked without his dark lenses, currently kept safely in a coat pocket.

“To what do I owe your unexpected visit?” Aziraphale asks, politely changing the subject. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, dear boy, but I thought we had established which one of us should have taken care of the work here at Anglesey.”

Crowley eagerly takes a sip of the hot tea and burns the tip of his tongue.

“I just thought you could use some advice from an expert.” Crowley takes the place in front of him, sitting on the chair that Aziraphale has left vacant, the closest to the burning fireplace. “’Cause. You know. You’re not very good at tempting.” 

“I’m so good at tempting!” Aziraphale replies, offended. “I could tempt anyone to do anything. I could even tempt you , if I’d want to.” 

“Of course you could, angel,” Crowley asserts with a condescending tone, hiding a smile behind the cup.

Aziraphale looks down to his own cup for a beat, before searching for his gaze again. “Anyway. I’m definitely getting the hang of it, now, worry not! I'm rather proud of this temptation, if you must know. It is all going according to my plan.” 

Crowley grins, interested, pressing his pointy elbows on the table to come closer to Aziraphale. “Care to fill me in, reverend?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I’m starting to regret this cover-up,” he says, sliding the whiskey on the table to allow Crowley to have some.

Crowley scoffs. “C’mon now, I bet you’re enjoying it. Be recognized by all as the holy instrument between Her and humans. Spread Her Word openly. Have the power to establish what is right and what is wrong.” He lifts the whiskey in a lonely, mocking toast, before taking a sip straight from the bottle under Aziraphale’s – and the angel’s in the painting – judging eyes. “You love doing that. And you can dispense the divine body and the pure blood of Jesus Christ to your faithful disciples, etcetera etcetera.” 

“Oh, stop now, will you?” 

“That’s why you’re not coming back home?” Crowley asks, ignoring his words and passing the bottle to Aziraphale after burning his throat for a second time. “Are you enjoying it all too much?” 

Coming back home. 

That's ridiculous. 

He's ridiculous. 

Crowley hopes Aziraphale won’t pay too much attention to it. 

Aziraphale squeezes his fingers around the bottle’s neck with such force that the glass cracks.

“Well...” Aziraphale starts, calmly, placing the whiskey on the table to take a sip of his tea. “It is not all going a ccording to my plan, I must admit. Mrs. Hughes is proving to be more stubborn than I expected, and it’s a miracle if after the functions I’m able to have a few words with her in private.” He taps, lost in thought, his index finger against the fragile material of the cup. “But. I'm positive that I’ll be back– in London, by the end of the month. Therefore, dear boy, do not worry. We will be together in Soho in a blink, and we will go out to dinner every night, if you’ll like!”

Crowley immediately opens his mouth to reply, but he has always had a hard time coming up with sensible words when Aziraphale looks at him with that understanding look, determination and amusement in his eyes, and with that happy smile that, unlike Crowley, he never holds back anymore.

“I’m not worried,” he manages to say, with his ears on fire. “I wasn’t– it wasn’t my– I wasn’t even thinking... I– I, for the record, I'm perfectly fine in London by myself, I'm not– I’m not here because I missed you” – and he spits the word out with a certain indignation, pursing his lips in a disgusted grimace – “or, or something like that.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “I didn’t say that, dear boy.”

“But you implied it!” Crowley exclaims, suddenly feeling angry for no reason – or for too many reasons – as he gazes resolutely at the painting on the wall, at the white wings of the reddish-haired angel floating in the air. “And stop calling me that. I'm not a boy.”

“Well of course you’re not,” Aziraphale replies, with the thin voice of someone who feels at fault without being able to understand exactly what went wrong. “Perhaps you prefer ‘dear girl’?” 

“That is not the problem!” 

“Then I don’t understand what the problem is,” Aziraphale frowns. “You know, it’s just an endearment humans use with someone whom they care about. It’s like... like when you call me angel.” 

“I call you angel because you are one,” Crowley hisses. Although he stubbornly refuses to meet his gaze, he can perfectly imagine his bemused, sorry, vulnerable eyes. “For no other reason.” 

The lie slips off his tongue easily, leaving behind a faint hint of sulphur and regrets. They fall in a suffocating silence interrupted only by the sound of the heavy rain which, as raging as Crowley's beats, is still hitting the building’s roof. 

Crowley rises out of the numb torpor he fell into as he realises that the sound they’re hearing doesn’t come solely from the storm. 

Aziraphale clears his throat and gets to his feet, smoothing his black cassock as if he were afraid it might be wrinkled. “Dear me. Tonight there is an unexpected visitor after another,” he comments, with a light tone and a tight smile.

Crowley gets up too, approaching the fireplace to retrieve his glasses from his coat. He puts them on quickly while he listens to the sound of the front door opening and of wet-soled shoes hitting the floor.

“Oh, Father, I’m so, so mortified to disturb you at such a late hour,” an unknown voice, feminine and agitated, murmurs. “He stayed awake longer than usual tonight. I went out as soon as I could. I have to talk to you urgently, regarding Lillian and I— oh.”

The river of words stops suddenly when Crowley turns to observe the scene, meeting the surprised gaze of a young woman.

“I didn’t realise you had company!” She intertwines her fingers against her chest, as in prayer, looking at Aziraphale. “Oh, Lord, I shouldn’t have come, I knew it was a terrible idea.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head and gives her a comforting smile. “On the contrary, it was a brilliant idea, Mrs. Hughes,” he replies, placing a light hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “Actually, my old friend here... He was just about to leave. Wasn't he?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know, Father,” he replies, with a sharp smile, leaning on the fireplace with one elbow. “I hoped I could stay here for a little longer, at least until the rain subsided.” He tilts his head slightly to one side, faking a concerned expression. “I thought, Father, that I could find shelter under your wig. Perhaps I was wrong?” 

“Of course not,” Mrs. Hughes says, before Aziraphale had time to do anything. “It’s a living Hell out there,” she adds, smiling kindly. “Don’t make your friend leave on my behalf, I promise it won’t take long.” 

Aziraphale purses his lips and nods, before looking down at Mrs. Hughes. “Wait for me where we usually talk, my dear, I’ll join you in a moment with a nice cup of tea.” 

Mrs. Hughes smiles again and hurries to reach the narrow passage that leads directly to the front pews of the church. As she passes near Crowley, she pauses for a moment to give him a short bow, lifting the hem of her dress. Thanks to the proximity and the firelight, Crowley now can clearly see a purple bruise next to the corner of her left eye. Their eyes meet one last time and Crowley bows his head in a greeting.

“A sweet girl,” Aziraphale murmurs once they are alone, hurrying to prepare the cup of tea he promised her. “She deserves a better life than the one she has here.” 

Crowley scratches his forehead nervously. “I know you want to do... Good, for people, but. It’s not our job to help them have better lives, a— Aziraphale. We have strict orders. You’ll never learn, will you?” 

Aziraphale turns to look at him with a stern look. “I don't know why you’re in this mood tonight, Crowley,” he says, firmly and in a low voice. “I don't know if you’re angry at me for something I did or for something you did, but we have an arrangement. Don’t try to tell me how to handle your temptations and I will not judge the way you handle my blessings. The only thing that matters is that nobody, Upstairs or Downstairs, notices our doing. You know that all too well.” 

Crowley clicks his tongue, irritated, but nods. “We don't wanna attract anyone's attention,” he sing-songs, with the echo of the same words repeated by Aziraphale over and over and over again branded in his mind. “The only thing that matters, isn’t it? Well. I should be going now. Don't want to ruin your plans any further.” 

“You don’t have to go, Cro wley ,” Aziraphale bursts, taking a step towards him as if to physically stop him, his voice breaking as he says his name. “You can stay as long as you want. You know you always can.” 

Crowley takes a step back in return, following the rhythm of the same sad dance that keeps them apart from the very first day known to humankind. 

“That wasn’t what you said before.”

“Before I was annoyed by your behaviour — and, believe me, I still am. But you don’t have to go away. Please.” 

Crowley looks away and takes his coat back, slipping it on silently. Aziraphale sighs and makes to leave the room with the mug for Mrs. Hughes clutched in his hands, but pauses in the doorway. “Will you be here when I return?” 

“I'm not angry at you,” Crowley says instead, ignoring his question. “And I’m sorry. Angel. For before.” 

Aziraphale smiles slightly. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, dear.”

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to leave before tucking his tie into a pocket. He glances at the painting and the angel stares back at him with lifeless blue eyes, a cruel distorted mirror of an existence that has been snatched away from him a long time ago.

“I’m just angry that I will never be what you wish I was.” 

The red-haired angel doesn't say anything. Crowley leaves, slamming the door behind him.

***

Your visit the other evening was very much appreciated. And all these lovely books, too! I still have them here on the desk, next to me. It's a shame to have to put them away.
I’m glad you were calmer. The last time we met you were so agitated; not to mention our elusive meeting in Wales, which I still think about without finding a suitable answer to my questions. But now things are better, aren’t they? You brought me these beautiful books and we drank our wine and we told our stories and we were together for a while. This is enough. It has to be.
Anyway. It is deplorable that we won't be able to see each other for a while. You promised me a walk in James Park on my return, though. Don’t forget! I won’t. I’m looking forward to it, actually. Maybe we could feed the ducks while we’re there. That would be nice. 

Truly yours,
Aziraphale

London (Mayfair)
1862

Crowley closes the door behind him with such force that the purely decorative white crystal chandelier trembles from the ceiling. He glares angrily at it, feeling his fingers twitch. The thought of all the embellishments to which he has subjected his apartment... Only for the mere possibility of a visit, which never took place!, by... 

By someone who he has always considered, from that very first unexpected kind act, contrary to any logic, divine or human, as a —

An ally? A friend? 

And yet...

I have plenty of people to fraternise with. 

“Fraternise?” Crowley says to the ceiling, still furious and hurt, clinging to futile reasons to justify his purely decorative broken heart.

And the feeling is mutual, obviously. 

Crowley throws his top hat on the floor along with his walking stick, satisfied to notice that his plants, carefully arranged in the next room, have begun to tremble in fear of the repercussions of his anger.

“Shut up!” He yells in the silence, glaring at them with a mean look of split irises, lulling himself into the violence of the raised tone. Their neurotic movements stop. He takes from it less pleasure than what he expected. 

Crowley sighs loudly, bringing his right hand to his temple to massage it while snapping his left fingers to close the curtains' heavy drapes, plunging the room into darkness.

His nerves begin to relax just as the doorbell starts to ring. The dreadful migraine returns when, opening the front door, Crowley finds himself in front of Aziraphale and his frown.

“We need to talk,” he says.

Aziraphale seems decidedly agitated and mildly sweaty. Crowley has never seen him like this, but he strengthens his grip on the handle anyway, ready to exile the discussion they just had and all the consequences that will come from it outside his apartment.

“We already did that.”

Aziraphale presses a hand on the still open door, as if sensing his intentions.

“We need to talk more.”

Crowley is ready to reply with an absolutely sensible and considered argument,
which he will pull out from an obscure corner of his mind anytime now, but Aziraphale anticipates him. 

“Please, Crowley.”

Crowley deflates like a lead balloon and shrugs, compliant, moving away from the entrance to allow him inside.

Aziraphale clears his throat. 

“Well?”

Crowley – arrived in record time at the alcohol cabinet, next to his soft and decorative sofa – raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Don’t you invite me in?” 

“What are you, now, a vampire?”

Aziraphale sighs, taking off his beige hat and holding it to his chest. “Of course not, Crowley. But it is rude to enter people's homes without being invited first.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, pouring some gin into a glass without even looking.

“Even of the people you fraternise with?”

Aziraphale glances down at his shoes, squeezing his hat between his fingers. “I admit that it wasn’t a wise choice of words on my part.”

Crowley sighs, softening despite himself. “Come inside and close the door behind you, Lilith ,” he mutters, pouring a drink for Aziraphale too. “Gin?”

Aziraphale nods, dares to smile at him and does as he was told. “Can you forgive me?”

Crowley scoffs in his glass before approaching Aziraphale to hand him his. They meet halfway under the crystal chandelier – which seems, the traitor, to have lighted up of its own free will upon the angel’s entrance – and Crowley strives to not brush Aziraphale’s fingers when he accepts the glass.

“It’s funny. You say it as if you really could need my forgiveness.” 

Aziraphale puts his hat on the (also decorative) coffee table and takes a sip of his gin. “Crowley,” he murmurs, almost mercifully. “Will you ever understand what I really need?”

Crowley sneers. “Well, at least I know perfectly well what you don’t need,” he says, shrugging as if he doesn’t care. “And you know what I do. Is that why you’re here? A change of heart?”

The hurt expression in Aziraphale's eyes is very similar to the one Crowley saw earlier in Saint James Park.

“Absolutely not. I'll never change my mind, Crowley. It is an absurd request —”

“Oh, these words are kind of familiar, don’t you think?”

“— which I will never, ever take into consideration —”

“These too! Who knows when I've heard them already?”

“— because I'm not going to be responsible for your death, Crowley.”

Crowley briefly lifts his glasses on his forehead, pressing his fingertips hard against his closed eyelids, then snaps them down again. “It's just a question of safety,” he hisses, slowly. “I'm not planning the perfect-demonic-suicide, angel, I assure you. Why can't you just trust me?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and undoes the first button of his coat, walking briskly and uncomfortably past Crowley to pace around the room.

“I’ve never come to your house before,” he comments instead of answering him, eyeing the green curtains and the (rather sparse) bamboo and lacquered furniture.

“Angel...”

“Oh,” Aziraphale exclaims, staring at the broad space adjacent to the living room. “Plants! How healthy.”

“Angel,” Crowley calls him again, losing his patience. “You have to trust me, alright? Just – just trust me on this. Why can’t you just trust me on this?” 

Aziraphale places his glass, still half-full, on a piece of furniture; he turns to look at Crowley.

“Is this what you’re asking from me? A leap of faith?” 

Crowley spreads his arms, dropping some gin on the carpet without even realising it.

“Isn't it your specialty?” 

Aziraphale catches his lower lip between his teeth. “I don't understand, Crowley,” he complains. “I don’t understand what has gotten into you! Your behaviour was strange in Wales too, but then, then I got back to London and I thought that things were back to normal, but now , with this obsession of yours... What happened? I thought everything was going fine?” 

“Fine,” Crowley hisses with a mocking tone, leaving his half-empty glass next to Aziraphale's hat. “As if anything could go just fine for me, Aziraphale. Come on!” 

Aziraphale frowns; even though he doesn't seem too sure it's the right thing to do, he comes back near Crowley in the middle of the room. “I thought —”

“What? That our fraternisation was going fine?” 

“Why do you keep repeating that word?”  

“Why can't you trust me?”

“Trust you?” Aziraphale raises his voice with an incredulous tone. “How can you think that I could trust a —” 

He stops, realising at the last moment what he was about to say.

Crowley laughs humorlessly. “How could you trust a demon? Oh, it is— it is a great question, really, how could you— because that is all I am, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale frowns, again, as if he can't keep up with his own thoughts. “No, I don’t, of course—” he struggles, apparently betrayed once more by his own words and his own instincts. “I didn’t mean it like that!” 

“Of course you didn’t.”

“What I meant is that... it's just that you, as, as a demon, can lie more easily than me, so it’s difficult for me to... Well. That is what I meant. Really.” 

Crowley comes dangerously close to Aziraphale, raising a finger at him as if he is going to press it against his chest. “I have never,” he hisses. “ Never lied to you, angel. Not on the things that matter. Don't insult me like that.”

Aziraphale looks from his finger to his face, taking a further step towards him. “Tell me the truth this time too, then. Why do you want the Holy Water? What is the real reason?” 

“Because...!” Crowley takes a step back when he suddenly realises the closeness between them and, frustrated, sticks his fingers through his short hair. “Because this can't last! Because the two of us can't last! If they knew what we... What I...” He trails off, deafened by the furious noise of blood rushing in his ears and blinded by Aziraphale's suddenly shiny eyes. “Why can't you understand that everything can't be just fine for someone like me?”

Aziraphale follows his movements, taking a step forward and raising a hand. Crowley watches his trembling fingers and imagines them, for a delirious moment, running through his hair to comfort him, but Aziraphale jerks them back, burned by all the forbidden possibilities, and curls them against his own chest.

“I don’t...” Aziraphale murmurs, out of breath, looking away. “I don’t possibly know what you’re implying, Crowley.” 

Crowley purses his lips in a wry smile. “Of course,” he exhales, feeling vulnerable and almost grateful to Aziraphale for his cowardice. “Of course you don’t.” 

He is about to fall apart but Aziraphale is still in front of him, so he pulls himself together. “Good talk. I would ask you, now, to do me the favour of leaving, if it is not in your interest to help me with the Holy Water matter.” 

“Crowley...”

Aziraphale's voice trembles like his fingers. Crowley ignores him and opens the door.

Aziraphale looks around once more, perhaps hoping for a last-minute miracle, but eventually he takes back his hat and approaches Crowley.

“Why don’t we find a solution?” He proposes, giving him an optimistic smile. “Together?” 

Crowley forces himself not to give in, barely looking him in the eye.

“We will, if you trust me.” 

The smile slips away from Aziraphale's mouth. "I can't do that, Crowley," he murmurs, now on the threshold. “But you could come by the bookshop, tomorrow, and... And we will have lunch, and we will look for a solution,” he asserts, as he leaves the apartment. “If we work hard we will find something, I’m sure.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful,” Crowley says under his breath, ironic and sincere at the same time, closing the door. The chandelier’s light goes out with his angel. 

Crowley reaches the bedroom, the only room that is truly lived in, with tentative steps. He slithers under the soft sheets without even undressing.

(Tomorrow Aziraphale will wait all day, hoping to see him come by the bookshop, but Crowley will be still sleeping, and he will sleep for a long, long time, dreaming of a shiny-eyed angel running his fingers through Crowley’s hair.)

***

| Yes yes yes I do like you. I am afraid to write the stronger word.
— Virginia Woolf
 

And you have accustomed me so sweetly, so unknowingly to your presence that now your silly prolonged absence is unbearable. Vile, hideous, magnificent demon. What do I have to do with you?
I still have that painting I wrote you about, so long ago, and sometimes I almost delude myself to see you in that angel's eyes. And even if you are anything but an angel, dear, you’re still the best of all of us. I wonder if
The war persists, stubborn like you. I won't be able to write to you much: supplies are scarce and I don't want to waste unnecessary miracles, given the situation. I hope you will let me know if you're okay, in one way or another.

Always yours,
Aziraphale

London (Soho)
1940

“What are you doing here?” 

Crowley smiles gently. 

“Just visiting an old friend, I guess. Fancy a drink? Took it for you.” 

Aziraphale raises both eyebrows. Are we still friends? 

Crowley lazily curls his fingers around the bottle's neck, stranded between his spread legs. He tilts his head to one side. What else could we be?

Aziraphale, unable to answer, looks away.

“The shop is closed.”

“Yep.” Crowley softly smacks his lips. “Noticed that. Has been for days.”

“Weeks,” Aziraphale corrects him, absent-minded. “And the door was locked.”

“Yeah.” Crowley gives him a satisfied smirk, lost in the dark. “It was.”

Aziraphale places a heavy curtain over the closed door, paying particular attention to the cracks. Crowley watches him as he reaches his desk moving confidently in the darkness and turns on the gas lamp; a soft light creeps in the room. Crowley knows well that in the current times darkness is an ally and light is the enemy. It’s so ironic, really.

“I thought you were still in France,” Aziraphale is saying, meanwhile. “When did you come back?” 

“Last Monday. I saw the closed shutter and assumed you were busy.” His eyes, hidden by the dark lenses, drop down on the bag that Aziraphale is clutching in his shaking, tired fingers. “Again with the hospitals?” 

Aziraphale reaches the sofa, letting himself be guided by Crowley's silhouette, and nods weakly. He puts the bag next to the wooden table placed in front of the sofa and takes a seat next to him. His posture relaxes when, as he settles down between the pillows, their shoulders accidentally touch. 

“Bombs keep falling, innocent people keep dying,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze fixed on the fingers intertwined on his knees. “It’s even worse than the first war. It will go down in History like this, won’t it? The First War, the Second War. There is going to be a third, too?” 

“Angel...” 

“Or the world will end before?” 

Crowley flinches when Aziraphale whirls around to look at him. His liquid eyes have the same colour of the London dark smoke, the same anguish.

“Is the world going to end today? Tomorrow? In a month, maybe? Is it all gonna end like this? With a big, terrible bomb?” 

Crowley swallows. He takes off his glasses and throws them somewhere; he presses his fingers against his closed eyelids until he sees the stars explode. “If that is the case we would’ve known.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Maybe they forget about us, finally. Maybe they did forget about me and you were... Right. All along.”

Crowley shakes his head. He drops his black wide-brimmed hat to the ground to run a hand through his hair and sighs when he feels his fingertips scratching on the nape of his neck: he always forgets that he has cut it so short once again. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t even think like that. Not now. Fancy a drink?” 

Aziraphale stares at him without answering, looking at Crowley's shaved hair and thin face. “Did you fight again?” 

Crowley runs a hand over his face, trying to erase the traces of fatigue with rough fingers. “Eh. Was planning to do that but didn’t, in the end. Not on the front lines at least.” 

Aziraphale's gaze becomes less worried, more questioning. Crowley leans his bare nape against the back of the sofa, watching him sideways.

“If you really wanna know, I got involved with la Résistance,” he mutters. “Fancy a drink? I’ll pour you some wine.” 

Aziraphale's lips curl in a way that Crowley knows all too well.

He sighs. “What? I’ve done nothing special. Trust me, nobody likes Nazis.”

“You are always on the rebel side, aren’t you?” 

Crowley, surprising himself, smiles. “Why shouldn’t I?” 

He snaps his fingers. The noise is way too loud in the silence of the room. Crowley passes Aziraphale an empty glass, taken from his cupboard and appeared out of nowhere. Their fingers kiss for a brief moment. 

“At least this time I’m not the only one. We are on the same side now, angel.” 

Aziraphale's affectionate smile slowly fades but Crowley, busy pouring wine into both of their glasses, doesn't notice it right away.

“Isn't it funny?”

“No,” Aziraphale declares, coldly. “Not at all. We won’t ever be on the same side, Crowley. Don’t say that. They could hear you.” 

Crowley sneers, mocking. “Who, Aziraphale?” He replies, using his name as a double-edged weapon. "Who could? There is no one here. No one out there.” He drinks the wine to the last drop, wipes his mouth with a wrist. “Oh, and where are Her favourite children when humanity needs them, anyway? Good ol’ Gabe hop down for a visit lately?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, drinking the wine more calmly. “No one has come here for...” He pauses and frowns. “I have no idea, actually. Years. Decades.” His eyes drop down to the wine. “It’s good. French?” 

“Italian. Made some friends at Limoges. There was this sicilian guy, a nice fella... I did an exchange, got the bottle.” 

Aziraphale remains silent for a few seconds, and: “Excellent choice,” he says, eventually, taking another sip.

Crowley pours himself more wine, he twirls his glass. “Well? You don’t ask me what he wanted in return?” 

Aziraphale swallows. Crowley licks his lower lip. 

“I really don't want to know.”

Crowley laughs and Aziraphale blushes. 

“It’s nothing as naughty as you think, angel.” Crowley presses a pointed knee against his leg. “Satan. Get your head off the gutter.” 

Aziraphale's face gets worse, but Crowley doesn't give him time to think about it for long.

“In return, he asked me to give this to his lover,” he explains, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket of his jacket. “After I told him I would come to London to visit—” Mine . Crowley bites his tongue just in time to stop his traitor mind. “A colleague.” 

“My God, a love letter?” Aziraphale smiles, moved. “How wonderful. You’ve been very kind to agree to do it, dear.” 

Crowley chokes on his wine. “Don’t. I haven’t. I just know what missing someone and wanting to make sure they’re alright means, that’s all.”

Crowley, who is doing everything he can not to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, can’t see the awareness that flashes in them.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “A colleague?” He takes the bottle from Crowley's hands to pour them some more wine.

“You like it more than ‘an old friend’, do you?” 

Aziraphale shrugs. “I guess we are. Colleagues, I mean. Sort of. In a way.” 

Neither of them say anything for a handful of heartbeats, then Aziraphale seems to find the silence insufferable. 

“What are you going to do now? Do you plan to stay in London?” 

Crowley bites his lips to not smile. “Why? Miss me already?”

Aziraphale scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. Crowley considers it a little victory.

“No,” Crowley answers. “I came by just for a quick stop. To make sure London still stands. That you haven't gotten yourself into trouble again.”

“I don’t really know what you mean, my dear.”

Crowley hides a smirk behind his glass. 

Aziraphale keeps his eyes fixed on his legs, following an unstitching of his beige trousers with a well-groomed nail. Crowley silently thanks — God? Hell, never . Satan? Ugh. Well. He silently thanks Someone for being able to see his smile so well in the dark. 

“I have some work to do out of town, at Bletchley.” Crowley throws his head back and swallows the wine left in the glass. “In fact,” he glances at the watch gripping his left wrist. “I’d better get going. It’s gettin’ late.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale seems too tired to hide his disappointment. Crowley feels a warm sensation in his chest that has nothing to do with alcohol. “Why don't you sleep here tonight? I never use the bed upstairs, you know. It wouldn’t be a problem.” 

Crowley tries to reply, but Aziraphale's sad eyes suddenly on him make him momentarily forget what he meant to say.

“It’s getting late, you said so yourself,” Aziraphale adds, taking advantage of it, placing his glass on the table to have his hands free and be able to twist his fingers. “And... And there’s the curfew! You can’t be seen going around at night, Crowley. You would be a terrible example to people.”

Crowley claws a soft pillow to keep himself from stopping Aziraphale's nervous movements.

“Angel,” he sighs, focusing his gaze on the open buttons of his coat to not have to look in his eyes. “Being a terrible example for others is part of my job, don’t you think?” 

“Ah. Quite right, but—”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts him gently, squeezing the pillow in his fingers. “Better not. We don’t wanna get anyone’s attention. Right?”

Aziraphale’s fingers stop, falling between his thighs. Crowley quickly looks away.

“Right,” Aziraphale concedes, stretching his lips into a smile, and retrieves the bottle of wine. “Last glass? Before you go?” 

Crowley nods and snaps his fingers to summon another pair of dark lenses, unbothered to look for the one he had before. It is a shame, anyway. That you must wear them all the time. He holds out his glass to Aziraphale, but the angel makes no mention of pouring him the remaining wine.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale frowns.

“Well? Don’t you ask me what I want in return?” 

Crowley's useless heart starts beating fast in his throat, so hard that it reminds him of the familiar sound of bombs dropping to the ground.

“Unfortunately I don’t have any love letters I can trade.” 

Aziraphale glances slyly in the direction of his desk, but Crowley is too busy trying to appear put together to notice.

“Pity. We should think about something else, then.” 

Crowley laughs, breathless. “Satan,” he murmurs. “Get your head off the gutter, angel.”

Aziraphale laughs with him. His face is blushing again, but maybe it’s just Crowley’s imagination that is going too fast.

Aziraphale comes nearer, letting their knees touch. Crowley doesn’t know where all of this is going but he sure knows that it will remain nailed in his mind until the end of times. 

Another happy memory to think about before going to sleep.

“Actually, I did think about something else.” 

“Anything,” Crowley is quick to concede, eager.

Aziraphale smiles. 

“A prayer.” 

“A what?” 

“A prayer,” Aziraphale repeats, calmly, in a low voice. His eyes dart to the window above their heads, as if afraid someone is watching them from above, as if he has forgotten about the closed, barred shutters. “I know you’re planning to do something dangerous, Crowley. Let me guard you in the only way I know.”

Crowley's heart, incredulous, stops its desperate race. Unsure of what to say, he nods silently.

Aziraphale lowers his eyelids and opens his mouth. Although Crowley finds himself looking at it, hanging from his lips, the words he murmurs are too far away, too fast, too ancient for him to grasp. Eventually, Aziraphale’s lips stop and his fingers suddenly rise, approaching the demon’s face.

Aziraphale brushes Crowley's forehead with his thumb, creating an imaginary line first vertically and then horizontally. The gesture is repeated, more slowly, on his mouth; his fingers move over Crowley's face with confidence, as if he knew it by heart.

Crowley breathes on his fingertips. Aziraphale shivers. 

His hand, finally, lowers on Crowley's chest to repeat the invisible cross on his heart.

“Amen,” Aziraphale sanctions, at the end of the ritual.

Crowley lets go of the pillow to press his fingers against Aziraphale’s, trapping them against his chest before they can escape. He can feel his own raging heart on his fingertips. He can only imagine the chaos felt by Aziraphale.

Aziraphale slips his fingers through Crowley's and squeezes until it hurts.

“Amen,” Crowley repeats, blasphemous.

Their fingers remain intertwined for an endless time. They both forget about the last glass of wine. When Crowley leaves the bookshop, closing the door carefully behind him, the first rays of sunlight caress his face. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are still closed.

***

The holy water is in your hands, now. I hope it was the right thing to do. I said so many wrong things that night. I had to bring it to you. I couldn’t let you hate me without doing anything to stop it, but
Here in Berlin everything is so difficult. I can’t concentrate on my work, you’re always on my mind. If only I Sometimes the only thing that can reassure me is feeling that little sting that pulls my heart, which I’m familiar with by now, that assures me you are still out there, somewhere. That you’re still with me.
I hope you’ll call me when I’m back. I have to know you’re okay.
Good Lord, Crowley, don’t do anything stupid without me.

Please remember that I’m always yours,
Aziraphale

London (Soho, again)
1981 

Crowley presses his toe on the accelerator and puts on a new pair of glasses as the light from the street lamps cuts diagonally, erratically, the inside of his car. While looking at the passenger seat, as he passes a couple of particularly slow cars, he can’t help to think back to the words said by Aziraphale in that same spot just a few years ago.

Perhaps one day we could have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz. 

He doesn’t particularly like the thought of a picnic, with all those buzzing insects around (way too familiar), but. Dining at the Ritz. He could do that. He could pick up Aziraphale, tonight, and bring him to the Ritz. He could claim a table for two, once there, and make sure that it is the most beautiful table, he could say, the most envied; he could hold his chair as he sits down and see him smile as Crowley asks the nearest waiter to bring them a bottle of champagne, if you please, the most expensive they have.

We are celebrating, angel, Crowley would explain, in front of his surprised expression, with an enigmatic and charming smile, and: What are we celebrating, my dear?, Aziraphale would ask, then, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. 

What are we celebrating? 

Crowley twirls the intangible, inexistent words in his mind, dodging a car that has suddenly stopped at a yellow light and cutting off a teenager on a bike.

My dear? 

Crowley accelerates again, and again, and again, thinking of Aziraphale's lips opening and closing, hypnotically, of the tip of his tongue barely visible.

My dear. 

But Aziraphale already calls him so, despite Crowley's – increasingly weak – protests. We are celebrating, angel. What would Aziraphale call him, then, if he took him to the Ritz, if he held his chair as he sat down?

What are we celebrating? My darling? 

Crowley's foot slips on the accelerator just thinking about it. He sticks a couple of fingers into his white sweater tight collar, pulling it away from his neck to be able to breathe.

My darling. My darling, my darling, my darling. 

And: What are we celebrating, my darling?, Aziraphale would ask, then, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Crowley would raise his glass in an elegant, controlled, sober toast. Everything, he would answer. Us. You. I’m always celebrating you . 

Aziraphale would smile even more, reaching out on the table to get closer, to touch Crowley's arm, to take his hand and interlace their fingers. Oh. Thank you, my darling. 

And interlace their fingers. Thank you. With wide blue eyes, a sweet smile on his lips, a thumb caressing the back of his hand, their fingers tightening. My darling. 

A cacophony of honking horns welcomes the Bentley triumphal entry into the bookshop’s street, but Crowley is too distracted to hear it. He is still thinking of Aziraphale's eyes, his lips, his fingers. Of his dreamy sighs while he eats, of his voice cracking when he says I do like when we meet. When he says Oh, good Lord in the heart of the French Revolution, in the middle of Crowley’s lonely nights. 

When he says: You know I couldn’t look away.

Crowley runs the back of one hand across his forehead to wipe away the drops of sweat that tickle his hot skin. Aziraphale's silhouette, busy locking the shop, begins to take shape in the darkness. Crowley is still thinking about his voice – Why don't you sleep here tonight? – as he pulls up the car next to the sidewalk in front of the bookshop, as he pictures Aziraphale’s eyes closing, overwhelmed, his lips parting, unable to restrain himself, his fingers pressing against Crowley's hips to hold him close, to hold him firmly against the mattress as he pursues his pleasure, without thinking of anything else, without thinking of Crowley’s needs, with his eyes closed and his lips parted and his back arched and his hair stuck to his temples and he whispers, meanwhile, he whispers: oh thank you my darling, my darling, my darling... 

My lov —

“Crowley? Dear, are you feeling quite alright?” 

Crowley is wrenched out of his thoughts by Aziraphale, who is now beyond the Bentley partially lowered window, looking particularly puzzled, wrapped in a long coat with a light blue scarf around his neck.

“Peachy,” Crowley squeaks. 

Aziraphale frowns and Crowley clears his throat, blinking hard behind his dark lenses to chase away the all too sharp vision that's been haunting him since that morning, or maybe since the truly beginning of Time. He gets out of the car to open the passenger door and waves him in, before Aziraphale can say anything. “Ready to go, angel?” 

Aziraphale smiles, passing Crowley to sit in the Bentley with a soft “thank you”. 

Oh thank you my darling. 

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold and bitter February air before getting back in the car. As soon as he starts the engine, Aziraphale clings to the handle with all his might and Crowley smirks.

"You haven't gotten used to cars yet, I see."

“I’m not used to...” Aziraphale stops, widens his eyes as they narrowly avoid a fire hydrant and then glares at Crowley. “Your driving, actually. Can you please watch the road?” 

“Oh I could,” Crowley shrugs, enjoying his terrified expression. “It’s more fun watching you, though.” 

“Crowley. I’m serious.” 

“She knows where she has to go.” 

“She doesn’t know at all!” 

Crowley shoots him an offended look. “Don’t be rude, she can hear you.” 

Aziraphale's gaze becomes even more grim, but he is again distracted by another unsafe manoeuvre. “Dear God— watch the road!” 

“Should I? But you’re far more pretty, angel.” 

Crowley grins when his words leave Aziraphale speechless and, finally, he watches the road, just in time to stop at a red light. 

“You definitely go too fast,” Aziraphale mumbles, embarrassed, looking out the window. “And where are we going anyway?” 

“To see the movies, of course.” 

Aziraphale turns to look at him in surprise. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“What? You love it.” 

"I do, yes,” Aziraphale confirms, with a gentle smile on his lips. “I didn’t think you remembered.” 

The second eyebrow rises to keep company to the first one on Crowley's forehead.

"I don’t know what you think of me, angel, but I do listen when you talk.” 

Aziraphale's smile is so fond that Crowley has to look away, with the excuse of unnecessarily adjusting the rear view mirror.

“Of course, dear. And I think very highly of you.” 

Crowley grimaces, pressing his foot on the accelerator when the red light turns green. 

“Please don’t.” 

Aziraphle laughs and Crowley smiles. Just a little bit. 

“You seemed so impatient on the phone,” Aziraphale says after a few seconds of silence, in which he seemed too busy brooding to judge Crowley’s driving. “And you were a bit lost, before. Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yep. Very.” Crowley watches him out of the corner of his eye, in his ridiculous trousers and his heavy coat and with the light from the street lamps that makes his hair incredibly white, tragically ethereal. “I just wanted to...” 

See your smile. Hold your hand. Take you to the Ritz. Celebrate you. 

My darling my darlingmydarling. 

Crowley clears his throat, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

Fuck it. 

“I just wanted to see you,” he bites out quickly, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him, for once. “You've been gone longer than I expected. I’ve missed you.” 

“Oh.” 

Crowley knows Aziraphale is squirming in his seat but doesn't have the strength to turn around to look at him. He can imagine his nervous tics, his fingers twisting, his eyes darting from side to side, unsure on what to look at and what to pretend not to see. 

“I had some... Trouble with my blessings in Berlin,” Aziraphale admits, in a low but crystalline voice. “Gabriel showed up. He wasn’t very nice.” 

Crowley opens his mouth to express all his solidarity on the matter, but Aziraphale anticipates him by adding in a rush: “I’ve missed you too, Crowley.” 

Crowley's mouth closes with the sharp sound of clashing teeth.

“Ah,” he breathes, then, his mind blanks and his heart beating faster. “Well. Good.” 

“Good?” Aziraphale repeats, in an incredulous as delirious tone.

Crowley turns to him, but he can't hold his gaze for long. “Bad?” He dares, then.

“Oh, my dear, you know that I—” 

Crowley honks to silence him, earning a middle finger sticking out of a car window in front of them. “They reopen the Scala. Did you know?” He says, returning the finger and changing the subject. “It's in King’s Cross now, it’s so much better. You'll like it. We’re going there tonight.” 

Aziraphale doesn't say anything for a while, then sighs softly. “Anywhere you want, my dear.” 

Crowley, to avoid doing something stupid like grabbing Aziraphale's hand and holding it against his chest, reaches out to turn on the radio. A feminine, sweet voice comes to life, lightening up the gloomy atmosphere fallen in the car.

Everyday, it’s a-gettin' closer

Goin' faster than a roller coaster... 

Crowley taps his fingers on the steering wheel, deluding himself that he has managed to avoid talking about it, but Aziraphale leans forward to turn the volume down.

“You know that I am sorry. Do you?” 

“For what?” 

“For the terrible things I said back then. At your apartment.” 

Crowley shrugs. “It was decades ago,” he says, as it could change anything. “Let it go, angel. You gave it to me in the end, no? The Holy Water. We’re even now.” 

“I hope it was the right thing to do...” Aziraphale murmurs, distressed. “Just promise me you won’t use it, Crowley.” 

Crowley meets Aziraphale’s pleading eyes. 

“Even if I said that, would you believe me?” 

Aziraphale’s silence speaks volume. Crowley clears his throat for a third time.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, turning up the radio. “As I thought, angel.” 

Everyday, it's a-gettin' closer 

Goin' faster than a roller coaster 

Love like yours will surely come my way.

***

Maybe you already know this, but I have always liked the way you call me angel.
It’s the only sound I’d like to hear from your mouth, sometimes.
Well, not the onl
Sometimes it’s like you call me that to distance yourself from me, other times it’s like you’re trying to prevent yourself from saying more. If things were different, would you still call me ‘angel’? Would you call me something else, something sweeter? Something even more heartbreaking? I know everything about the power of words, the power of naming immaterial things and causing their creation, and that is why I will never be able to name the feelings I have for you, my dearest. My lovely demon. Even if remaining silent and watching you suffer it’s killing me... You think I despise you (I can read so easily that terrible look in your eyes that you foolishly try to hide from me) but, Crowley, you don’t understand. Please, don’t make me say what I feel.
I don’t know if I’d survive. I don’t think you would.

London (still Soho)
2007
March 29

Crowley shows up at Aziraphale’s bookshop for no particular reason at a quarter past seven on a boring Thursday evening.

“Why don’t we get something to eat?” He says, after having enjoyed watching Aziraphale chasing away the last customers of the day. “To old time’s sake, you know.”

(Old times aren’t that old, of course. But they really hadn’t had a moment for a nice dinner together for several years.)

Aziraphale easily accepts, with the keys of the shop already in hand. 

“I’m actually feeling quite peckish.” 

07:20 pm 

Crowley, like every time they dine together, lets Aziraphale choose the place where they are going to eat. “I don’t care, angel,” he reassures him. “As long as they have good wine." 

Aziraphale leads the way, constantly shifting his gaze from Crowley to the crowded street, miraculously managing not to bump into any passerby.

“Well. If you insist,” he says, with bright blue eyes darting from Crowley's torso to the lighted pubs’ windows all around them. “We can go to... Around the corner, there is... There is this really nice place, you see...” 

Crowley raises his eyebrows, urging him to continue, but Aziraphale seems too distracted to be able to grasp the thread of his own speech. The demon looks down at his jacket, left open on the black shirt he is wearing, trying in vain to understand what is attracting his attention.

“Nice places aren’t really my favourite,” he tries to joke with a sidelong smile.

Aziraphale takes a couple of seconds to register his words, but, when he does, he finally meets his gaze and smiles back. “Oh, you old serpent,” he mutters, making a face. “You’re going to like this one. Their wine is excellent.” 

Crowley begins to relax, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “If you put it that way, I'm willing to give it a chance.”

His movement seems to recapture the angel's attention, who opens his mouth as if to say something, but remains silent when Crowley's fingers curl around one of his arms, drawing him against his side.

“You will end up hurting someone,” Crowley grumbles, casting a quick glance at the child Aziraphale would have collided with had he not intervened at the last moment. “What's happening to you tonight?” 

Aziraphale stops abruptly and Crowley, who is still holding his arm, does the same to avoid tripping over. Supporting him in the middle of a crowded street reminds Crowley of something, but the memory is too far away to allow him to catch it.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale looks away from his torso to focus on his fingers. Crowley pulls them back, shoving them into his pocket to ignore the desire to hold him longer. 

Aziraphale blinks as if to wake up from a dream. “Oh, how lucky.” He stares at something behind Crowley and smiles with reddened cheeks, probably due to the cold air of the evening that is starting to envelop London. “My usual table is free. Let’s go inside, dear.” 

“Mr. Fell!”

The soft sound of a ringing above them and the hoarse voice of a jovial middle-aged man greets them as they step into the cosy restaurant.

“How nice to see you here tonight,” the man continues with a gentle smile, making Crowley and Aziraphale sit at the table spotted by the angel. He lights the single tall candle between them with a deft gesture. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want! Free. For you and your friend, of course.”

Crowley is surprised to find an elegantly bound burgundy menu in his hands, appeared out of nowhere.

“You’re always too kind, Peter,” Aziraphale says, accepting the menu handed to him. “He’s not my friend, though.” 

Crowley frowns, but Aziraphale hurries to give him a sardonic half smile, as if to say that he is only joking, as if to say to old time’s sake, you know .

“Your date, then,” the man – Peter – corrects himself without missing a beat, startling Crowley. “Let me know when you two are ready!” 

Crowley casts a glance at Aziraphale, waiting for a shocked and scandalised reply, but Aziraphale avoids his eyes and opens his menu.

“We surely will,” he says, instead, with his face even redder than before. “Thank you, Peter.” He looks up from the menu just enough to give the man a kind smile, hurrying back to hide behind the list of dishes as soon as Peter leaves their table.

He clears his throat. “It’s not bad, isn’t it?” 

Crowley tries to stop thinking about the man's words and Aziraphale's reaction. He fails. “Uh? Peter?” 

Aziraphale's eyes dart over the edge of the menu. Crowley catches a glimpse of a small smile on his partially hidden mouth.

“This place.” 

Crowley looks around them without being able to grasp any particular detail, letting himself be engulfed by the dim light of the candles and the quiet chatter coming from the other tables. “Yeah, not bad. Not too nice either. Which I appreciate.”

“I hoped so. You have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

Crowley barely holds back a smile, leaving his own menu on the table. “I detect a bit of sarcasm in your voice, angel, and I really don’t understand why.” 

A subdued laugh escapes Aziraphale's lips.

Your date, then. 

Crowley reaches across the table to grab the wine list. Aziraphale lets him, taking advantage of his moment of distraction to once again observe the suspenders peeking out from under his open jacket.

“I’ll choose the wine,” Crowley says, like every time they dine together.

Aziraphale raises his eyes abruptly and chews on his lower lip.

“Thank you, dear.”

09:27 pm

“And this is... and this is...” Crowley furrows his brows, trying to remember the point of his speech, comfortably half-reclining on the sofa in Aziraphale's bookshop. “This is what leads peasants to revolt.”

Aziraphale rubs a closed eyelid, sitting on the armchair with his legs crossed. “Wine?” He asks, puzzled, looking down at his glass.

“What? No,” Crowley exclaims, offended by Aziraphale's distraction, then frowns again. “I don’t know, actually. I can’t really remember what my point was.” 

Aziraphale snorts. “I strongly doubt you had a point anyway.”

“Of course I had!” Crowley stubbornly retorts. “And it was a... A brilliant point. A really fuckin’ valid point.” 

“Of course it was, dear.” 

Crowley, with one leg stretched out on the sofa and one foot on the ground, props his elbow on the soft pillows in a futile attempt not to be enveloped by them. He puts his empty glass on the floor and runs his now free hand over his face, absently wondering where his glasses could have gone. “You really should stop calling me like that,” he mumbles against the palm of his hand.

“Like what?”

Crowley peels away his fingers from his closed lids to glare at Aziraphale. He meets Crowley's gaze with a knowing smile, following the edge of his glass with a thumbnail.

“Why?”

Crowley sighs and surrenders to the pillows, lying down on the sofa with his head resting on an armrest and reclining back.

“It’s bad,” he mutters, staring at a shelf overflowing with books. “For my reputation.” 

“If it’s bad then it’s a good thing for you.” 

“I... guess?” Crowley blindly searches for his glass to take refuge in the wine. “You’re trying to confuse me, angel. You’re trying to distract me from my valid point.” 

“Your fuckin’ valid point, you mean?” 

Crowley jerks his head up so abruptly to scare Aziraphale, who, after realising what he just said, covers his mouth with a hand. “Oh dear.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley's eyes widen. “You just — I can’t believe you just cussed in front of me!”

“I didn’t.” 

“What?!” 

“I didn’t. You must have misheard.”

“Oh shut up!” Crowley sits up again and grabs his glass, grimacing when he finds it empty. “I think I need more wine.”

“You always need more wine,” Aziraphale murmurs, abandoning the armchair to sit next to Crowley after he retrieved the bottle, which somehow ended up on the carpet.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, with his tongue loosened by alcohol, leaning his glass towards him to silently ask for a refill. “‘Cause you’re a fucking menace to my sanity.” 

Aziraphale laughs as he pours him more wine.

“I’m an angel,” he says, as if Crowley could forget it. “I can’t be a menace to anything, dearest.”  

Crowley pretends to have his heartbeat under control and drinks the wine eagerly; he licks his lips to retrieve the drops that have not hit the target.

“It’s your job to be a menace to demons, though— the Hell are you doing now.”

Aziraphale stops with one hand in mid-air, fingers clutching a blue satin handkerchief with a small A embroidered on it. “You made a mess,” he explains, calmy, catching the tip of his tongue between his teeth with a focused gaze as he leans towards the demon, who instinctively tries to withdraw again.

Without being intimidated by his reaction, Aziraphale presses the handkerchief against the corner of Crowley’s mouth, then slithers down to his chin and throat, gently chasing the trails of red wine. Crowley holds his breath, invaded by Aziraphale’s scent and light touches, while Aziraphale's other hand comes up against his cheek to hold him still.

“A fucking menace,” Crowley exhales, feeling himself blush under Aziraphale’s kind eyes.

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you.”

Crowley scoffs and takes another sip of wine.

11:45 pm

“Boredom pushes human beings beyond their limits,” Aziraphale says, with lazily half-closed eyelids and his head propped against the back of the sofa, vaguely matted hair and alcohol-flushed cheeks.

Crowley absently observes his fingers glide on the opaque glass in concentric circles, observes the decorative veins flickering under the tender skin of his wrist, observes the sparse blond hairs scattered on his forearm. Aziraphale has now discarded his jacket, as has Crowley, and the sleeves of his shirt rest, curled, at the height of his elbows. A small mole peeks from inside the elbow of his right arm. Crowley would be willing to Fall again just to touch it, once, with the tip of his tongue.

“Dear? Are you listening?” 

“Mhm?” Crowley winces, looks away and nods fervently. “Boredom, human limits, absolutely yes,” he answers, staring at the soft tip of his nose so he doesn't have to look him in the eye. “Please continue.” 

Aziraphale's lips part in a small smile.

“And then there are us immortals,” Aziraphale continues, becoming serious again, while Crowley's eyes inevitably slide over the sweet curve of his neck, left uncovered by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. “Abandoned to ourselves, condemned to die of boredom every day... And we envy them so much, the human beings, all the human beings around us, so unaware of themselves, of their freedom...” 

Crowley emits a slight mhm to let him know that he is listening to him, to let him know to keep talking, really, to keep talking forever if he wants to, while he silently studies his (for once) relaxed body, turned towards Crowley in the same way his body projects towards Aziraphale, with their knees brushing and an Aziraphale’s ankle caught between Crowley's; he doesn't even know when that happened.

“Their freedom to be wrong and to be foolish and to be in lov—” 

Aziraphale pauses. Crowley adjusts his position, with one arm resting on the back of the sofa and a closed fist against his temple. He waits patiently for him to continue, too busy staring at Aziraphale's ankle trapped between his own, at the contrast between the light material of his thin stockings and his black pants, to be able to think of anything else.

“Humans always exaggerate,” Aziraphale eventually resumes, in a lower and slightly breathless voice. “They never know how to control themselves.” 

“Is this what you feel, then?” Crowley suddenly asks, forcing himself to look Aziraphale in the eye and to keep his fingers entwined around his glass. “Are you envious of the humans?"

This time it’s Aziraphale who looks away. “It’s not everything I feel,” he confesses. “And I don't think I'm allowed to feel envious, anyway. Or to truly feel anything else.”

“You don't need permission for every single thing,” Crowley says, amused. “Don’t worry, angel. I won't snitch.” 

Aziraphale's lips curl into a heartbreaking smile.

“That’s not what worries me, my dear.”

March 30

04:13 am

“I like your suspenders.”

Their bodies, which with the passing of the hours had begun to collide in other wonderful and innocent places, finally separated around three in the morning, when Aziraphale got up from the sofa and remained for a few minutes in the kitchen, without giving explanations, only to return with two cups of steaming tea in his hands. “It’s an Indian infusion,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley tried to wash away the alcohol in his body with the hot and spiced drink, taking refuge in its purifying heat.

“Oh?” 

Aziraphale nods, captured again by the sight of the red suspenders. "They look pretty good on you."

“Oh.” Crowley observes the remnants of his now cold tea left in the cup, while trying not to evaporate under his warm gaze. “Wanted to try something new.” 

Aziraphale sat back in the armchair, when he emerged from the kitchen with the two cups of Indian tea. He’s still not wearing any shoes. With his legs crossed, an ankle swinging in the void and his lips occasionally brushing the rim of the cup, he began to tell Crowley about the lovely young woman who gave him the tea, as a gift , how nice of her, really, and about her adorable little shop. Crowley listened with a clouded mind and a heavy heart, trying not to think of the empty form that Aziraphale's body left on the sofa next to him.

“But I don't know if I'll wear them again,” Crowley admits, catching a suspender between his thumb and forefinger. Aziraphale's eyes follow the movement with badly concealed interest. "I'm not entirely convinced.”

“I think they look pretty good on you.” 

Crowley's lips stretch into a pleased smile. “Already said that, angel.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who said that.” 

“Indeed, you’re not.” 

Crowley interrupted Aziraphale's tale of his adventures in a more annoyed tone than he had meant to use. “And so you have stolen a few hearts even in India.” 

Aziraphale frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry, did my memories bore you?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Well it’s always the same fucking story, isn’t it? People do that all the time,” he said, leaving his cup on the coffee table in front of the sofa, too restless to drink something that doesn’t contain alcohol (and he has never been a big fan of tea anyway, thank you very much). “They... they give you things . Tea, books, chocolate, flowers. Wine. Free dinners. Poems!” 

Aziraphale's gaze flashed towards the poetry section of the bookshop and Crowley hated himself more than usual in the reflection of his expressive eyes, intimating himself to calm down and not to make the angel feel guilty for something that wasn’t his fucking fault. 

“You give me chocolate,” Aziraphale said, however, immediately distracting him from his thoughts. “And wine. And you pay when we eat out together. And I think you even bring me some books, occasionally.” 

“I didn’t...” Crowley began to say, unsure what he was trying to deny, focusing on the nervous movements of Aziraphale's fingers to have something familiar to hold on to. “Wasn’t... I wasn’t talking about me! Obviously!” 

“Who were you talking about, then?”

Crowley muttered something incomprehensible, exasperated by his seemingly unaware tone. “People! Tea Girl! That guy – what was his name – that guy of that place, this evening – Peter! I’m talking about Peter. I’m talking about— you know whom I’m talking about.” 

Aziraphale shrugged, dismissive. “People are just nice to me because I am nice to them, Crowley. You should try it sometimes.” 

“Oh, c’mon.”

“What’s troubling you now? Are you jealous, my dear?”

Crowley watches closely the icy smile that has formed on Aziraphale’s mouth. “What’s troubling you now?” He asks, resuming the same words Aziraphale used minutes before. “People are nice to me too, sometimes.” 

“Because you tempt them into it!” 

“You wound me, angel. Are you trying to say that it’s not due to my incredible charm?”

Aziraphale chuckles in spite of himself. Crowley, satisfied, smiles.

06:42 am

Only when Crowley opens his eyes, bothered by a sudden strong light, he realises he has closed them in the first place. While shielding his sensitive pupils with the fingers of one hand, he yawns openly as he begins to sit up and look around, trying to figure out how long he has been sleeping and ignoring the throbbing headache that welcomes him.

“You collapsed around five,” Aziraphale comes to his rescue, apparently able to sense his thoughts now.

Crowley turns to look at him. He almost believes that the light comes directly from the angel himself, but it’s just the sunlight coming through the small window above the sofa.

Sitting in his armchair, with a thick book in his lap and a pair of delicate glasses on his nose, Aziraphale lifts his gaze from the yellowed pages and gives him a shy smile. "It seemed a shame to wake you up."

Crowley nods, absently massaging his forehead; he registers the presence of a soft material only when it slips onto his legs for his movements. He looks down at his thighs. He would like to be more surprised than he is to find a tartan plaid blanket on him. He looks over at Aziraphale without saying anything and the angel goes back to his book, ignoring him.

"I guess I better go," he mutters, his voice thick with sleep, leaning forward to retrieve his sunglasses that have ended up under the table.

“Oh, if you have to, dear.” 

Aziraphale stands up with him, placing the book on the armchair to take Crowley's jacket, folded over the arm of the sofa. For a moment Aziraphale seems almost willing to help him slip it on, but in the end he just hands it to Crowley with a gentle smile.

“I gotta... uh, I have things to do,” Crowley justifies himself for no particular reason, putting on his jacket while Aziraphale, like every time, accompanies him to the bookshop entrance door. “People to tempt. You know how it is.”

“Of course, of course.” 

Aziraphale makes sweeping hand gestures and Crowley would just like to be able to stop thinking about how his fingers rested on his knee at one point during the night, how his curls brushed his cheekbone, how the tip of his left foot slowly stroked Crowley’s leg before Aziraphale fled in the kitchen.

"Thank you for dropping by, dear," Aziraphale is saying, as memories of the evening spent together haunt Crowley and make his migraine worse. “I hope we’ll have a chance to meet again soon.” 

“Soon,” Crowley repeats, distracted, at the door. “So... yes. Yeah. See you soon, angel.”

Crowley turns one last time to give him a brief smile, but freezes in place when he notices that Aziraphale is leaning towards him, trapping him between the door and his body.

Aziraphale freezes in return. Their eyes meet for a moment, and then drop on the other's mouth at the same time. Crowley bites the inside of one cheek and takes the step that divide them, eyelids half closed and holding his breath, ready to Fall again, this time with awareness and pride, and it won't be a mistake, now, but Aziraphale opens his eyes wide and hurries to take a step back, blushing violently.

“I was... I — I was just...”

Crowley takes a step backwards too, more out of survival instinct than anything else, while the earth crumbles under his feet and he feels his decorative heart beating madly, furious, bewildered.

“I just wanted to...” Aziraphale babbles, looking from Crowley's face to the doorknob that was hidden behind his body. “Open... the door... for you...” 

“Oh!” 

If Crowley could discorporate on command, now would definitely be the right time to do so.

“Oh, oh!, sure, obviously, I thought you wanted—” 

“Oh, no, I could never—” 

Crowley nods sympathetically, desperately praying that Hell will just open up beneath him and swallow him forever, once and for all.  “Of course, I know, it was just a... And I'm still drunk!” He exclaims, happy to be able to hold on to something. “We drank so much and... I'm not lucid, angel, I don't even know what I thought I was doing, really.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale draws back again, suddenly frowning, as the redness slowly fades from his face. “You’re still drunk.” 

“Still drunk,” Crowley confirms, delighted at the life jacket thrown at him, curling his fingers around the knob. “Yep, that’s me. And I really have to go now. To my... temptings. And. Stuff. Demonic stuff. You know. Bye!” 

Crowley is already out of the bookshop before Aziraphale has time to say anything, but it's probably for the best. He doubts he is brave enough to go there again anytime soon, after what happened. (Well. After what didn't happen.)

He reaches the Bentley at a brisk pace, while cursing himself in all the languages he knows. He slumps on the driver’s seat and makes to dump his head on the steering wheel, but a glimpse of something blue in the rearview mirror stops his action. He feels a pocket – which he is fairly certain has appeared out of nowhere on the front of his jacket – with his fingers and he’s surprised, looking down, to find between his thumb and forefinger a soft handkerchief with a small A embroidered on it.

“Oh,” he breathes, gently stroking the letter with the tip of his thumb. “Souvenir.”

***

My dearest,

You should know that I think about that morning every day. I’ve never been particularly fond of sleeping, but now I avoid it completely to not accidentally dream about it.
You should have kissed me.
I was too afraid to do it. I am a coward, as you well know, dear, but you, Crowley, you are so brave ...

London (Soho yet again)
2018

Crowley has a plan. 

He had a plan in 2009, a don’t-worry-angel-we- are -going-to-save-the-world kind of plan. And then, things didn’t really go as... planned, obviously. But. It all worked out anyway, right? 

They did save the world. 

(Or, well. They helped. A bit.)

So he had a plan, in 2009, that kind of worked out. In the end. And he has a plan now. A better plan. A now-that-we-saved-the-world-we- can -finally-live-happily-ever-after kind of plan. He has a plan. And it starts with a dinner. 

So, Crowley and Aziraphale dine at the Ritz. Crowley holds his chair as he sits down, Aziraphale smiles at him. Crowley orders champagne, Aziraphale doesn't look away from his mouth. Crowley hears, delighted, for the third time, Aziraphale talking about his experience in the demon’s shoes, quite literally; Aziraphale tilts his head to one side to get closer to him, as his fingers slides across the expensive tablecloth to reach Crowley's, his wrist, his elbow, resting finally on his arm until the first course arrives.

When Aziraphale and Crowley leave the restaurant, Crowley is too distracted to remember the next step in his plan – he probably didn’t think about it in the first place – and the sun is already setting over London.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale exclaims, surprised, watching the sky turning pink as Crowley watches the angel’s hair going through a similar process. “How much time has it been?” 

“Why do you even care?” Crowley replies, waving a full bottle of wine under his nose. “We have all the time in the world, angel. Shall we go to yours?”

Going to Aziraphale turns out not to be the best choice, as the view of the bookshop sets off an unexpected reaction in Crowley's battered heart, although their safe harbour is perfectly intact now, with all the books (and a few addictions) on the shelves and no ash on the floor.

Aziraphale observes Crowley’s face darken, his knees tremble. He hurries to take his demon’s hand and make him meet his gaze, gently touching his sharp cheekbone.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. “We’re here, we’re fine. It’s the only thing that matters.” 

Crowley nods, ignoring the tears trapped under his shades. “You’re fine.”

“I’m fine, dearest.” 

“Then we’re fine.”

Aziraphale doesn’t let go of his hand all night. Crowley falls asleep on the sofa with a content smile on his lips, tucked under a soft tartan blanket. This time Crowley manages not to bolt away the next morning, and when he eventually leaves he promises dinner. His plan has to start with a dinner, after all. (Or a picnic, but he already discarded that option several years ago.) Maybe he doesn't quite know how it will continue, but he knows how it must begin.

Therefore, the next evening he shows up in front of the bookshop with a large pink bouquet in his hands and a box of Swiss chocolates under his arm. He’s ready to ring the bell, and do things right for once, but he’s preceded by the shop door which suddenly opens.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks. “Oh!” 

“Oh?” Crowley, who is already having second thoughts about the too-bright-and-soft-looking flowers, says. “Did you forget about our dinner?” 

Aziraphale looks down at the flowers, then at the chocolates box. “Of course not.” (Then again at the flowers, then again at the chocolates box.) “I didn’t think you’d come here.” 

“I literally come here All the Time.” 

“Yes, my dear, of course. But it’s different now, isn’t it? And you’ve never come here with flowers and chocolate. Belgian?” 

“Swiss.” 

“Good choice.” 

“Thank you. And I did, actually.” 

“Well. Yes. Not in the same evening, though.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Wasn’t sure which to choose. Didn’t want to do the wrong thing.” 

“Oh, Crowley, you could never.”

(Crowley ignores his last statement and hurries to hand him both gifts before he has time to get emotional. Again.)

And, therefore, they dine at the Ritz. 

Again. 

And again, the following evening. 

And again, and again, and again. It was the first and only step of Crowley's plan, after all. And it was a really pleasant step. 

Several dinners later, Crowley arrives early. Not that they had ever agreed on a specific time anyway – they have a pretty solid tradition of unspoken words behind them – but he arrives at the bookstore earlier than usual and finds Aziraphale sitting behind his desk, busy with countless paperwork and with a pair of adorable and utterly useless reading glasses on the tip of his nose.

“Dearest!” Aziraphale greets him, making him blush like every time he calls him like that, seeing him peeking out from behind a shelf. “Is it already time for our lovely dinner?”

Aziraphale accepted their new tradition without asking any questions, occasionally offering afternoon strolls or a slow breakfast. The ducks always seem happy to see him, when they stop at the usual pond in St James's Park. Crowley can't blame them.

Crowley shrugs. “Don’t worry, angel,” he says. “I’ll wait.” 

“Oh, I know.” A sudden melancholy smile appears on Aziraphale's lips. “You’ve been awfully patient with me, haven’t you?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Crowley looks away, pulling off his glasses to put them into his jacket pocket. “Shout when you’re done, I’ll entertain myself in the backroom in the meanwhile.”

Aziraphale's smile quickly turns into something more mischievous. 

“Was that an innuendo, my dear?”

Crowley's eyes widen. “Was that a what?”

Aziraphale grins. 

The backroom is as cluttered as usual, with books stacked on every horizontal surface (floor and ceiling included) and various scattered objects, some visibly broken, here and there. Crowley pokes around as he waits, absently brushing the book covers with his fingertips until he comes to an old desk, half-hidden in a corner of the room: the wood is visibly old but still in good condition and it looks less dusty than everything else. Inevitably intrigued, Crowley opens the top drawer to snoop inside and he’s surprised to find it full of closed envelopes. With a more careful look he realises that the piles of envelopes go down and down, without being stopped by the physical limits of the drawer.

“Bigger on the inside, eh?” He murmurs, touching one of the envelopes on the surface with a shiny black nail. “That’s clever, angel.”

He looks around to make sure he’s alone and opens the first envelope he comes across, unable to restrain himself.

“Of course you still write letters in the third fucking millennium.” He sighs fondly, unfolding the paper to take a brief, harmless peek. “I wonder to whom—” 

Crowley's heart skips a couple of beats as the demon's eyes glide over the first lines of the letter, which according to the date shown at the top right goes back to a few years earlier. 

My dearest, you should know that I think about that morning every day…

Crowley eagerly reads the letters’ content without being able to stop, leaving papers across the floor until he is forced to slip an arm inside the drawer and lean on tiptoe to manage to scrape the bottom. His fingers bump into a familiar shape, something that dangerously resembles a pair of sunglasses, before curling around the envelope of one of the older letters. It dates back to 1381. Crowley remembers that encounter very well.

… to reiterate that I have no intention of accepting the Agreement. The Agreement does not deserve the capital letter, anyway, I used it just to let you know which agreement I was referring to. Not that you had proposed any other agreements. I don't accept any agreement, to be clear. Ps: There aren't any other agreements, of course!

Crowley snorts. 

"I figured that sooner or later you would find them."

Aziraphale is standing at the entrance of the room, looking vaguely guilty and relieved at the same time. 

Crowley looks down at the letter he’s still holding, then at the letters scattered on the floor, then up at Aziraphale again. “What’s all of this?”

“A... Private correspondence, I’d say.”

"Private? All these letters are addressed to me! "

“But I’ve never sent them!”

“I noticed!” Crowley pauses, confused and incredulous. “Why didn't you?”

Aziraphale averts his gaze and takes a deep breath, more out of a nervous habit than of necessity. “You know why.”

“I guess I do,” Crowley allows, cautiously. “But I think we should say it out loud. We have to talk about these things, if we...”

“If we?”

“If we want to move on.”

“Move on?”

Aziraphale looks suddenly worried. Crowley releases an exasperated ngk .

“Move on from the... stage where we... currently are,” Crowley is quick to specify, trying to find the right words (or the not-horrible ones). “From the... friendship stage?”

“Are we friends, then?”

“I’ve never had the fucking idea, actually.”

Aziraphale lets out a surprised smile. “I think we were friends,” he tries, slowly approaching Crowley as if he’s a wounded animal that Aziraphale is afraid to scare away. “Like we were enemies, and then we weren’t anymore.”

Crowley raises a sceptical eyebrow. “We were never really enemies, you and me.” 

“Well, we had to,” Aziraphale retorts. “For, like. Five minutes. At least.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “If thinking that makes you feel better.” 

Aziraphale chuckles softly, ignoring the myriad of pieces of papers at their feet and reaching a hand toward Crowley, who takes it without thinking. They both lower their eyes to their joined hands as Aziraphale lazily strokes Crowley's palm with a thumb.

“As they say,” Aziraphale whispers. “Palm to palm is a holy palmers’ kiss...”

Crowley’s heart jumps in his throat. “Don’t quote Romeo and Juliet with me,” he says, trying to control his face. “I was there.”

“I know.” Aziraphale smiles softly. “I was with you,” he murmurs, eyes clouded by memories. “Do you really want to move on?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to do. With the dinners, I mean.”

Comprension flashes in Aziraphale's eyes, so close they start making Crowley feel dizzy. “Oh.”

Crowley smiles, tightening his grip on their intertwined fingers. “Yeah,” he clears his suddenly tight throat. “It wasn’t very clear, was it?” 

“Oh, no, it’s completely my fault.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “You always went out of your way to make me understand what you were... While I... Crowley, I'm so sorry for...”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts him, bringing his free hand to Aziraphale's face. “I know. There’s no need for that.”

Aziraphale frowns, but his forehead quickly returns to relax when Crowley's fingers gently cross an invisible line from one temple to the other and then descend to collect one of his cheeks.

“We have to talk about this, Crowley,” Aziraphale protests, tilting his head towards Crowley’s hand. “You said so yourself. And now you’re distracting me.”

Crowley smiles sharply. “I am a demon, after all.”

Aziraphale smiles back. Crowley's fingers descend again, drawn to it, following the shape of his mouth with his fingertips.

“We have to talk about this,” Crowley confirms, looking down at the thumb that's caressing Aziraphale's lower lip. “Not now, though.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale replies with a cheeky grin. “You have other plans? I guess we can still go to the Ritz if you—”

Crowley laughs, moving his fingers away from the angel’s mouth to rest them on his neck. “For the fucking love of Satan,” he mutters. “Can you shut up?”

“And can you please not summon him while we are—”

“What?”

“Kissing.”

“We’re not.”

“Yet. Unfortunately.”

“Well maybe if you’d just shut up—”

“Are we really arguing over this?”

Crowley sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Aziraphale's. The angel takes the opportunity to put an arm around his waist, filling the space that was left between their bodies.

“Always mine,” Crowley murmurs, not daring to look at him. “It’s what you wrote in some letters.”

“Yes, I do remember that.”

“Are you?”

“My dearest, how could I not?”

Crowley feels Aziraphale's face move against his, feels the tip of his nose brushing against his cheekbone before being replaced by his parted lips.

“Do you trust me?”

Aziraphale holds his breath for a couple of beats – as if he immediately realises the importance of that question to Crowley – before answering in a confident voice: “Yes.”

It’s the only word Crowley needs to be able to gather the courage to kiss him. 

And so he does.