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“You did this,” Aziraphale accuses when he realizes that they can’t reach the bedroom section without first passing through the children’s furniture, kitchen, and living room showrooms. Crowley knows he’s mostly cranky because they didn’t stop for Swedish meatballs and oversized cinnamon buns. “This labyrinthine monument to capitalism has Hell written all over it.”
“Nah, you’re wrong. This is all your side’s doing!” Crowley retorts. He’s a bit miffed by the angel’s ingratitude. Crowley isn’t the one who needed new furniture, after all--his flat is full of menacingly artistic bespoke pieces. “I’ve seen Heaven, remember? It looks a bit like this. Besides, you can’t tell me that all this white space and the finicky organization system doesn’t reek of Gabriel’s influence. S’awful. I don’t know why you wanted to come here. You could have just miracled up whatever you needed.”
“Well, I wanted to do it the human way,” Aziraphale says, in that voice that means he’s building up to a full-blown snit.1 “You didn’t have to come with me. I could have done this alone.”
Which is simply absurd, because what would the angel have done if Crowley hadn’t woken up early (on a Sunday no less, the worst possible day to shop at a big box furniture store, not that Aziraphale ever listens to him) and picked Aziraphale up from the bookshop? Would he have taken the tube or a taxi instead?
Crowley is the one who gave up his plans of spending a lazy day lounging around his Mayfair flat and yelling at the plants. He’s the one who isn’t complaining (well, not any more than his usual level of mindless griping, at least) as he pushes through throngs of stressed-out humans looking for cheap shelving systems and duvet covers. He even volunteered to push the cart for Aziraphale because he knows how the angel is with any form of wheeled conveyance. Crowley recalls two very harrowing experiences from their long history: one featuring an oxcart in the Middle Ages, and another more recent one involving a motorized scooter. He shudders at the prospect of a repeat.2
“Well, go on then,” Crowley says, making a show of leaving the cart in the middle of the walkway so that the other shoppers have to veer to avoid hitting it. He walks over to the nearest bed and flops down on it dramatically. Unfortunately, the nearest bed happens to be a child-sized bunk bed with cartoon dinosaur bedding. He has to scrunch himself up in a ball to fit his legs on the mattress. “You don’t need me here. Pick out all the things you want and pick them up at the warehouse downstairs. Don’t forget--you’ll need to schedule delivery too. And you know what an inconvenience that will be. IKEA may not have been one of my ideas, but the scheduled delivery window is. You’ll be waiting around all day, unable to pop out to pick up fresh pastries or a spot of lunch.”
Aziraphale huffs and glares at the shopping cart until it rolls over to the side, tucking itself next to a display of stuffed toys shaped like vegetables. Then he marches over to Crowley and crosses his arms, looking down at the incongruous picture of a leather-clad demon in designer sunglasses trying to lounge on colorfully printed sheets without bumping his head against the top bunk.
“You know very well that I didn’t mean it,” he says, reaching down to take Crowley’s wrist in a firm grasp. The angel’s mouth is drawn in an unhappy line and his voice has the stern schoolmaster quality to it, and Crowley really shouldn’t be shivering with pleasure at that steel tone when combined with the unexpected sensation of Aziraphale’s touch. This wrist grabbing business is adjacent to hand holding, which is something that Crowley's been secretly hoping they'll start doing soon. “I do-- well, of course I want you here with me, Crowley, even if you’re terribly irritating at times. I do need your help with all this.”
He waves around at their surroundings with a helpless expression, as though thwarting the Apocalypse is a piece of cake but furniture shopping is where courage fails him.
“Fine,” Crowley says, clearing his throat so that his voice doesn’t crack on the words. “And you’re annoying too, you know. Great big feathery nuisance. But still… m’happy to help you. If you need me.”
“I do need you,” Aziraphale says in that soft voice Crowley can never resist, his fingers tightening around his wrist. “Please don’t leave. I’m sorry I was tetchy with you.”
And Crowley knows what Aziraphale means and that it's meant platonically. The angel needs him because someone has to carry heavy boxes and drive them back to his bookshop. Someone has to build the bloody furniture too, since Aziraphale has no idea what to do with a hex key or hammer. As for the murmured don’t leave... he clearly means that in the way that people do when they’re stranded without a ride or a mobile with which to call an Uber.3
But still. The words strike Crowley right in the solar plexus, making it difficult to breathe for a minute.
I do need you.
Please don’t leave.
They're familiar words, ones that ricochet inside Crowley's chest whenever he looks at Aziraphale and drinks in all that angelic softness. For a long time, he thought the feeling was a hellish case of heartburn and tried avoiding dairy for centuries.
“S’alright, angel,” he says, and lets Aziraphale pull him to his feet. He tries not to read too much in the way that the angel’s hand comes up to hover at the back of his head, making sure that there’s a buffer between his skull and the wooden bed frame. “Let’s get back to it, shall we? You lead the way.”
They decide that before they get down to the serious business of shopping, they should retrace their steps back to the food court. It's a wise choice. Honestly--Crowley should have known from the moment that Aziraphale hopped into the Bentley and said, "Sorry I was running late this morning, my dear boy. I didn't even have time for more than a cup of tea." The angel turns into a right bastard when he's feeling peckish.
Crowley sits in a chair across from Aziraphale. He watches as the angel prepares to eat his meatballs, mashed potatoes, cream sauce, and lingonberry jam with the air of a gourmand. Aziraphale spreads his paper napkin on his lap and picks up his plastic fork and knife with an anticipatory sigh. One would think that he was dining at the Ritz rather than eating a tray meal that cost less than a fancy cup of coffee.
"Are you sure you don't want to try any?" he asks. "It's very good."
Crowley usually likes to open his mouth and let Aziraphale slide a fork between his lips, but he's never been one for eating in the morning. It upsets his corporation's digestive system.
“Nah, m’fine with my juice,” Crowley says. “You go ahead. You’re the one who’s hungry.”
Aziraphale shoots Crowley’s plastic tumbler a disapproving look. “I wasn't born yesterday, you know. I'm aware that you miracled that into something other than apple juice."
Crowley grins and takes another mouthful of the cold, tart liquid. “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s apple juice alright, s’just been fermented a bit.”
“Ah, apfelwein," Aziraphale says with a nod. "You did spend some time in Frankfurt during the 700s, didn’t you?”
“Yep. Was trying to thwart that Holy Roman Empire business.”
They fall into a companionable silence and Crowley sips on his drink, watching Aziraphale dig into his meal with great gusto. He knows that many throughout the centuries have mistaken the angel for a snob. He comes across that way, sure--those fussy outfits, the impeccably manicured hands, the way he rhapsodizes over fine vintages and swank restaurants.
But Crowley knows better than anyone that Aziraphale doesn’t care about the class system or how expensive something is. He simply enjoys things wholeheartedly, whether he’s picking up a piece of uni nigiri to bring to his lips or taking the first bite of a soft serve ice cream cone sold by a street vendor.
It's always a pleasure watching his angel eat, one that Crowley wouldn't give up for all the Eames chairs in the world.
“What’ve you got there, angel?”
“I’m getting this for you, my dear! It’s perfect, very in line with your aesthetic, don’t you think?”
Crowley peers into their cart to find a pale green welcome mat with a cute cartoon snake on it. Underneath in cursive are the words, ‘HISS OFF.’ It is very much not in line with his aesthetic, which is anti-cute, anti-cartoon, and anti-silly word puns.
But Aziraphale practically bounces up and down on the balls of his feet. It's impossible to say no to him. It's impossible to avoid smiling back, which Crowley does (although he manages to push his sunglasses firmly over his eyes to cover up the unadulterated adoration spilling out of them).
"For me? I'm usually the one bringing you gifts," he drawls. "What's all this about? Trying to butter me up so I'll do something for you?"
"Well, you're already doing something for me," Aziraphale points out. He nods at the cart that Crowley is pushing through the store. "As I said before, I'm very grateful for your help today."
"You didn't say anything about gratitude, actually," Crowley points out. "But you're welcome. And s'nice mat. Funny. I like it."
Aziraphale beams at full force, and Crowley swears that all the lamps in the lighting section flare brighter for a moment.
“Fake plants. Fake!” Crowley says, stalking through the aisles with barely contained demonic fury. “Now this is beyond the pale. I had nothing to do with this. Sure, I go in for a bit of sloth every now and again, but the thought of having these pathetic plastic imitations--”
He shakes his head. None of the plants around him rustle their leaves in terror, because none of them are alive.
Aziraphale stands by the cart and nods. "Yes, dear," he murmurs occasionally, as Crowley continues on his rant. "I'm sure you're right."
"--and what kind of an idiot designed this, anyway? Is it supposed to be a bamboo palm? Everyone knows that bamboo palms don't have garish purple flowers, for fuck's sake!"
When they finally move onto the next section, Aziraphale surreptitiously performs a miracle to repair all of the ceramic pots that Crowley kicked over.
They reach the home decor section and Crowley helps Aziraphale pick out several large frames.
"You've got all those historical documents, don't you?" he points out. "Seems like a shame to keep them buried away in your desk. Might as well put them behind glass so you can admire them."
Aziraphale wanders over to a wall of pre-framed art. There are prints of the Mona Lisa, which always makes him think of Crowley's bafflingly intimidating flat. He wonders if they shouldn't pick up some things for Crowley as well: perhaps a fuzzy rug, or a printed duvet cover to warm the place up.
He smiles when he comes across a print of a raven cuddling up next to a pure white cockatoo. The lettering above the avian pair proclaims, 'YOU'RE MY TWEETHEART!'
Aziraphale turns and tugs on Crowley's sleeve. "That's rather sweet, isn't it my dear? Maybe I could have it above the bed--"
"Absolutely not," Crowley sneers, shaking his head so hard that his sunglasses almost fall off. "Aziraphale. You really did need me here, didn't you? If only to stop you from buying things like that to hang in your flat. It's dreadfully saccharine. I can't stand to look at it."4
Aziraphale shrugs. It's hard to take Crowley personally when the demon has a throne in his home. Honestly, talk about ridiculous home decor choices.
"I suppose you're right. Now, can we move on? I feel as though we've been here for eons."
"We have, angel. IKEA is designed to keep you trapped inside. S'like a... like a corn maze."
"Hellish, isn't it?"
"Nope. I maintain that it was your lot. Upstairs came up with purgatory, remember? That place is all about being stuck and bored."
"Mmm," Aziraphale hums. He reaches up to pat Crowley on the shoulder. "It doesn't matter now, does it? It's not one side or the other. We're on our side."
They fill the cart with minor purchases along the way. There's the snake welcome mat, of course, but Aziraphale also picks up some supplies to get him started on baking. Crowley tosses new dish towels into the cart (black, of course), as well as a cozy blanket for Aziraphale's reading chair. It takes over an hour, but at last they reach the bedroom furniture section.
To Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale doesn't dither over his selection. He marches straight to the biggest, fluffiest bed in the showroom and points.
"Ah, here it is!"
“That’s a very large bed,” Crowley says, staring at something advertised as a ‘super king.’ He imagines Aziraphale climbing into that enormous bed and lying down, straight as a board, with his hands folded over his waistcoat. It's a disturbingly appealing image. “You sure that’s the one you want?”
“I did my research,” Aziraphale says. “This is the biggest one they have. And the Internet reviews said that it was very comfortable.”
“You do know that you’re not supposed to sleep with all your books, right? I don’t want to hear about you stacking towers of first editions all around you and then trying to sleep for the first time. It’d be hellishly inconvenient if there was an earthquake.”
“I am aware of how humans use beds, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, that snippy edge creeping into his voice again. “They’re primarily for rest and coitus. And I don’t know why you find my choice so strange. I’ve seen your bed after all. It’s the size of a small kingdom!”
“Ngk,” Crowley responds, unable to get past the fact that the angel said the word coitus. “Just… not disapproving or saying you shouldn’t get it. Just remarking on the fact that it’ll take up a lot of space. What about, you know, making space for more bookshelves?”
“My books belong downstairs. The whole point of furnishing the upstairs flat is that it’ll be a separate space. A home, if you will,” Aziraphale explains, his eyes on the enormous bed with its fluffy white duvet cover. He walks around to the other side and pats the mattress gingerly, then sits down on the edge. “Oh, that’s quite comfortable. Besides, what if I have a guest over to stay the night? It wouldn’t do to have a twin bed in that situation, would it?”
Another arrow straight to the chest. Crowley gapes at Aziraphale's back, stunned and incredulous. Then the implication of Aziraphale's words explodes inside of him with the force of a hydrogen bomb.
“A guest?!” Crowley shouts. He must not have heard correctly, because it sounded like, well, it sounded like the angel was sprucing up his flat in order to make it more appealing for potential lovers. “In your bed?”
“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale responds, eyebrows knitting together. “I may not sleep often, but I think it would be nice to have a lie down once in a while, and if I have company--”
Oh God-- Satan-- fucking Somebody. This is unbelievable and just the sort of thing that would happen to Crowley. He would spend six millennia pining after Aziraphale like a lovesick schoolboy, stop the bloody Apocalypse with him, and then end up inadvertently helping the angel pick out furniture for someone else's comfort.
He's the most pathetic excuse for a demon in the world.
“Since when are you planning on having companionsssship in bed?" he asks, losing all control of his esses. He can feel his tongue become forked in his mouth and wills himself to stay in this form. This situation is bad enough already without Crowley accidentally transforming into a snake. "Have you found some kind of twenty-first century gentlemen’ssss club? Is there ssssomeone sssspecific you have in mind?”
Aziraphale actually has the gall to look exasperated at Crowley's questioning. This is possibly the most unfair part of it all. First the angel talks about taking someone into his bed and then he looks at Crowley like he's the one who is being unreasonable.
"Please do lower your voice, Crowley. We're in public."
Six thousand years of “you go too fast for me,” of obsessing for decades over the accidental brushing of hands, of promising that he’ll wait another six thousand years if that’s how long it takes Aziraphale to warm up to the idea of physical intimacy. And now the angel is buying a ‘super king’ bed so that he can have overnight guests and taking issue with Crowley's tone.
Crowley wants to cry. Except demons definitely do not cry.5
He spins on the hell of his sleek black boots, ready to spread his wings and punch a hole through the roof of this damned place. He doesn’t care if the humans capture videos on their mobile phones and he ends up going viral. Crowley doesn't care about anything, except how soon he can get back to his flat. He wants to get blackout drunk and settle down for a depression nap that will last until every single IKEA on the face of the planet goes out of business. What will that take, a hundred years? He’ll make it two hundred to be on the safe side.
But damn it all to Hell, he can't go anywhere. He's stuck in this miserable place because Aziraphale has turned around to kneel onto the white bed and grabbed for Crowley's wrist. There's no give in his grasp--that's the steely hold of a Principality, the same strength meant to grip the hilt of a flaming sword for all eternity.6
“Let me go, angel,” Crowley growls, trying to shake his arm free. He's all frayed edges and humiliation and he kind of hates Aziraphale for making him feel this way. “I’m leaving and you can’t stop me.”
“No, you’re not!” Aziraphale cries out. “You can’t just-- I won’t let you storm off whenever you feel like it. We have to talk, Crowley.”
Anger bubbles up in Crowley's chest, traveling up his throat to rest on his burning tongue. It's easier to have this kind of fury inside of him. He prefers it to the pain of thinking about Aziraphale being intimate with someone else, someone who's not a demon.
I may be a demon, he thinks, incandescent with rage and hurt. But I'd never hurt you like this.
"Oh, that's rich!" Crowley snarls. He whips off his sunglasses to reveal yellow slitted eyes. There, he thinks with grim satisfaction. This is what I am. "How many times have you run away in the middle of a conversation? How many times did I beg you to stay, to hear me out? I am owed this, Aziraphale. After everything-- after all that's happened, you can't expect me to be pleased that you're ready to settle down with someone nice. You can’t expect me to sssstep asssside--”
"Crowley," Aziraphale interrupts. It's very rude and Crowley can't believe the nerve of him sometimes. But he shuts his mouth and waits as the angel crawls forward on hands and knees, not seeming to care that his trousers are getting wrinkled as he approaches Crowley. "I'm sorry about everything that happened before, you don't know how much I wished to take it back. Oh, I've despised myself so much for the way I behaved."
"No," Crowley says, the anger seeping out of him like air out of a balloon and leaving behind devastated exhaustion. He closes his eyes. "I don't want you to hate yourself, angel. That's not what I wanted. I'm just... I'm not good and kind, alright? I can't happily let you go to someone else. It's selfish, I know..."
Aziraphale releases his wrist at last, and even though it's what he wanted, Crowley feels the loss of the angel's touch acutely. He knows what will happen now. He's being released, allowed to flounce off to lick his wounds in peace for a couple hundred years. It's what he deserves, after pushing the angel too far, after demanding more than Aziraphale can give him.
But then he feels warm hands on either side of his face and he blinks open in surprise. Aziraphale is closer than he was before, his palms on Crowley's cheeks, one thumb brushing softly against the snake sigil at his temple. His eyes are blue and impossibly tender.
"You," the angel whispers, "are being very silly, my darling."
"Sssilly," Crowley repeats, unable to tear his gaze away from the bright, twinkling eyes that are mere inches away from his. Then the rest of the angel's words catch up to him and he forgets to breathe. "...darling?"
"Yes, you're my darling," Aziraphale says, voice firm. He inches forward, his breath warm against Crowley's lips. He's close enough that Crowley can track the movement of his Adam's apple bobbing underneath a tartan bow tie. "My dearest. My love. You're being very silly indeed, assuming that there's anyone else I would invite to stay in the night. Anyone else I would ever want in my bed."
“Hngggh?” Crowley croaks, which is definitely not what he meant to say. It's not even within the same star system as what he planned to say if Aziraphale ever indicated that he was ready for the next step in their relationship. Crowley swallows hard. "You're saying that you want me... in your bed... that you--"
"That I love you, yes," Aziraphale confirms with a serene smile. It honestly makes Crowley kind of mad, because how is it possible that the angel can look that calm while he's metaphorically reaching a hand straight through Crowley's chest and taking possession of his still-beating heart? It's unfair, that's what it is. "I do, my dearest. I thought that was obvious."
Crowley shakes his head weakly.
"Knew I loved you," he mumbles. "Wasn't sure it was, ah, reciprocated. Not in a romantic sense, at least."
Aziraphale laughs, his lovely warm hands still cradling Crowley's face. Then he bites at his lower lip, gaze flicking to Crowley's parted lips. Fuck, Crowley thinks, feeling dazed and as lovesick as he's ever been. Fuck, this is really happening.
"May I--" Aziraphale starts to say.
Crowley doesn't let him finish the question. His brain is finally sending messages to his limbs again (thank Somebody for that), and he practically leaps onto the bed to press his lips to Aziraphale's.
The angel kisses him back with delicious urgency before lying down on his back and pulling Crowley on top of him. It's all so good, the solid sensation of Aziraphale's body as he paws at worn waistcoat buttons that he's wanted to get his hands on for centuries. He licks into Aziraphale mouth and the angel lets out the same low moan that he does when he's biting into a sinfully delicious dessert, except now that sound is all Crowley's and he's going to keep it that way for as long as he damn well--
"Mommy! What are those two men doing?"
They end up getting kicked out of IKEA. The disapproving security guard actually uses the words "banned for life" as she escorts them back to the Bentley. She also snaps their photos for the store's binder of customers to never allow inside again, and Crowley performs a miracle so that Aziraphale's mugshot is sent to his mobile phone. The angel is adorably rumpled in his picture, curls askew and cheeks red with embarrassment. And Crowley did that.
Aziraphale mourns the things that they left in the cart, especially the snake welcome mat that was supposed to be Crowley's gift, but in the end they both agree that the guard was well within her right to remove them from the premises.
"I never thought I'd receive a citation for indecent behavior," Aziraphale giggles, looking rather pleased with himself. "You have been a terrible influence."
"Back to the bookshop?"
"Certainly," Aziraphale says. "Perhaps we can open that 1995 Cos D'estournel and listen to some records."
"Mmm. Sounds nice," Crowley agrees.
Aziraphale's hand rests on Crowley's thigh and squeezes. The angel lets out soft, rapid breaths as he shoots glances at the demon from underneath his eyelashes. There's no way they're going to sit around drinking wine and listening to music when they get back to the bookshop.
The angel doesn't protest about the Bentley pushing 200mph as Crowley steers them towards Soho. He doesn't go for the wine, or protest when Crowley miracles a super king bed into the upstairs flat, along with red silk sheets and dozens of lit, tapered candles. And he definitely doesn't object when Crowley starts undressing him before they even get to the bed.
"Faster," Aziraphale whispers into his ear, his hands fisting in Crowley's shirt. "Go faster, my darling."
Crowley doesn't need to be told twice.
Fin.