Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The trouble with “Keep Out” signs is that it’s so easy to pretend you can’t read them. Or perhaps that’s more of a reflection on the trouble with Crowley, who can most definitely read, but also happens to be quite keen on ignoring signs. Mostly out of spite, and entirely out of curiosity.

Crowley has been ignoring “Keep Out” signs for much of his adult life, and tonight is no different.
A creature of solitude and self-proclaimed fan of all things “spooky”, Crowley has made a habit of going on the occasional evening stroll through the cemetery. Well, a cemetery. He tries not to visit the same place too many times, to avoid getting caught.

Tonight, he’s hopping the fence to Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, because he’s never been there before, and because, like so many others he’s trespassed, it says “Keep Out”. And also because he keeps hearing noises and that’s decidedly very spooky, so. Obviously he’s got to check this out. He snorts a chuckle at the cemetery’s name as he makes his way past the fence and into the dead grass that provides a decidedly not-heavenly landscape for the centuries old headstones.

“Right, who are you lot, then?” he muses aloud, quieting himself to a whisper partway through the sentence as he remembers the strange noises he’d heard. Probably just an animal, a bird or something, he thinks, but he’s not feeling like taking chances. He’s an astronomer, for heaven’s sake– he’s not exactly prepared to fight anyone. Certainly not prepared to fight off any zombies– not that he believes in such things, of course. Or ghosts. But if there were ghosts, he wouldn’t want to have to fight them. Can you even fight a ghost? he wonders. Can’t touch them, how would you– “Shit!”

Crowley startles when a bird flies right past him, nearly batting his face with its big black wings. He thinks they’re black, anyway. Hard to tell in the dim light. Anyway, it’s gone in the blink of an eye, and Crowley stumbles back from the startle of it all, the backs of his knees hitting a headstone and causing him to tumble over it. He hits his head when he lands, on the front of another stone, and it knocks him unconscious for a few minutes before he comes to.

He sits up, rubbing the back of his head with a groan, and hisses when he feels something damp on his hand. Blood, he figures. That’s all well and fine– He’s something of a doctor. Or at least he would’ve been if he’d completed medical school. He dropped out in pursuit of a philosophy degree, thinking he could teach or something, then left school and the idea of being a professor behind altogether upon deciding that he didn’t want to have to answer to anyone and he could take care of himself, thanks.

After six years of working at a local music store he went back to school and got a degree in astronomy. He’s… Well, he’s still working at that same music store. Owns it now, actually. But he still hopes to do something with that degree someday…

It’s a work in progress. He’s a work in progress. S’what life is, isn’t it?

…Maybe he should’ve stuck with that philosophy degree, he thinks.

Anyway, point is, he knows enough to know that the blood on the back of his head isn’t anything serious. He doesn’t need immediate medical attention. Which is great because he’s hearing noises again. Investigating the noises sounds a lot more fun that getting some stitches, in his opinion.

He picks himself off the ground and brushes the dirt off his clothes. He’s pretty sure the stains will come out, but if not, he’s got five other pairs of the same too-tight black jeans, so he’s not too worried about it.

He starts walking in the direction of the sounds he’s hearing. Well, limping, really. He must’ve twisted his ankle or something. He’s not really thinking about it anymore, because he now recognizes the sounds to be human. Someone’s huffing, grunting, and he’s quite sure there’s also the sound of dirt being shoveled, and– ohhhh. Grave robbing. Fantastic. He’s just walked in on a grave robbing. He wishes he’d brought his sunglasses– even if they couldn’t actually hide him from any harm, they always made him feel just a bit hidden, and just a bit safer.

Whoever’s doing the robbing doesn’t seem to notice him, so he crouches behind a headstone and holds his breath. Then he realizes he’s too far away and the robber is far too busy to notice his breathing, so he exhales and silently asks himself why in the hell he’s sticking around for this.

But then he thinks of his flat–cold and grey and empty–and decides this is far more fun than spending yet another night alone.

Whoever this person is, they seem to be finishing up, shoveling dirt back into the grave they’d dug up. Crowley grimaces, peeking over the headstone, and frowns at the sight.

The grave robber– a man, he thinks (if he’s going to make assumptions based off the ridiculous construct of gender, which he himself isn’t the biggest fan of)– has an electric lantern, resting in some sort of metal cart. It makes it a lot easier to see, and Crowley does not like what he sees. Well, he wasn’t going to like what he saw, anyway, but this was… more disturbing than the usual grave robbery. Not that he’d seen a whole lot of grave robberies in his day. None, actually. This would be the first. But– Anyway, the cart was full of limbs, was the thing. Bits and pieces of what had to be at least three corpses, but no actual full bodies.

Well, maybe they were buried like that, he thinks. Maybe there was an accident or something. The headstones in this area look much more modern than the ones at the entrance, so he’s pretty sure these are newer corpses, not old ones. He rolls his eyes at himself upon realizing that of course they’re new corpses, the centuries-old ones would have decomposed by now.

The grave robber pats the dirt with the shovel and seems satisfied with their work, wiping the back of their wrist on their brow as they visibly exhale, and Crowley realizes that very soon he is going to possibly face being caught by a probable psychopath. There’s only one way in and out of the cemetery, as far as he knows. And Crowley’s directly in the path of it.

Crowley holds his breath and rubs his fingers over the metal snake on his belt. It’s the closest thing to a weapon he’s got. He wonders if it’ll do enough damage if he whips it at an attacker.

He’s about to unfasten his belt when he sees the robber pull the cart in the opposite direction. Huh. Must be another way out then.

Against his better judgement–or perhaps because he lacks better judgement altogether, Crowley crawls from headstone to headstone, following the robber’s path out of the cemetery. They stop at a broken gate where they’ve parked their car. Er, van. Big van. Big not-at-all-suspicious-looking white van. It’s hidden behind overgrown greenery, but Crowley can see enough to make out what they’re doing. He watches as they load the cart onto a ramp and into the back of the van, then close everything up and get in the drivers seat.

It’s then that Crowley bolts down to where he’s got his Bentley parked, all the way back at the front entrance. He gets in and closes the door with heaving breath, trying to process exactly what he’s just witnessed.

The van pulls out from around the corner and onto the main road, and Crowley takes a breath.

He should go to the police. He’s, like, at least 97% sure he should go to the police.

He doesn’t go to the police.

Instead, like someone with poor impulse control would do, he starts his own car and follows the man back to his house.

Chapter Text

It takes over an hour to arrive at the van’s destination, and Crowley considers turning around and abandoning his reckless idea several times. Once about every fifteen minutes, to be more precise. He passes the van twice, then slows down and lets it pass him again, just to make sure it isn’t too obvious that he’s following. Christ, he’s really in over his head, isn’t he? He’s about to pull over and turn around, and just go to the police, but then he sees the van slow and pull into a gated driveway, which opens automatically.

Crowley has the good wit to keep driving, then slows to a stop a ways down the road. He takes a deep breath, then nods. Okay, we’re doing this. He gets out of the car and stares back at the dim road, hesitating before walking down to the gate.

It’s closed now. Because of course it is. It also has a sign that reads “Private Property: Keep Out”, and for once Crowley thinks about honoring that request. Then he looks up and sees the two-story cottage beyond the gate, a light turning on in the window nearest the front door. There’s another window that’s already lit up, on the second level, and Crowley squints in effort to make out the silhouette of the person sitting behind it. Another silhouette joins them, a bit blurrier around the edges as though they’ve entered from the opposite side of the room. The robber, presumably. The person seated by the window stands and sets something down, then follows the other out of the room.

Crowley hops the gate.

Er, he goes around the back, where there’s a shorter gate, and less chance of being seen. It’s dark and he lands in bushes that could definitely stand to be pruned. He brushes himself off and approaches the house from the side, his brain screaming at him to turn around with every step.

Then he hears a voice near one of the windows. It must be cracked open. Crowley rushes to the wall and stands with his back flat against it, chest heaving as he hopes to literally any deity that he hasn’t been spotted. He tries to steady his breath as he tunes in to the conversation happening from one of the windows to the right.

“–sure? Because the last time you said that, you threw up and contaminated them.”

American, Crowley thinks. Huh.

“Well, if you… If you don’t need my help…,” says an uncertain voice. English. Southern. Timid, Crowley thinks. “…I would, er… I would rather not. Er, but of course, I don’t want you to think me ungrateful, for–”

“I’ll find something else for you to do,” says the American. “How’s that paperwork been coming along?”

“Oh! Er, it’s– Well, it’s all a bit complicated, the legalities of it all, but I… I’m fairly confident that you’ve nothing to worry about. I believe I may have found a ‘loophole’ for you.”

Crowley hears a light clap, and imagines the American slapping the other man on the shoulder.

“That’s what I like to hear,” says the American. “See? I told you, you’re good for something. Wouldn’t have kept you around, otherwise.”

“Ah. Yes, er– Thank you.”

Maybe it’s just Crowley projecting–he is known to have a rather active imagination–but this guy does not sound confident about whatever his dealings are with the American. And the American? Complete wanker. Probably the grave robber.

“Well, once I preserve tonight’s pickup, I’ll be heading back to London. The next step will have to wait until Thursday, as I’ve got several classes I can’t get out of,” says the American, who Crowley is now certain is the grave robber. “I’d like to see some improvement outside. Get those weeds pulled before my next visit, alright?”

Crowley grits his teeth, beginning to put together the sort of relationship these two have.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll be in the lab for… eh, let’s say another half hour or so.”

Silence, then the American speaks again, sounding farther away, “And, Ezra?”

A soft, inquisitive hum from the Englishman.

“Clean up that library. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but we must pick up after ourselves.”

Oh, Crowley hates this guy. Condescension really gets his injustice alarm going off.

…Alright, just about anything will get his injustice alarm going off, but the way the grave robber is belittling this guy who… Okay, maybe he isn’t an upstanding citizen, if he’s working with a grave robber, but at least he isn’t an actual grave robber.

At least Crowley hopes not.

“Of course, sir. I apologize.”

Don’t apologize, he’s a prick!

“Good. Thursday, then.”

“Thursday.”

There’s the sound of a door closing, and then a deep exhale from… ‘Ezra’, Crowley thinks he heard?

“Oh, dear,” says ‘Ezra’. “Goodness.” Another sigh, and then, “I suppose I ought to begin. With the organizing, that is.”

Crowley hears the shuffling of steps and then the light goes out in the window. He stays frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. About a minute later, the window above him lights up, and Crowley cautiously backs away from the wall, far enough to be able to look above him. It’s dark outside, he thinks. No one will notice him snooping.

He can see more clearly now. The room that’s lit up has got to be the library, given the, er, you know. Books.

The man in the window is blonde, so blonde the light from the room almost makes it look like it’s glowing. Like a halo, Crowley thinks. He’s wearing far too many layers to be indoors, as far as Crowley’s concerned, but he can’t help but smile at the coziness of the man’s appearance. He looks like someone who would give fantastic hugs.

He’s also associated with a grave robber, so. Probably best not to go down that route, Crowley decides.

Still, he smiles up at the window as he watches the man pick up a stack of books from the table near the window and begin to re-shelve them.

His smile drops when the man looks toward the window. He gets closer to it and looks outside, then locks eyes with Crowley. The man’s eyes go wide, and he freezes, several books still in hand. He looks like he’s about to shout, or perhaps bolt, but instead he shakily sets the books back on the table and raises a hand to wave at him.

Crowley’s not sure what to do with that. The guy looks nervous, incredibly nervous, but he’s still putting on a brave smile and wiggling his fingers as he waves at the man trespassing outside of his home. Who would…?

Crowley gulps and lifts a hand to wave back, then slowly begins to back away, back to the gate he’d jumped over.

The man in the window frowns, and it’s so sad that Crowley’s tempted to shout, “I’m sorry,” for leaving him behind.

What’s this guy’s deal, anyway, Crowley wonders. Is he locked in there? If the American dude is fine with grave robbing and preserving limbs from corpses then who knows what other fuckery he might be up to. Keeping a guy hostage seems pretty in line with such a lack of basic human decency.

Crowley finally turns his back to the window, and hops back over the fence, resolving to come back tomorrow. He’d heard the American say he wouldn’t be back until Thursday. It was Sunday night. That gave him plenty of time to visit this ‘Ezra’ guy and figure out exactly what was going on, and whether he can do anything about it.

What the fuck am I doing, he wonders as he climbs into the Bentley and starts her up. What am I getting myself into?!

The drive back to London takes less time than it did to get out there, but that’s more because Crowley is definitely speeding. He pulls up a maps app on his mobile before he leaves, to make sure he knows how to get back the next day.

When he gets back to his flat in Mayfair, he takes a hot shower, then tends to his head wound before collapsing on his bed and falling asleep in minutes. Something about running through a graveyard and following a grave robber to his remote cottage, complete with a limb-preserving lab, really zaps the energy from a guy.

Chapter Text

He’s almost certain it was all a dream when he first wakes. Then he feels the dull ache in the back of his head from when he fell. He goes to his bathroom and finds his grass-stained jeans on the floor, and swallows as the memories flash in his mind.

“Right,” he says, turning on the shower, because yes, he absolutely feels the need to take another one even though he just took one last night, thank you. “Shower, then plan, then breakfast, then actually plan, then… go back to Oxfordshire and try not to die.”

Crowley knows himself well enough to know that his shower plans are almost never realistic, and he’s right. Under the hot water, he spends most of the time absently washing himself as he daydreams of crashing the Bentley through the gate, kicking down the door to the cottage, finding the lab, setting it on fire or something, and taking that sweet blonde guy and showing him a better life. Can he help it if he’s seen too many James Bond films?

Once he’s out of the shower, dressed, and halfway through breakfast, he starts to reconsider his initial plan. He also reconsiders whether or not he should even go to that damned cottage. But then he remembers that poor man’s face; he’d looked genuinely disappointed to see him leave. Lonely, if Crowley had to guess. An emotion he was all too familiar with.

He’s at least got to go back and see if this guy needs any help getting out of an abusive relationship, or something. Severed limbs aside.

So, it’s decided, then. Crowley takes a deep breath, puts on his coat, grabs his trusty shades, and heads out the door.

Forty-six minutes later, he’s pulling up near the cottage. He parks in the same place he did last night, and hops the fence at the same point.

It’s day, but Crowley figures that doesn’t matter, since he intends to be seen. He’s got some questions, and he hopes to someone that the mild-mannered man will be open to answering them. You know, rather than, say, bashing his head in for trespassing.

“Oh, it’s you!”

Crowley whips around to find the owner of the surprised voice. Pleasantly surprised, he thinks. With perhaps a tinge of uncertainty.

“You were here,” says the man. “Last night. Below my window.”

“Oh, you saw that, huh?”

The man gives him a flat look. “Quite.” It’s then that Crowley notices the man is holding gardening shears. Which, okay, he’d been told to care for the grounds, but still… Those could easily turn into a weapon.

“Right…” Run. Run. Run!

“I don’t intend to, er, tell anyone,” the man says, brushing one of his dirtied gloves on his apron in a nervous manner. “That is as long as you don’t intend to harm…”

“No! No harm, just– Curious. Saw some stuff. In a… graveyard… er… Might’ve followed the American guy here, wanted to see what he was up to.” Why am I telling him this? He’s– He’s… “Er, Ezra, is it?”

The man frowns, drawing Crowley’s attention to his face. He’s gorgeous, Crowley thinks. Pale blue eyes–beautiful, a slightly upturned nose–adorable, sweet pink lips–kissable. And that fluffy, white-blonde hair. He looks like a cherub. Granted, a middle-aged cherub, but an angel nonetheless.

He has a scar on his lower left cheek that starts from his ear and arches down to his chin. The skin in that area is a slightly different tone than the rest of his face. Rosier, maybe. And a bit darker.

He’s wearing a bowtie under his apron, and Crowley has to bite back a smirk, wondering what kind of person does yard work in a bowtie.

The man, still frowning, asks, “How did you… How did you know to call me ‘Ezra’?”

Crowley takes in a breath, dragging his eyes away from the other man. “Heard it,” he says. “Through the window. S’what he called you.”

“Oh. Yes, he does call me that.”

Crowley frowns. “…But that isn’t your name?”

“Er, no. It’s… Well, it’s a bit silly.”

“What, your name?”

The man nods.

“I won’t judge.”

The man hesitates for a moment, eyeing Crowley as though trying to determine what he’s about. In this moment, Crowley’s not entirely sure he knows what he’s about. Finally, the man says, “It’s Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s brows shoot up. “Aziraphale,” he repeats. “That’s…”

“Silly, as I said, yes.”

“I was just going to say ‘different’.” Crowley smirks. “It’s got a nice sound to it, actually.”

Aziraphale smiles. The bright kind of smile that reaches the eyes. No wonder he’s got so many wrinkles there, with a smile like that. Gorgeous. Crowley sucks in a breath. “Oh! Oh, thank you,” exclaims Aziraphale. “I’ve never… Thank you.”

“Just saying what I think,” says Crowley.

“Well, it’s very kind of you.”

Crowley makes a strange noise in his throat, then shifts on his feet. “Right, so, this American… What’s he up to?”

Aziraphale’s smile falls, his whole manner becoming stoic. “I really oughtn’t discuss…”

“Oh, come on, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion you’re not a fan of it, whatever it is.”

“Well… Well, yes, but, er– There’s… There are… legal matters, you see…”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I would imagine so.”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“Well, unless you’re the mastermind of this shady operation, I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about. If you helped turn this guy in, I bet they’d let you off easy.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t think you know much about the law.”

“Er– No, I suppose not.” Crowley remembers the mention of paperwork the night before. Loopholes, something or other. “You his lawyer then? Making sure he doesn’t get into any trouble while he does… whatever the hell he’s doing in his lab?”

“Not quite. I do, er, research, in some areas,” says Aziraphale, looking as though he might be internally pleading with himself to shut up. “I’m his… assistant.”

To say Crowley’s disappointed would be an understatement. “So you help him,” he says. “Robbing graves. You’re part of it.” Crowley frowns. Maybe he doesn’t know the extent of it, he hopes. “You know that’s what he’s up to, yeah?”

“I– Well– I…” the man swallows. “Yes, but–”

Damn. “So you’re part of it.” I should leave. Like, now.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that… I’m… I’m indebted to him.”

“No amount of debt calls for assisting in grave robbery,” says Crowley, folding his arms over his chest. “What’s he holding over you?”

“Oh, that, er– It’s quite complicated,” says Aziraphale.

“So un-complicate it for me. Maybe I could help.”

Aziraphale swallows and looks away, fiddling with the shears. “I really shouldn’t…”

“Look,” says Crowley, “I was going to go to the police, but I have a feeling this guy knows how to cover his tracks, so I decided to do some investigating myself. The cops come out here and find you, helping him… however you help him… you could be in danger. But I’m pretty good at reading people, and you seem like a genuinely good guy, so. I’m giving you a chance. I could help. Just… Tell me, what’s going on here?”

Aziraphale looks around, over his shoulder, past the gate, then, “What do you know?”

Crowley fights off a smile. Got him. “Well, just what I saw last night. I was in the cemetery where he was digging up bodies, and I saw a cart full of limbs. And then he loaded it all into a van, drove here, where I followed him, and then I heard part of your conversation through the window. Something about preserving them–the limbs, I’m guessing, and that he’d be back on Thursday.”

Aziraphale nods. “Thursday, yes,” he says, more to himself than to Crowley, it seems. He opens his mouth, then closes it, looking back at the  rear entrance to the cottage. “Perhaps…,” he says, turning back to Crowley. “Perhaps you should come inside.”

That’s probably a bad idea, Crowley thinks. He could be manipulating you, you idiot! He’s going to stab you with those shears the moment you step through the door. Rip your limbs off and bury the rest of you in the yard. Run!

Crowley nods and follows him inside.

Chapter Text

Once inside, Aziraphale closes and bolts the door behind them. He sets the shears on a nearby counter, then takes off his gloves and apron, placing them in a wicker basket near the door. He removes his boots, as well, and slips his socked feet into a pair of dark blue slippers.

Crowley’s pretty sure that putting on slippers isn’t something someone typically does right before killing someone, so he releases the breath he’d been holding and points to his own boots with raised brows.

“Oh, you probably should, yes. If Gabriel were to notice… That is, if you tracked in dirt…”

“Say no more,” says Crowley, already bending to remove his black snakeskin boots. It doesn’t occur to him until after the fact that he might end up having to run away in his socks, now. Oh, well. “So,” he says, “Gabriel, huh?”

Aziraphale blanches. “Oh, dear, I– I really oughtn’t have revealed his name.”

“S’alright. Hey, I told you, I’m not trying to get you into any trouble, yeah? Maybe just help you get out of it.”

“I… I don’t need– I’m–”

To stop the poor man from spiraling into a crisis, Crowley shifts the subject. “So, the bodies he dug up last night. Know anything about them?”

“Oh, yes,” says Aziraphale, nodding. “I read about them, in the paper. It was a car accident. Terrible. A family of four, and only one survived– the youngest child. Adam, I believe was his name. I do hope he’s in good care, now…” He looks down and sighs sadly. “I read that the extended family chose that particular cemetery– Heaven’s Gate, that is– because they liked the sound of it. They wanted to think of their loved ones in a better place, and thought it would make the funeral less of a heartache. And to think, only hours later, they were removed. It’s… quite sad, really.”

Crowley is aware that “quite sad” is an understatement, but he’s not entirely sure the other man is, so he doesn’t correct him. “So, this Gabriel, he just… he digs up fresh cadavers and rips their limbs off for… whatever he does in his lab?”

Aziraphale thins his lips and nods.

“And you help?”

“I… I don’t enjoy doing it, you know.” Aziraphale shifts. “I only keep track of the papers, anyway. To let him know where to, er… to dig. I’m… I’m not really a part of it. Not really.”

“Right.”

“And I– I don’t do it all the time. He doesn’t do this all the time, you see, it’s only… only once every few months or so. A couple of times a year.”

“Every few months? For how many years? How long’s this been going on?”

“Oh, about eight years, I believe. But I’ve only been here for the past six.”

“Where were you before that?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Pardon?”

“Before you became his assistant,” says Crowley. “What was your life like before that?”

“Oh, er.” Aziraphale laughs, more to himself, it seems, than to Crowley. “Well, I didn’t have much of a life before that.”

Crowley nods, absently, biting his lip as he considers how to word what he wants to say next. “Hey, look, I’ve been in… I’ve been in an abusive relationship before,” he says, throat tightening around the words. “I know it’s not easy. I know saying ‘it’s not easy’ is an understatement. But… you don’t have to stay with him. Especially considering what he’s been up to. You don’t owe him any sort of relationship, no matter what your life was like before he met you.”

Aziraphale looks confused for a moment, then horrified. “I’m not… I’m not dating him!”

Crowley’s relieved to hear that, but he’s pretty sure his point still stands. “Good,” he says. “That’s… good. But, you know, you don’t have to be dating someone for them to be abusive. Whatever sort of relationship you have with him, even if he’s just a colleague… No one should have that much control over your life. You deserve better, Aziraphale, despite what he might have told you.”

“I…” Aziraphale looks like he’s holding back tears, so Crowley casts his gaze to the floor so as not to overwhelm him. “It’s not… It’s not like that. I owe a lot to him, he’s my– I wouldn’t–”

“Hey, I’m not asking you to spit in his face and run away forever.” Not yet, anyway. “I’m just… I just want you to know that if you want to get out… Well, you can. And I think you should.”

Aziraphale steels himself. “Well, no offense to you, but I hardly know you. I don’t see why I should heed the advice of a stranger–one who follows people home from graveyards, no less! Seems rather indicative of a lack of judgement.” He purses his lips.

“At least I wasn’t robbing the graveyard,” Crowley defends himself. “What’s he collecting limbs for, anyway?”

“I don’t… I don’t wish to discuss it, at the moment.”

Crowley breathes a laugh through his nose. “Right, I’ll just wait to ask again when he digs up another family.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment.

“Perhaps I’ll tell you,” Aziraphale begins, not daring to meet Crowley’s gaze, “if you’ll… If you’ll come back another time.”

“Another time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon, preferably.”

Crowley smirks. “Starved for my company already?”

Aziraphale looks up, finally, and fixes him with a shy but earnest, almost pleading gaze. “Perhaps.”

“And you don’t even know my name,” quips Crowley. “It’s Crowley, by the way. Well, Anthony, technically, but I’ve gone by my surname since I was 20.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart beats just a little bit faster at the sound of his name coming from those lips. “It’s… Well, these are rather strange circumstances, but it is nice to meet you, Crowley.”

He extends a hand, and Crowley takes it without looking at it. When he does, he notices another scar and patch of different skin on the back of his hand. He looks away before Aziraphale can notice him looking.

“Shall I make us some tea?” asks Aziraphale, pulling his hand back to himself. “The kitchen is just this way.”

“I– Probably shouldn’t.”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “No?”

“No.” Crowley takes a breath. “It’s not that I don’t want to, only– The less I muck about in this place, the better. Like you said, don’t want Gabriel noticing anything out of the ordinary.”

“Oh! How very clever of you,” remarks Aziraphale brightly. He frowns, then. “Only, I… I don’t think it would be noticeable– after all I do live here, and as you might have heard through the window last night, he does expect me to make a mess of things… And you’ve already taken off your boots! So, really, there’s no need… er… That is, you can stay. If you like.”

I like, Crowley thinks with a grin. “Right, where to, then?”

“Oh, good! I’ll prepare us some tea, and you can have a seat right through here, at the table, or we can go to the living room if you’d prefer. It is a bit more comfortable.”

Crowley peers down the hall, through the entryway to the kitchen and a bit farther where he can see the curtains on the far side of the living room. The curtains are a rich, rusty red, decorated with warm gold, and there’s a rug on the floor that has a similar color and pattern. It does look more comfortable, so Crowley saunters down the hall and finds a seat in one of the two armchairs that are on opposite sides of the room.

He cranes his neck to look at the bookshelves lining the wall behind him, and has a good mind to get up and do a bit of snooping, but decides not to do anything that might make Aziraphale wary of him. He still thinks this guy might need his help. Best not to be suspicious. Though the normalcy of this cottage so far is incredibly worthy of suspicion, given that he knows there’s some sort of evil lair full of limbs nearby.

“So, where’s the lab?” he asks casually when Aziraphale enters the room and sets a cup of tea in a saucer down on the little table beside Crowley.

“Lab?” Aziraphale cocks a brow as he sets his own tea down on the table beside his own chair, then takes a seat. “What lab?” he says, with the tiniest hint of a smirk.

It’s then that Crowley realizes that Aziraphale is not just adorable and awkward and gentle and sweet, he’s apparently also a bastard. The next thing Crowley realizes is that he is quickly falling for this guy. Great.

“I thought we’d agreed,” says Aziraphale, “I’m not to tell you anything about Gabriel’s doings until the next time you come to visit.”

Crowley can’t help but return the subtle smirk with a wide grin of his own. “Right, of course, of course. What shall I ask you, then?”

“I suppose you could ask me about myself.”

“Alright then,” says Crowley, because he can’t deny he’s very interested, “what about you? Er, where are you from?”

“Oh, here.”

“Where, exactly?”

Aziraphale sips his tea and tosses his gaze around the room. “Oh, just around. Quite near to where we are now, actually.”

“When did you move into this place?”

Aziraphale raises his head and squints in thought. “I suppose you could say, er, about six years ago.”

“And where were you before that?”

“You know, I’m not entirely certain.”

Crowley snorts and makes a weird face. “Exactly what does that mean?”

“Never mind that. Where are you from, then?” Something about the way Aziraphale’s voice goes high at the end of his question, in a strained, almost pleading sort of way, leads Crowley not to push the question any further.

“I live in London. Mayfair. Got a flat and run a music shop. Nothing incredibly interesting.”

Aziraphale lips almost form a pout as he says, “I wouldn’t say that’s not interesting.”

“Not nearly as interesting as living in a hidden cottage with a secret evil lab full of limbs,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale’s smile is partially concealed behind his teacup. “Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that,” he says. He sets his cup down and wiggles in his seat a bit, and it’s the cutest thing Crowley’s ever seen. “Tell me more about yourself,” he asks politely. Then he seems to realize his phrasing wasn’t quite polite enough for his tastes, and drops his smile for an awkward laugh instead. “Er, if you would.”

Crowley can’t help but grin, but he does his best to hide it behind his own cup of tea, which he’s yet to take a sip out of. Seems too hot. He sets it down without drinking it. “What do you want to know?”

“Hmm. Well, for starters, why are you wearing those indoors?” Aziraphale indicates the sunglasses on Crowley’s face.

“Light sensitivity,” says Crowley simply, as though it doesn’t bother him to be asked. And it doesn’t. Not from Aziraphale, anyway. “That, and one of my eyes is a different color and I get tired of the staring.”

Aziraphale brightens again. “Oh! What color are your eyes, then?”

“One’s just a regular brown, but the other’s bright. Almost like a gold, or yellow. Makes me something of a freak of nature, so. I got bullied a bit growing up. Started wearing shades when I was 15.”

“Oh, that’s… That’s too bad. I’m sure they’re lovely.”

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t mind them, actually. Always thought they made me look cool as a kid. Learned to hate them once the bullying started. Now that I’m grown, I’m more just… neutral about them.”

Aziraphale nods.

“Right, your turn,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale almost looks startled at the shift in conversation. “Something about you, now. Like, lovely as it is–and I do think it is lovely–I’ve still gotta ask, how’d you end up with a name like Aziraphale, anyway?”

“Oh, you can’t ask me that,” says Aziraphale, frowning uncomfortably. “That one is off-limits.”

Crowley puts his hands up in defeat. “Alright, question rec– re– reese– I take the question back.”

“I believe the word you might have been searching for is ‘rescinded’,” says Aziraphale with a proud smirk.

“Thanks. Er… Books! You’re very book-y, aren’t you?” says Crowley, like an idiot. “Spend a lot of time in that library upstairs?”

Aziraphale’s smirk softens to a warm smile. “Oh, yes. They’re all I have, really. Quite dear to me.” Crowley tries not to read into how much that makes it sound like Aziraphale’s been cut off from the rest of the world. “I could read for hours,” he goes on to say. “I’ve been known to read from sun up to sun down on occasion! Might even forget to eat if a story is especially enticing.”

Crowley blinks and realizes several seconds have passed in silence, and he’s just been smiling dumbly at Aziraphale. He sucks in a breath and straightens in his seat. “Right, er, my turn, then,” he says. “Ask me something.”

Aziraphale gives him a suspicious look, but drops it to say, “Alright, then, tell me more about your childhood.”

Crowley chortles. “Oh, no. Can’t ask me that. S’off-limits.”

Aziraphale smiles as though he’s trying not to chuckle. “What about your early adult years, then?” he asks. “Did you go to university?”

“Eh, for a bit, yeah.”

“And what did you study?”

“I was going to be a doctor, but then I switched to philosophy, and then I, er. Got an astronomy degree and never did anything with it.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale with a nod. “Well, that’s too bad. I’m sure you would have made a wonderful astronomer. Or a doctor. Certainly better than Gabriel…”

Crowley quirks a brow just as Aziraphale closes his eyes upon realizing what he’s said. “Oh, a doctor, is he?”

Aziraphale waves a dismissing hand. “Next time, dear boy.” He picks up his cup for another sip of tea, then asks as he sets it back down, “Do you think you’ll ever put your degree to use, then?”

Crowley huffs a laugh and shrugs. “Not sure what I’d do with it.”

“Oh, there’s plenty you could do with it! Why, you could run a planetarium,” says Aziraphale, excitedly, and damn, it’s almost making Crowley want to run off to the city and find a new career right then and there. “Or, become an astrophysicist! Or, if you’ve a talent for teaching, you could always become an astronomy professor…”

Crowley can’t help but chuckle. “Maybe you ought to go and get an astronomy degree,” he says.

Aziraphale smiles. “Maybe so,” he says. “Forgive me, I do tend to get rather worked up about, er, those things.”

“‘Those things’?”

“Yes, I suppose that was rather broad, pardon me. I suppose what I meant was, anything that one might read about. Education. The world. Fiction, too.”

“Oh, but that’s not too broad. Just the world, then?”

Aziraphale smiles again, and it’s a shy, almost blushing sort of smile.

“Any favorite books?”

That, it turns out, was like winding up a toy car and setting it loose on the floor. Asking Aziraphale about books sends him off on an animated monologue, full of many tangents about authors and rare books and banned books and books about religion and history and so, so much about Shakespeare. Crowley could listen to him talk for hours, the way his whole face lights up as he talks about his favorite things. He sits there contentedly as Aziraphale rattles on about the things he’s read.

Aziraphale seems to realize himself some time later, and looks up at the clock above the window on the other side of the room. “Oh, my! I’ve been talking for several hours, haven’t I?” He looks quite disturbed by this, and begins fussing with his hands. “Why haven’t you stopped me?”

Crowley’s resting his chin in his hand, his elbow on the table beside his chair, next to a very cold cup of tea. “I didn’t feel the need to,” he says coolly, through a lazy smile.

“Oh, goodness, you’re probably eager to get back to your home.”

Crowley takes a breath and lets it out as he straightens in his chair and cranes his neck to glance at the clock. “S’only half two in the afternoon.”

Aziraphale frowns, though he looks more confused than upset. “How long do you intend to stay?” he asks.

“Oh, as long as you’ll have me,” Crowley responds.

Aziraphale softens and smiles at that. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to tire of me.”

“Don’t think that’s gonna happen,” says Crowley, and he means it.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, standing and taking his teacup and saucer in hand, “I suppose I ought to clean up, and perhaps prepare us lunch– Why, Crowley, have you had even one sip of your tea?”

Crowley, despite himself, blushes. “Not a big tea fan, me.”

“Goodness. You might’ve told me, you know,” chides Aziraphale, taking Crowley’s dishes in his other hand, “before I prepared you an entire cup to be wasted!”

“Sorry,” says Crowley. “I can go, if you want. Terrible house guest, aren’t I?”

Aziraphale chuckles and shakes his head as he makes his way into the kitchen. “You’re a fiend, is what you are.”

“Oh, a fiend, am I? Bit harsh for someone whose only crime is letting a single cup of tea go to waste.”

“Mm, and trespassing on private property,” says Aziraphale from the kitchen.

Crowley grins and kicks himself out of the chair, heading into the kitchen. “So, what’s for lunch?”

Lunch turns out to be sandwiches, and more tea (for Aziraphale, that is). They talk about Crowley’s interests, what sorts of books he might read–Aziraphale is pleasantly nonjudgemental when Crowley admits he prefers films to books.

They eat and talk until around 5pm, and Crowley starts getting antsy to go. Not because he doesn’t want Aziraphale’s company, mind, but because meeting new people is always a bit overwhelming and these are some rather extenuating circumstances and he’s still exhausted from the excitement of the night prior and he really just wants to go and lie down at home.

He tells Aziraphale this, rambling awkwardly and apologetically, and the man is gracious enough to be understanding. Though he does look disappointed.

“I’ll come back, of course,” Crowley tells him as he’s pulling on his boots. “Whatever’s going on here, I’m not going to just forget about it. I don’t want to just go to the police– I like to avoid them entirely if I can, but– Anyway, point is, I’ll come back. Tomorrow, probably. After I close the shop, if it’s not too late for you.”

“Oh, no! That’s perfectly alright with me. I’m quite the ‘night owl’, as it were,” says Aziraphale. “You’ll be coming back primarily to investigate, then, I take it?”

“You got it,” says Crowley with a wide grin. His smile dies down when he remembers he’s talking to someone who’s been helping a decidedly very dangerous person. Someone who’s apparently been manipulated and abused so heavily into thinking he has to be part of this. This isn’t a film, Crowley reminds himself. It’s not a fun mystery to solve, or something to play hero to. Aziraphale needs actual help.

Crowley only hopes he’s worthy of providing that help.

Chapter Text

“You came back,” Aziraphale announces delightedly upon Crowley’s arrival the next evening.

“‘Course I did,” says Crowley plainly, biting down a smirk. “Said I would, didn’t I?”

“It’s only… I wasn’t quite sure you would.”

“Nah, this is way too weird not to get involved in.”

Aziraphale looks nervous, but offers a smile anyway as he opens the door wider at the rear entrance to the cottage, ushering him inside. “Well, then. I suppose you’ll be asking all sorts of questions, now.”

“Mm, if you’ll let me, yeah, I’d like to,” says Crowley as he removes his boots. Aziraphale shuts and locks the door behind them. “Worried about break-ins?”

“Well, there was a strange man who hopped the gate a couple of nights ago,” says Aziraphale. “One can’t be too cautious.”

Crowley grins, then asks, “Living room, then?”

“Actually, I was thinking I could show you the library,” says Aziraphale, clearly doing his best to downplay his eagerness to share something so dear to himself. “There’s another chair, and a sofa, if you prefer.”

“Sofa sounds great. Lead the way.” Crowley gestures toward the end of the staircase, just past the door before the hallway.

“Of course!”

Once they’re seated, Crowley says, “S’a nice room, here. More books than I thought there’d be, too.”

“Oh, yes. There are rather a lot. They’re some of the only things Gabriel ever gets for me. Well, about half of them were already his, but then I… Well, I asked for more, and he allowed it! I get a new book every Friday, as part of a subscription that comes in the mail. A ‘subscription box’, they’re called. Gabriel signed me up for one on the internet.”

Crowley wants to smile along with Aziraphale, but despite his excited rambling, he’s raised several red flags. “Wait, he ‘allowed’ it? Signed you up… don’t you have a computer, yourself? Can’t you order things?”

“Oh, no, I don’t earn any income. I’m… I’m rather dependent on Gabriel’s generosity. And he does keep me well fed, and, as I’ve said, he buys me books. It’s more than I could ask for, really.”

“I think you could ask for a lot more,” says Crowley, seriously. “Like freedom, for one. And, I don’t know, maybe compensation for keeping this place running while he’s away?”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “I… I’ve told you, I owe him a debt. Any generosity on his part is… Well, quite gracious, and probably more than I deserve.”

Crowley’s heart breaks for the man. “I really, really doubt that,” he says.

“Well, you don’t… You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. But I want to,” says Crowley, earnestly. He leans forward on the sofa. “Aziraphale, how did you get into this mess? You seem too good to be mixed up with a bloody grave robber,” says Crowley. “How did you end up here? Is he keeping you hostage?”

“Not… Not quite…” Aziraphale is beginning to look very, very nervous. Crowley wants to ease his anxiety right away, but he also wants to get to the bottom of this, and figures his long-term wellbeing and safety is more important than a bit of discomfort in the short-term.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says seriously, “can you leave?”

“Er– Well, he keeps me safe, you see.”

“Safe,” Crowley repeats skeptically.

“Yes, I– I’m not– I– I don’t want to frighten you,” says Aziraphale, growing desperate with tears in the corners of his eyes. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever– I don’t know anyone besides Gabriel, and he’s– Of course I must be grateful to him for taking care of me, for keeping me safe, but I– I– I’m so–”

“Alone,” Crowley finishes. “You’re alone.”

Aziraphale nods, wiping a tear from his eye. “Do pardon me for, er, crying.”

“It’s alright,” Crowley says, his heart aching for him. “Hey, look, whatever– Whatever’s got you all worked up, it’s probably not any worse than being a grave robber, yeah? You’re not going to frighten me.”

Aziraphale huffs a humorless laugh. “You say that now…”

“You’re not going to frighten me.”

“Well, I suppose if you’re to know me at all, it will come out at some point. Maybe it’s better to… to frighten you away now, before I get… too attached.” He sighs, averting his gaze to the floor and looking absolutely desolate when he says, “I’m a monster.”

Crowley frowns. “Pardon?”

“I…” Aziraphale gulps, and looks to Crowley with what is nearly an apologetic wince. As though he’s trying to apologize for his very existence. “I’m not entirely human, see,” he says. “I’m a mockery of human life. An abomination.”

“Hey, watch what you say about my new friend, yeah?” Crowley tries with a grin, then gives the anxious man a sincere look. “Who told you that?”

“Gabriel. And… someone else. Someone who’s no longer…” Aziraphale sighs. He looks tired. Resigned, as though he fully expects to be screamed at and ran away from in the next few moments. “Look, I… I could prove it to you, and I’m certain that then you would understand. But as I said, I don’t wish to frighten you. I don’t wish to frighten you away.”

Crowley’s starting to feel like this is something of a challenge, here, and he doesn’t like to back down from a challenge. Whatever has Aziraphale so apprehensive, he can handle it, he’s sure of it. He takes off his sunglasses, folding them and setting them aside on the sofa, hoping it will put Aziraphale more at ease if he sees him. Sees his imperfections. His vulnerability. He doesn’t like doing it. It feels like being naked. But however uncomfortable he’s feeling right now, it’s quite obvious to him that it pales in comparison to Aziraphale’s fear of losing a new potential friend. “Show me,” he says gently. “Prove it to me. And let me prove that I won’t leave.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, his eyes flicking from Crowley to the abandoned shades beside him on the sofa, then back to Crowley. He nods, then stands and begins to roll up his sleeves.

Crowley lowers his gaze from Aziraphale’s nervous face to his revealed arms and frowns, noting the scars and mismatched skin tones that made up his body, like patchwork. Like the lower left corner of his face, and the patch he’d noticed on his hand the day prior. So it’s all over him, then. He looks back up at the man’s face in confusion. “How’s that– What happened to you?”

“Nothing ‘happened’ to me,” says Aziraphale, loosening his bowtie and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his dress shirt to reveal more patchwork skin around his neck. “This is the way I was made.”

“I don’t…”

“I’m sure you can put it together,” says Aziraphale, frustratedly. And so, so sadly.

Put together. That’s… That’s what he is, isn’t it? Put together, like a doll. With… oh fuck, were those limbs… Was Aziraphale made from corpse pieces? Like the ones Gabriel had stolen that evening? Fuckfuckfuck, what the fuck?!

“You’re… You were… Created?”

“Mm.”

“By Gabriel?”

“Indeed.”

“…When?” asks Crowley, because he has no idea what else to say.

Realizing Crowley isn’t running away, Aziraphale frowns, perplexed, and answers, “Er, six years ago.”

“You’re… You’re six years old.”

“Hardly! I’m nearly forty-eight, thank you.”

“Right, but– Wait. Wait. How– Okay. Wait.”

“Shall I start from the beginning?”

“Please.”

“Alright.”

Chapter Text

“So, Gabriel’s a mad scientist,” says Crowley, half an hour after Aziraphale’s big reveal.

“Er, not quite. He’s– Well, he’s quite brilliant, really! He went to medical school very young, graduated at the age of 21, and became a doctor. He spent several years doing that before he decided it wasn’t enough, and he wanted to do… experiments.”

“The creating life sorts of experiments.”

“Yes, as previously discussed. But he didn’t want to be caught, of course, given that he was, you know–”

“Getting the parts from graves, yeah, I got that bit.”

“Right, and so he became a professor to keep suspicion off of him. And to earn enough money to support his interests, of course.”

“Don’t know if robbing graves and using dead people’s bits to make new life counts as an ‘interest’, but sure.”

“I… I might have to agree.”

“So, wait, how’s he get the brains?”

“Oh, he, erm… He’s only ever obtained two. One for his first attempt to create life, which failed, and the brain burst into flames from all the…” Aziraphale waved a hand in the air, “I don’t know, technical things he was doing to it. I don’t fully understand his methods, myself.”

“And when you say ‘obtained’…”

“Oh, he took the first from a science lab at the university in which he teaches. He was able to make it seem like an accident, like he’d destroyed it. He left a fake replica in pieces on the floor and no one thought to question it– He’s so likable, you know.”

“I really, really don’t.”

“Well, he’s charismatic, anyway. People listen to him. He has quite a lot of authority amongst his colleagues.”

Crowley nods absently. “So, that was the first brain. What about…”

“Mine?” Aziraphale nods, then begins to look very sad. No, guilty, Crowley thinks. Incredibly guilty. Crowley thinks he knows what’s coming next.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, not even sure he wants to have his suspicions confirmed.

“It’s… It’s alright,” says Aziraphale. “He… He abducted someone. Someone who looked rather like me. Who might even have thought rather like me.” Aziraphale swallows thickly. “He took him back to the lab, and– and– took what he needed. The head. Or, most of it. There was a… an accident,” he says, lifting a hand to rub absently at the patch of mismatched skin on his face. “He had to stitch other skin onto my face, much as he did with the rest of my body.”

Crowley feels sick. Sicker than that time he saw roadkill up close. Sicker than he was on his 30th birthday when he got wasted and vomited his guts out the next day. Maybe even sicker than when his own mother kicked him out of the house at 17.

He can’t let Aziraphale see it. He doesn’t want to make him feel bad. It’s not his fault he was created the way that he was. It’s not his fault Gabriel is a fucking monster.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” says Aziraphale, “I know it’s quite a lot to take in.”

Crowley can’t do more than nod, staring blankly at the row of books just behind Aziraphale’s head. The head that had been yanked off another body and given new life. Which… makes no fucking sense. It makes absolutely no sense! Shouldn’t be possible, right? Crowley starts asking questions before he can stop himself. “Alright, but then how’s your brain… I mean how do you… Why don’t you have the memories of the person who had… that brain… that head… before you?”

“Well, Gabriel sort of, er, ‘rebooted’ it, I suppose you could say.”

“Do you ever get flashbacks? Memories coming back?”

“No, never. I truly think he wiped it clean.”

“But then you’d just be a six-year-old. You’re not a six-year-old.”

“No, I’m certainly not. It’s… I think he was able to preserve my basic, er, knowledge about life, but not about my own life, if that makes any sort of sense.”

It doesn’t. It doesn’t make any bloody sense at all. None of this does. This is the kind of stuff Crowley’s only ever seen in films. In horror films. Science fiction. It can’t… “Can’t be real,” says Crowley, distantly. “You’re fucking with me, somehow. Maybe s’all some elaborate social experiment. Wanna see how people will react to–”

“Crowley, I assure you, it is no such thing.” Aziraphale huffs and shifts in his seat. “You know, it took a lot of nerve for me to tell you all of this,” he says, “to show you… all of this. The least you could do is believe me.”

“I need… I think I need to leave,” says Crowley, still not feeling like he’s entirely there.

Aziraphale stops looking annoyed and instead looks desperate again, eyes wide and pleading and voice tight as he says, “Oh, please, don’t, I– Crowley, I– Please.”

“I’ll come back. Of course I’ll come back, Aziraphale, I don’t– I don’t intend to leave you behind. I just… This is a lot, and I feel like I’m going mad, and I just… I just need time alone to process the entire reframing of the world you’ve just given me. I didn’t think something like this was possible. I don’t know how to handle it, alright? I’m– I need to go.”

“You’re frightened of me, aren’t you?” says Aziraphale, sounding and looking more pathetic than Crowley knows how to handle at the moment, given he is definitely not ready to hug a man made of corpse pieces.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says. “I’m not even bothered by you. Not you–Not really, I’m just… It’s more to do with Gabriel. What he’s done. How… How insane all this is, I can’t– I’ll be back, okay? I promise. I won’t just leave you here. I’ll be back.”

He shoots up from the sofa, grabs his glasses, and barely pulls on his boots before he’s out the door. Aziraphale is silent.

Crowley doesn’t sleep that night. He sees flashes of Aziraphale’s face every time he closes his eyes. As the night progresses he goes from imagining Aziraphale’s head ripped from another body with Hollywood-style gore, to remembering the desperate, desolate look on Aziraphale’s face when he left him. He just… left him. The man revealed something he was clearly terrified to share, something he no doubt carries a heavy weight of guilt over, and then Crowley had left him.

Of course, he’d told him he’d be back. And of course he will be back. But Crowley can’t sleep with the guilt eating at him. Not a wink.

He spends the next day in a daze at work, startled by the smallest sounds. He jumps every time the door opens. He half expects Aziraphale every time. He half hopes for Aziraphale every time.

“Newt, would you mind closing the shop on your own tonight?” he asks when half-five comes around.

Newt, his most recent hire and definitely least confident employee, winces slightly at the request. “Er, well, I– I don’t feel overly ready to… to…”

“You wouldn’t have to do the registers, I could take care of it later tonight when I get back into town,” says Crowley. “I’d just need you to lock up. I can give you a spare key.”

“Am… Am I allowed?”

Crowley scoffs, “‘Course you’re allowed, I’m the one who runs this place, aren’t I?”

“Of course! Of course, sorry, Mr. Crowley.”

“Newt, how many times will I have to tell you? It’s just Crowley.”

Newt nods with an awkward smile and looks at the door. “So, I would just… turn the sign at nine, and– and lock the door on my way out?”

Crowley nods slowly. “Simple as that. You can give me the spare key on your next shift. I trust you not to lose it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t! I’m– I’ve got this bag, see, I keep all the important things in it.”

“And that’s why I trust you won’t lose it.” Crowley smacks a hand down on Newt’s shoulder. “So, what do you say?” He looks him in the eye then and says, “You can say ‘no’, to be clear. If you really aren’t comfortable closing alone. I won’t make you do it. I don’t really… I don’t have to leave early,” he says, though he’s already antsy to get out the door. “And fair’s fair, you know, not to make last-minute schedule changes.”

Newt looks uncertain for a moment, then draws his brows together in a rare expression of determination and shakes his head. “No, I’m– I’m fairly certain I can do this,” he says.

“Oh, I’m completely certain you can do it,” Crowley says with an encouraging smile. “Just don’t touch the computers, yeah?” he teases, thinking back to Newt’s first shift when he’d somehow managed to crash the entire cash register simply by clocking in. Crowley’d looked away for all but ten seconds, honestly! But he’s a sweet kid, and some of the store regulars have already remarked on how nice it is to have an employee with such good manners. (Okay, so maybe most of the team is a bit snarky and aloof in contrast–It’s not Crowley’s fault; Bea and Dagon were on the original staff before he took over the shop!)

“Alright, Mr. Crowley– Er, that is, Crowley, sir. I’ll close the shop.”

“That’s a boy!” Crowley leaps over the counter and starts toward the door. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?” he hollers over his shoulder, already pulling his keys from his pocket.

As soon as he starts up the Bentley, he asks himself just exactly where he thinks he’s going.

“Aziraphale’s,” he says aloud to himself. “Obviously.”

Are you sure you’re ready for that? he asks himself. Because if you’re not, and you freak out on him…

“Wouldn’t be fair to him, I know.” Crowley sighs and rests his head back on the seat. “I think I’m… I think I’m good,” he says. “S’a lot, obviously, s’fucking world shattering, but… He’s the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in a while. Er, person. Not thing.” Crowley grimaces. He knows he didn’t mean it that way, but it makes him think of how careful he might need to be with his wording around Aziraphale. The guy’s sensitive enough already… Accidentally referring to him as a “thing”, even if it’s just due to Crowley’s occasional clumsiness in verbal communication, could really do some damage.

“Not a thing at all. Just a guy. And, and he’s a genuinely good guy, I think, which is bloody rare to come by in my experience. Not to mention he’s a right bastard when he wants to be, which is…” Crowley blows a puff of air from his lips, then nods and pulls out onto the road. “I’d rather be near him than not, no matter how… fucking ludicrous all this is.”

When Aziraphale opens the door, it’s clear right away that he’s been crying. His eyes are puffy and pink around the edges and he sniffles even as he ushers Crowley inside. He closes the door quietly and Crowley stands frozen, waiting to either be yelled at or for the poor guy to burst into tears in front of him. “You… You did come back,” says Aziraphale finally.

“I did, yeah.” Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets. They’re too small. It looks awkward. “Said I would.” He crosses his arms over his chest instead.

“You did, yes…” Aziraphale can’t seem to look his direction. “I suppose you want to continue your investigation?”

Crowley feels like a pile of dog shit in the middle of a busy London street on a rainy day. “I didn’t come back to ask questions, Aziraphale, I came back for you.”

Aziraphale audibly holds back a sob as he says, “Oh.”

“Can I…” Crowley hesitates. “Can I touch you?” He rushes to add, “Not in a– I’m not being weird, just– You know, reassuring hand on the shoulder… Seems like you might need it, but I didn’t want to just assume that’d be okay–”

Aziraphale surprises him by stepping forward and planting his head in Crowley’s shoulder as he starts to cry. On instinct, Crowley brings a hand up to pat him on the back, and then before he knows it he’s hugging him, just like that. Aziraphale clings to him as he cries, and Crowley feels his throat go tight at the sound of such distress coming from the other man.

When Aziraphale begins to quiet down, he pulls away, looking rather ashamed as he adjusts his waistcoat and says, “Er, I… I apologize. That was hardly appropriate of me.”

“S’alright,” says Crowley, a little dazedly. He hasn’t held someone like that in… Christ, nearly a decade, now.

“It’s only that I… I’d never been, er, so carefully handled. You were… You were so thoughtful, to ask if I might want… a-and to hold me, as you did, and let me– Oh, goodness I’ve wept all over your shirt, haven’t I?” Aziraphale looks mortified. “I… I do apologize. I suppose I got carried away. I’ve never… I’ve never been held, you see. And I thought perhaps you might never visit me again, and that I was a truly terrible and horrific thing, that I would never know such kindness, a-and then you returned, and I–”

“Sorry, wait,” says Crowley, finally snapping out of his daze as his brain catches up to what Aziraphale’s been saying. “You’ve never been held? Never?”

Aziraphale swallows and glances away for a moment. “Well, unless you count being held down when I first came to life and was a bit too disoriented for Gabriel’s tastes.”

“I don’t.”

“No, I didn’t think that counted, either.”

“But, a hug, then? Not a single hug? Not once?”

“Not until today.”

“Oh, Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale’s eyes begin to water again, which may be what prompts him to look away. “Well, anyway…,” he says after a moment. He puts on a tight smile. “Shall I make us some tea?”

Alright, then, Crowley thinks. If he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, I won’t talk about it. He starts kicking off his boots, and puts on a smirk. “Thought we’d established I’m not the tea-drinking sort?”

“Ah, yes, I do recall,” says Aziraphale with a small smile. “How about cocoa, then?”

“Only if you put cinnamon in it.”

“Oh, how interesting! You know, I think I might try that, myself.”

Aziraphale prepares the cocoa as Crowley waits in the living room. He does snoop around a bit, this time, glancing over the books that line the shelves on the wall. Most of them seem to be on science and medical stuff. More Gabriel’s personal collection than the broad range of subjects Aziraphale has in the library upstairs, Crowley figures.

He takes a seat in the same chair he did last time when Aziraphale enters the room, a mug in each hand.

“I do enjoy the cinnamon,” Aziraphale remarks, handing Crowley his cocoa before he takes his own seat across the room. “However did you think of it?”

Crowley shrugs. “Tried it in a café once. S’the only way I’ll drink it, now.”

“I may have to join you,” says Aziraphale. “It does taste scrumptious.”

Crowley’s about to snort at the word “scrumptious”, but then Aziraphale crosses his legs and clears his throat. “What?” asks Crowley.

“I take it you’re… alright, then?” Aziraphale asks from behind his mug.

“Hm?”

“With… me? Did all the processing you needed to do?”

“Oh! Yeah. I mean, it’s still… I’ll be honest, I’m still a bit…” Crowley sets his mug down and kicks his legs up under himself, the way he used to sit in school when the teacher called on him in class and he didn’t know the answer. “I don’t know, s’hard to explain how it feels to have your whole concept of what’s scientifically possible shattered, you know? But I’m… I’m not bothered by you. I’m bothered by Gabriel, like, deeply, but not you.”

“And the fact that I am comprised of various corpses is alright, then?”

Aziraphale almost sounds challenging, as though he’s preparing himself for the possibility of horrified rejection yet again. Crowley wishes he could hold him again. Squeeze all that self-doubt out of him. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate. He’s going to have to rely on his words for now.

He scrapes his teeth over his tongue as he thinks about how to ease Aziraphale’s anxieties without lying to him. “I don’t…,” he starts, then shifts in his seat and takes his glasses off, folding them and setting them beside his cocoa. “I don’t like it, alright? I mean, I’m not thrilled to hear that that’s what happened in order to bring you to life. But I’m also not… repulsed by you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m…” Crowley makes sure the other man meets his gaze before he says, “I’m glad to have met you, Aziraphale. I’m glad to know you. Your origin story is a tad overwhelming, I’ll admit it, but it’s not… It’s not a dealbreaker.”

“Dealbreaker?” Aziraphale frowns. “For what ‘deal’, exactly?”

“Er, I dunno. Friendship?”

Aziraphale looks unsure, but quickly a smile overtakes his face. “Friendship,” he echoes.

“Yeah, if you want. I’d like to consider you my friend, if you’d let me. And I’d like it if you considered me yours.”

“Oh! I’ve never… You know, I don’t think I can say I’ve ever had a friend before. I’m not sure that Gabriel counts…”

“He definitely doesn’t,” says Crowley, perhaps a little too harshly for Aziraphale’s tastes, if the man’s disapproving frown is any indication. “Er, from what I’ve heard, anyway,” Crowley adds.

Aziraphale sighs. “No, I… I suppose you’re right. He may have given me life, but he hasn’t been a friend to me.”

“Well, you’ve got one now. A friend, I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.” Aziraphale smiles. He bites his lip for the shortest moment, looking as though he wants to say something else, but then he gets up and takes his mug into the kitchen. “I didn’t heat it up quite enough for my tastes,” he calls over his shoulder. “The cocoa, I mean. Would you like me to reheat yours?”

Crowley picks his own mug up and joins Aziraphale. “It was fine before, but I wouldn’t mind it being a bit hotter, now that you’ve said it.”

Aziraphale smiles and takes the mug from Crowley’s hand, their fingers brushing briefly, and Crowley could swear the man blushes as a result of it. “I’ll just put it on the stove for a bit– Oh! I… I suppose I should have warmed them separately…” Aziraphale winces, looking back to Crowley. “It’s a bit unsanitary to pour both of our drinks into the same pot, isn’t it? Given we’ve both sipped from them…”

Crowley shrugs, his mouth turning down in a nonchalant frown. “Doesn’t matter to me.” He nudges Aziraphale’s shoulder with his elbow. “M’not afraid of you, you know,” he says with a teasing grin. “I can handle your germs.”

Aziraphale’s definitely blushing now. “Well,” he says after a moment, quiet, so Crowley leans just a bit closer to him, “I suppose that’s good, then.”

“Mm,” Crowley hums in agreement.

It’s quiet between them for a moment, Crowley looking at Aziraphale with a soft smile and Aziraphale looking just about anywhere else, cheeks pink and eyes wide.

“Cocoa’s boiling,” murmurs Crowley after about a minute.

“Hm?” Aziraphale turns back to look at him, blinking rapidly and looking just a bit disoriented.

“The cocoa,” says Crowley, nodding at the stove. “It’s boiling.” His small smile spreads into an amused grin.

“Oh! So it is.”

Aziraphale refills their respective mugs and moves to hand Crowley’s back to him, but his hand is shaking as he does, and the cocoa spills over the side of it and onto the back of his hand.

“Shit,” says Crowley, already moving to turn the cold water in the sink on.

“Goodness me, I nearly dropped it, didn’t I?” remarks Aziraphale, seemingly unperturbed by the scalding hot beverage all over his hand.

“Aziraphale!”

“What?!”

“You’ve– You’ve just spilt hot cocoa all over your hand!”

Aziraphale’s gaze flicks from Crowley to his now-wet hand, then back up to Crowley again. “Ah. So I have.”

“It’s still steaming… Can’t you feel it?!”

“Oh, this hand… this entire arm, actually, is… a bit complicated.”

“Complicated?”

Aziraphale nods as he pulls a hand towel from below the sink and begins to dab at his hand. “I can’t feel much at all in this arm, but I can move it just as well as the other one. It was a mistake on Gabriel’s part. He didn’t connect everything to my brain perfectly. Well, this is really the only thing he got wrong in that aspect. Everything else is just as sensitive as the average person, I think.”

“So you’ve… no feeling in that arm?” Crowley turns the sink off without looking away from Aziraphale.

“I have some feeling. Just very, very little. It’s as though it’s numb. If you were to tap it with all your might, I would be able to feel the pressure, but it’s very dull.” He chuckles. “It’s made it quite difficult to keep from injuring myself in that arm, truth be told.”

Crowley mouths “ah” and nods. “‘Cause you can’t feel it, if something bad’s happening? Like a burn?”

“Precisely. Or, sometimes, I forget it’s there. I can move it, as I said, but if I’m, er– Well, if it gets stuck somewhere and I move away too quickly…”

Crowley winces. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yes, I’ve lost this arm before.”

“Wait, you’ve lost it?!”

“Tore it clean off,” says Aziraphale as he nods. “A few times, actually.”

“Christ.” Crowley grimaces and absently begins to rub at his own shoulder. “S’gotta be unpleasant.”

“Well, as I said, it doesn’t have much feeling in it. And remember, because there are multiple, er… well, my limbs are comprised of… of multiple parts… I’ve never actually lost the part that’s attached to my shoulder, which does have regular feeling in it. It’s only ever torn from about here,” he says, placing a finger at about the middle of his upper arm. “So, you see, it’s really more of an inconvenience. It doesn’t hurt, not really. A bit of a dull ache at the stitching site, I suppose.”

“So you just… stitch it back on, then? And it goes back to normal?”

“Mmhm. It’s quite simple, really,” says Aziraphale, moving beside Crowley to wash his hands in the sink. “Although I’m not very good at it. It’s why I’m so grateful that Gabriel has usually been here to stitch it back on.”

“Usually?”

Aziraphale smiles sadly. “Well, he is a rather busy man. He isn’t always… around, you know. To check up on me. Sometimes he’s gone for weeks at a time.” Aziraphale finishes washing his hands and dries them with the same towel, then winces slightly when he realizes he’s just put the stickiness of the cocoa back on his hands. He tosses the towel in the sink and washes his hands again, also soaping up the dirty towel. “Once he didn’t come around for four months! It was during that time that I got my arm caught in the fence while tending to the bushes. It came off, and I… I’m only to use the telephone in case of emergencies. I phoned Gabriel and he, er, well… He said I could manage with the one arm for a few more weeks.”

Crowley grits his teeth.

Aziraphale smiles – or, winces, really. “It was a bit difficult to cook and clean and so on. And so, after a few days, I decided to stitch it on myself, which was,” he chuckles, twisting excess water from the now-clean towel, “quite difficult, I assure you.”

“I believe it,” says Crowley, beside himself with rage and thinking of several different ways to kill Gabriel.

“Well, anyway.” Aziraphale hangs the towel to dry and shakes his hands dry. “I did such an awful job of it, when Gabriel finally came back he tore it off again so he could do it the right way.”

“Christ.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement, looking a little distant at the memory. He blinks and shakes his head. “Anyway, it does come loose sometimes. Starts to tear at the seams. It’s never sealed and scarred up the way the rest of my parts and patches have.”

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale, that’s– That’s got to be… difficult.” Crowley mentally kicks himself for the understatement.

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale sighs. “It’s not so bad. At least I can’t feel it. That would be a nightmare.”

Crowley grunts, then leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why doesn’t he just get you a bionic arm or something?”

“Oh, Gabriel isn’t interested in using technology in his creations. He wants them to be organic. Otherwise, he says, I’d simply be a glorified robot.”

“But it would probably be less of a pain in the arse.”

“Hmm, yes. I don’t suspect he’s concerned about that. He’s rather preoccupied with his own form of glory, or something. I don’t know. It’s best not to question it.”

“I think you should absolutely question it. He’s not– He’s not right, Aziraphale. He’s not well.”

“I… I suppose I… I understand why you might feel that way…” Aziraphale looks down and frowns, his brows furrowing as he begins to chew on his lower lip.

It’s clear that Aziraphale isn’t quite ready to completely deconstruct the unearned respect he seems to have for his creator, so Crowley shifts the conversation to give him a break. “Hey, I been wondering…,” he starts. He waits until Aziraphale looks up at him before he asks, “Why’s he call you ‘Ezra’?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiles, but it doesn’t do much to hide the sadness evoked by the question. “He says ‘Aziraphale’ isn’t a real name. And too much effort to say, especially given what I am. Not worth the effort, I suppose.”

Crowley grits his teeth. “That’s a load of shit. He’s wrong, I hope you know that.”

“I… Thank you.”

Christ, Crowley just wants to hug him again. “So, where did ‘Aziraphale’ come from, then?”

Aziraphale blushes. “I… Well, I named myself, actually. Gabriel never gave me one. I came up with the name when reading one of the old books in his library. It was about angels. I always quite liked the idea of angels– something pure and kind in… in a world that can be so cruel. And so I, I borrowed some elements of different angelic names that I liked, and I…I made my own.” He clears his throat politely and looks down, then around the kitchen before he returns his gaze to Crowley. “It’s a bit silly of me, I know,” he says through a forced smile.

Crowley’s not gonna cry about it. He’s not. “I don’t think it’s silly,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s choking on his own bloody heart. “Not at all.”

Aziraphale scoffs and waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, you flatterer. You’re only saying that.”

“I’m not! I really think it’s… It’s sweet. And it suits you. Very angelic, you are. First look I got at you I thought you were like an angel.”

“Well, now you’re just lying.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” says Crowley, to which Aziraphale simply purses his lips and quirks a brow. “I mean it! Your hair was glowing with the light of the room and it reminded me of a halo. Actual thoughts in my head– halo, cherub, angel.”

Aziraphale looks damn-near close to tears now. Crowley notices, and he’s not sure what to do about that, so he changes the subject.

“Anyway, I was thinking, it’s definitely past dinner time, but I’m not real keen on leaving just yet. What would you say if I ordered us something on my mobile? Could get it delivered. Are there any good restaurants in the town centre?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “Order… delivery?”

“Er… yeah? Surely you know what that is…,” says Crowley, who’s absolutely not sure how limited Aziraphale’s life has been.

“Of course I know! It’s only, I… I’ve never ordered delivery. I’m only to use the groceries Gabriel brings me. I don’t… I don’t buy things, myself.”

“Well, first time for everything, right?” says Crowley, already pulling out his phone.

Aziraphale looks uncertain. He grabs his own hand, holding tightly to three of his fingers, and begins to worry aloud, “…What if he were to find out? Could he… Could he somehow find the record, o-of the restaurant having delivered something on his property?”

“Not if I’m the one ordering it. S’my phone,” says Crowley, pointedly shaking the object in question, “my contact info. He’d have no way of knowing. This is risk-free, angel.”

Aziraphale blushes deeply at Crowley’s use of the nickname, and bites his lip. “I… I don’t know, I… I do want to, to try something I haven’t had to prepare myself…”

“So let’s do it!”

Aziraphale takes a few visibly deep breaths, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale, and Crowley thinks the poor guy might be about to have a panic attack, but then he nods and says, “Alright.”

“Yeah?” Crowley grins. “Alright!”

Aziraphale beams, and Crowley almost forgets what they’re doing. He’s not even hungry anymore; that smile would keep him sated for days, probably. But Aziraphale’s excited and he’s never ordered delivery and Crowley’s going to spoil the guy tonight, bank account be damned.

“So, whatever you want, yeah?”

“Oh, are you sure?” Aziraphale swallows nervously. “Don’t you have a preference, that is? I wouldn’t want to ask for something you wouldn’t enjoy…”

“I’m not worried about that. I’ll eat anything,” says Crowley, and it’s not a lie, because as picky an eater as he might be, he truly would eat anything Aziraphale picked in that moment. He moves to stand closer to the other man so they can both look at their dining options. “So, alright, in our delivery radius, we’ve got… Looks like cuisine options are pasta, curry, sushi, fish and–”

“Oh! Oh, sushi! I’ve read such wonderful things about it in cookbooks and a few travel books, but Gabriel’s never provided the ingredients for me to make it. I’d…” Aziraphale calms himself and clears his throat. “I’d like to try sushi, I think.”

Crowley grins as he selects the restaurant in question. “Sushi it is, then.”

“Oh! But they can’t come on to the property,” says Aziraphale. “It would be… It would be too dangerous. I can’t be seen.”

“I’ll have them leave it at the gate,” says Crowley. “It’s going to be fine, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale bites his lip. “If you’re certain…”

“I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen tonight.”

Chapter Text

It takes the restaurant nearly forty-five minutes to deliver, but Crowley hardly feels the time passing. They sit in the living room, waiting, and talk about food. All the recipes Aziraphale’s made, what his favorites are, and what he’s eager to try someday. Crowley makes a mental note of all the things he says he’s yet to try; he’ll order for them again, next time, he thinks. Maybe he could even get him some groceries, so he could try new recipes! Never in Crowley’s life has he so wanted to spoil someone he isn’t even dating.

The buzzing from his mobile pulls him out of his daydream of showering Aziraphale with anything and everything he wants, and he goes to fetch the delivery at the gate.

For a split second, even Crowley begins to worry about Gabriel somehow finding out about all this. He imagines a white van pulling up to the gate, catching him like a deer in headlights.

Then he decides that’s a stupid thing to worry about, and goes back inside.

“Sushi!” Crowley announces as he sets the bag on the kitchen table. “Come and get it while it’s hot! Er… actually I think most of what we ordered is cold…”

“I’ll be right there, just washing up,” Aziraphale calls from down the hall, presumably from a bathroom.

“Do you want to eat on proper plates or would you rather just eat straight from the delivery container things they put the food in?” Crowley calls over his shoulder.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” says Aziraphale, quieter but much closer. Crowley looks up to find him in the kitchen, smiling in anxious anticipation of his first restaurant-cooked meal. “Either way is perfectly fine with me.”

Aziraphale takes a seat at the table, then frowns at the styrofoam boxes Crowley’s laid out. “Er… On second thought, perhaps a plate might be… better?”

Crowley chuckles and nods. “Thought you might say that.” He turns toward the cabinets. “Where’s the plates, then?”

“Far left cabinet. The forks are in the drawer directly below.”

“Ah-ah, no,” says Crowley, retrieving two plates and bringing them back to the table. “You don’t eat sushi with a fork.”

Aziraphale brightens and says, “Oh, of course! Chopsticks, isn’t it? I’ve read about them.”

“Chopsticks,” confirms Crowley, picking a pair out from the delivery bag and setting them in front of Aziraphale’s plate. “Need help using them?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m sure I can manage to figure it out without you, dear boy,” he says, like a bastard, and Crowley can’t help but grin.

“Suit yourself, then,” he says. He takes his own chopsticks, separating them and tapping them together three times, then cackles when Aziraphale does the same thing. “You,” he says, pointing an accusatory chopstick at the other man, “do need my help.”

Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes. “Honestly.”

“Want a tutorial?”

“You’re making fun of my inexperience.”

“Only because you blush so prettily.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have a witty remark to shoot back, apparently. He clears his throat and nods at the two open boxes of sushi rolls. “So, which ones…?”

“I told you,” says Crowley, plucking a roll from the box nearest him with his chopsticks and setting it on his plate, “I ordered like five different ones for you to try. Just take one of each to start and see how you like them.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to leave you with your least favorites…”

“I didn’t order anything I wouldn’t eat,” says Crowley, truthfully–again, mostly because he would eat just about anything that night to make Aziraphale happy. “Take what you want! Honestly, I’m not even that hungry, anyway. I’ll probably only have these few pieces.” He adds three more rolls to his plate and sets his chopsticks down, reaching for the packets of soy sauce.

“Crowley! This is… this is a lot of food!”

Crowley shrugs. “You can keep the leftovers.”

“No, no. I can’t– I can’t risk Gabriel finding them. He would ask where I got them– No, I can’t let you leave them here.”

“S’probably for the best,” says Crowley through a mouthful of tempura veggie roll. “I don’t even know how well sushi keeps, honestly.”

Aziraphale nods, looking a bit lost at the variety of options laid before him. “Which do you recommend first?”

Crowley points at a few different rolls. “Anything with tempura in it. S’all crunchy.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale picks up a roll with his chopsticks, and Crowley watches as he drops it clumsily onto his plate. “Don’t you say a word,” he says without looking up from his plate, causing Crowley to nearly choke on his current roll while laughing. “Is the soy sauce, er… good?”

“Put it in the little styrofoam bowl they gave us,” instructs Crowley, “so it doesn’t get on the other rolls if you don’t like it.”

Aziraphale does as suggested, then dips a roll into the soy sauce, and, without dropping it, brings it to his lips and takes a bite. Crowley watches, captivated, as the man closes his eyes and tips his head back with a moan. “Oh, that’s… Crowley, this is delicious!”

“Nngh, yeah. Delicious. Sushi. Yup.” Crowley shifts in his chair. Who eats like that?!

“Oh, my mouth is already watering for another bite,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley’s pretty sure his mouth is about to start watering, too.

Somehow, Crowley survives his introduction to the ridiculously sensual way Aziraphale eats his food. They make it through two-thirds of the box–or, Aziraphale does, mostly–when there’s a flash of light through the window.

Aziraphale freezes, eyes wide, then gasps. “Crowley– You– You have to leave! Now!”

“Shit.” Crowley turns around and squints out the window. “He’s early!”

“I know! I see, that, Crowley! Now leave, you idiot!”

Aziraphale leaps up from his seat, sending his chair back, screeching against the tile. He doesn’t even wince at the noise. He gathers the dishes and puts them in the sink, running water over them to remove any evidence of the night’s meal.

Crowley rushes off to fetch his boots, then comes back into the kitchen to grab the delivery bag and boxes. He shoves all the trash into the bag and ties a knot with the handles. “I’ll take this, just in case.”

“Yes, good, good, now go!” Aziraphale says in a hushed voice, but it’s the most tense Crowley’s ever heard it. “Through the back door.”

Crowley nods and runs toward the exit, then pauses and says, “Aziraphale, how will I know when it’s safe to come by again?”

“No time for that! Crowley, please, I– I can’t bear the thought of him finding you here. What he might do… Now, go!”

Crowley opens the door, quietly, and leaves, shutting it carefully behind him. He takes a few steps, then hears footsteps on the other side of the cottage. He freezes. If he runs for the gate, now, Gabriel might hear him. Or see him…

He waits.

“Ezra!”

Crowley has the sudden urge to vomit at the sound of Gabriel’s voice through the thin glass of the kitchen window. He manages to hold it back.

“I see you did get around to tending to the yard,” says Gabriel. “Half of it, anyway. Let’s get that finished by this weekend.”

Crowley snarls at the condescending tone.

“Gabriel! You’re… Early,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley can hear a slight tremble to his voice.

“I decided to drive over tonight instead of tomorrow morning,” says Gabriel. “I had an idea. A slight change to the current project. It’s going to require a bit more study, so I’ll be in the lab tonight. You know not to bother me.”

“Of course, sir.”

Blech.

“I see you didn’t keep up with your dishes,” Gabriel notes. “That’s not like you, Ezra. Take care of that.”

He almost sounds like he’s smiling, and that really makes Crowley’s skin crawl.

“Oh! But first, I’m going to need your assistance in the lab,” Gabriel adds. “Just need an extra pair of hands… yours will have to do, as usual.”

How big is this Gabriel, guy, exactly? Could Crowley take him in a fight?

Crowley hears a vague reply from Aziraphale and then the room goes quiet. He should leave, he thinks. He should probably leave, now, while Gabriel’s busy. But then how will he know when to come back? He could leave a note, he thinks. With his number. Have Aziraphale call him when it’s safe.

He pats his coat uselessly. He doesn’t carry a bloody notepad with him. Nor even a pen. He came with his keys and his glasses and that was–Oh, shit! My sunglasses. Crowley blanches when he realizes he’s left them in the living room.

He could… He could sneak back inside?

No, too risky. Plus, he’s pretty sure Aziraphale locked the door after he left.

He stands there panicking for about six and a half minutes, when suddenly he hears the sound of water running on the other side of the wall. The sink! Gotta be Aziraphale washing the dishes, right? He must be done helping in the lab.

Crowley takes a risk and moves toward the kitchen window, then leans and peers in. Aziraphale’s right there, at the sink, and Crowley can hear the little surprised shout he gives when he looks up and sees him.

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. He looks back over his shoulder, presumably checking for Gabriel, then turns back to Crowley with a frown that’s somewhere between frustrated and fearful.

My glasses, Crowley mouths. He points toward the living room. On the little table.

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide again. He shuts off the sink and disappears for a moment, then returns to the window with Crowley’s sunglasses in hand. Friday morning, Aziraphale mouths at him. He’ll be leaving.

Friday? Crowley asks to confirm.

Aziraphale nods.

Crowley nods, too. Keep those for now, he tells him. Hide them.

Aziraphale nods again, clutching the glasses tighter in his hand. He mouths something else at him and waves goodbye.

Crowley’s not sure what “I know Hugo” is supposed to mean, but he nods anyway, and turns toward the gate. He’ll be back. Friday night. He’ll be back.

Chapter Text

Thursday is torture. So’s Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, Crowley’s practically squirming behind the shop counter and glancing at the clock every two and a half minutes.

He’s spent the past two days thinking about all the things Gabriel might have needed Aziraphale’s “assistance” with in the lab. More limbs? A… brain? Or something? Crowley doesn’t want to think about it and yet it’s all he can think about, especially as the clock inches closer to closing time. What extremely unethical experiment is Gabriel up to now? How involved is Aziraphale? Why won’t Aziraphale just tell him? Doesn’t he trust him yet?

Oh. Crowley guesses he doesn’t. Or, maybe he will now–hopefully he will now–but before yesterday, he wasn’t sure how Crowley would react to the truth of his history. If he’d be horrified or not.

Crowley’s not. Truly, wholly, genuinely not.

Gabriel is a monster, as far as Crowley’s concerned.

But Aziraphale?

Aziraphale’s… different. Than anyone else he’s ever known.

Peculiar, in the best way. He gets so excited about things. Crowley could listen to him talk for hours.

Definitely queer. Well, okay, Crowley doesn’t know how Aziraphale identifies, but he’d be shocked if the guy turned out to be 100% cisgender and straight. Not that that matters, of course, since they’re only just becoming friends! Erm…

He’s sweet, when he wants to be. Considerate. Polite. Or a bit of a bastard, which makes up for the times when he’s maybe a bit too polite.

Aziraphale’s… He’s… good. Genuinely good. Crowley suspected it from the beginning, from the moment he heard his voice, and Aziraphale’s only further solidified that belief every time they’ve met.

So what if he’s pieced together from corpses? Crowley’s known plenty of people who aren’t worth the skin they’re in. Lucas, for one. Christ, Lucas was a real piece of shit.

But Crowley doesn’t want to think about past relationships right now.

He just wants to get to Aziraphale.

Closing time finally comes around and Crowley nearly tears the shop door off the frame when the key gets a bit stuck. He manages to lock up and get the key out after about a 20-second struggle (which felt rather more like 20 minutes, if you ask him).

He hopes Aziraphale’s right. He hopes Gabriel is long gone by the time he gets there. He’s not sure that Aziraphale will let him around again if they have another close call.

The driveway’s empty when Crowley pulls up, so he assumes it’s safe. He parks a bit farther down the road as he’s been doing, and walks back to the cottage. Okay, runs. He runs back.

“My goodness,” says Aziraphale after letting him in. “Do you need some water, dear?”

Crowley’s still catching his breath, bent over slightly as he looks up at Aziraphale. “Jogged over from where I parked,” he says.

“I’ll get you a glass of water, then.” Aziraphale turns toward the kitchen. “Why on earth were you running?”

Crowley follows after removing his boots. He’s only done this a few times, now… Why does it feel so natural? Like coming home, almost. After a long day. To someone… Someone he really cares about. Too soon, he tells himself, it’s too soon for all this––Why am I like this?! Crowley clears his throat as he leans against the kitchen counter. “Just… Eager to get inside, I guess.” Eager to see you again.

Crowley doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s eyes widen in understanding, nor the blush that spreads over his cheeks. “Ah,” says Aziraphale, reaching for a glass in the cupboard. “I see.” His brows shoot up, suddenly. “Oh,” he exclaims, “speaking of seeing…”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale sets down the cup and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out his sunglasses.

“I’ve kept these safe for you.”

Crowley blinks, looking down at the glasses in Aziraphale’s open hand, then back up at Aziraphale. “You… Kept them in your pocket?”

“Well, you said to hide them,” Aziraphale says, somewhat defensively. “I couldn’t risk putting them anywhere else; Gabriel might have found them! He generally avoids getting too close to me unless he needs to stitch me up, and so, I decided that the safest place to hide them was on my person.”

Crowley takes the shades from Aziraphale, who goes back to his task of getting him a glass of water. Crowley puts the shades in his coat pocket. He makes believe he can feel residual warmth from Aziraphale’s hand on them, even through the thick material of his coat. (He can’t, of course. He’s just hopelessly smitten.)

“I hope you didn’t have to deal with any unpleasant people,” says Aziraphale, standing at the sink.

“Hm?”

“Without your sunglasses. You said people could be bullies.”

“Oh,” Crowley nods. “Yeah, I did say that. Yeah.”

“Well, were they?” asks Aziraphale, turning back to him to hand him the water.

Crowley takes the water and sets it on the counter. “Not really, no. Er, I didn’t give them the chance. I have a spare pair I keep at the shop, so.”

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale smiles. “Well, I’m glad you seem to have decided against wearing them here. I think your eyes are quite lovely, you know. Thank you for sharing them with me.”

“Nnh, uh, yeah,” says Crowley, turning red and suddenly feeling the urge to put those shades on right the fuck now. “Er, I mean, you know. Thanks.”

Aziraphale’s smile is so soft and so warm… for a moment, anyway. Then he frowns, his lips pulling down into a concerned pout, and he says, “Oh, but I do hope the light isn’t too bright for you in here.”

“Oh, it’s not bad in here,” says Crowley dismissively. “S’more direct sunlight and fluorescents that really give me trouble.”

“I see.”

“Me, too. Just not in direct sunlight.” Crowley smirks.

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“As long as it makes you smile,” says Crowley, picking up his glass of water and making a beeline for the living room before Aziraphale can see how deeply he’s blushing just from saying that. “Coming?”

Aziraphale joins him, and they take their usual seats. He’s blushing profusely, and it prompts Crowley to ask a question before he can think to stop himself.

“How do you blush?”

“Wh– What?”

Crowley realizes how awkward the question is, but knows it’s too late to take it back, so he clarifies, “If you’re, you know, made out of…” And he pauses for a moment, because he isn’t sure how to word it. Sure, he’s come around to where it doesn’t really bother him, doesn’t impact how he thinks of Aziraphale, but does Aziraphale have a certain way he likes to word it? Crowley doesn’t want to offend him…

“Corpse parts,” offers Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart breaks at the shame in his voice. Okay, the word “corpse” is off limits, then.

“I was going to say ‘parts that no longer have blood in them’,” says Crowley. “If you haven’t got blood, how is it I’ve seen you blush so many times?”

“I have blood,” says Aziraphale, and now he just sounds indignant. Crowley thinks he prefers that to the shame. “Crowley, how could I be alive if I didn’t have blood? You thought I didn’t have blood?!”

“I don’t know! I thought– I mean, yeah, maybe!”

“Well,” huffs Aziraphale, straightening his waistcoat as he wiggles uncomfortably in his seat. “I do.”

“Yeah, got that.” Crowley frowns. “Where’d he, uh… Where’d he get the blood from, then?”

Now Aziraphale looks guilty, and Crowley curses himself for not knowing when to just shut up.

“You don’t have to answer that–”

“He took it from blood banks,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley frowns. “That… That’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. I mean, it’s not like anyone was harmed by that. That’s good, yeah?” He offers an encouraging smile.

Aziraphale thins his lips. “I was given blood that could have been used to save a life.”

Crowley’s mouth turns down in a sort of shrug. “I mean, yeah, maybe, but you were given blood and now you’ve got your life.”

“But it was stolen! It wasn’t meant for me.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? If I hadn’t been created, someone else might have received life-saving blood.”

Okay, Crowley’s not liking where this is going. Does Aziraphale really feel guilty for merely existing? “You say that like you know for sure that there was a shortage and just the amount he took for you was irreplaceable, and cost a life. You don’t know any of that.” Crowley frowns. “Er, do you?”

Aziraphale’s quiet for a moment, looking off to the side. “No,” he says after a moment.

“Alright, then, so that’s settled,” says Crowley decisively. “And I, for one, am glad you exist, no matter what crimes Gabriel committed in order to bring you about. I don’t blame you for any of that, and I don’t think you should either.” He picks up and takes a long sip of his water, then sets it down. “Just so we’re clear.”

It takes a quarter of a minute before Aziraphale murmurs, “Thank you.” He moves his head slightly, and Crowley notices a tear on his cheek when the light hits it.

“‘Course. I mean it.”

Aziraphale sniffles, then chuckles a bit. “You’re… You’re so unbelievably nice.”

Crowley’s not sure how he feels about that. “Nice” has always been something of a four-letter word to him. “Kind”, sure. “Kind” was good. But “nice”? All the people he’s known who were “nice” were fake, putting on politeness to suit their own interests. Forced smiles, “nice” to your face, then they stab you in your back later. That’s the sort of people Crowley thought of when he heard the word “nice”. Gabriel had seemed “nice”. Crowley could hear it in his voice, that forced polite tone, with something ugly underneath. Horrific, in Gabriel’s case.

Crowley’s not trying to be “nice” to Aziraphale. He’s trying to be caring. To show him some common decency. Sure, Crowley enjoys seeing Aziraphale smile, but he doesn’t have any ulterior motives.

But he’s pretty sure Aziraphale doesn’t mean it that way, so he just grits his teeth, then swallows and says, “I’m just… you know. I just think you deserve better.”

Aziraphale looks down. “I… I don’t know about that,” he says, and Crowley wants to scream in frustration. Aziraphale looks back up at him and smiles. “But thank you, dear. You truly are… Gabriel’s given me life, but you’ve… renewed it, somehow. My days were so… monotonous. Not a week ago, I was… I was quite bored of it all, really. Besides reading, of course…”

“Has it really only been a week?” Crowley wonders aloud. That doesn’t seem right. Sure, he’s been known to fall hard and fast, but this is… This is a record.

“Less than! We’ve only just met on Monday!” Aziraphale frowns. “Er, well, Sunday evening, I suppose, if we’re going to be technical.”

“Christ.” Crowley’s gaze drifts to the bookshelf behind Aziraphale for a moment, and he stares blankly at it. A week. He snaps out of it when he remembers something. “Hey, what did he need your help with?” he asks. “In the lab, I mean.”

Aziraphale seems to snap out of a daze, too. He frowns. “Oh, he was, er… He was re-cataloguing his… things.”

“Limbs,” Crowley says through a grimace.

“Well, he does keep more than limbs in there, you know.”

Crowley chuckles a bit and shakes his head. “Not sure I want to know.”

“Well.” Aziraphale smirks. “You did ask.”

Crowley frowns. “Wait, cataloguing? What did he need your help for with that? Doesn’t sound like a two-person job.”

“Well, some of the… things… he has preserved, are, er… A bit heavier than just limbs,” says Aziraphale. “He has me lift them.”

Crowley doesn’t really want to ask what those other preserved “things” are, and he’s got a feeling Aziraphale doesn’t want to answer, so he shifts the subject. “You’re stronger than him?”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “Oh, a great deal. It’s… It’s the only thing about me he got right, he says.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” asks Crowley, offended on Aziraphale’s behalf.

“Well, his vision for my creation wasn’t exactly…” Aziraphale sighs. “I was meant to be a soldier, of sorts. Strong, which I am, as I’ve said. But also… Well, rather more masculine, I suppose. In a… er, unhealthy sense, in my opinion. And, though he formed me as he did, with all the parts he did, he expected me to grow to be more muscular, more… well, physically fit, I suppose. Like him.”

Aziraphale laughs, then. There’s a bitterness behind it, thinly masked by amusement. “He says I’m too soft. In both the physical and emotional sense. I’m…” He looks down, suddenly seeming much more dejected, much more insecure. Where before he’d sounded like he actually disagreed with Gabriel, he now sounds unsure as he says, “I’m too sensitive, I suppose. I care too much. I was meant to be, er, tougher. Tactical. Perhaps even brutal.”

“Well, thank heaven you’re not,” Crowley says easily.

Aziraphale looks up, raising his brows. “Oh?”

“World’s full of brutality,” says Crowley. “Full of utter arseholes, if you ask me.” He smiles. “I’m glad you’re not one of them.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale with a surprised little smile. “I… Thank you.”

Crowley smiles easily, then shifts in his seat. “So, dinner?”

Aziraphale lights up the room with his excitement. “Oh! Did you, erm,” he quiets himself, more polite, “did you intend to order delivery again?”

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

“I don’t believe you did.”

“Ah, well. I intend to buy you dinner every night we spend together,” says Crowley, as though it’s the simplest thing. And for him, it really is.

Something shifts in Aziraphale’s demeanor. His lips part ever so slightly, and he looks as though someone’s just told him that he’s next in line for the throne. That is to say, he’s a bit stunned.

Crowley frowns, then raises a brow in question.

Aziraphale licks his lips and blinks a few times. “I… Every night? Together?”

Oh. Crowley shifts in his chair and feigns nonchalance. “I mean, yeah. Whenever Gabriel’s not around.”

“You say that as though it’s… As though you expect it to become a regular occurrence,” Aziraphale says carefully.

“Well, I don’t intend to leave you. Not now I know you exist. Can’t just walk away, leave you all locked up in this old place.” Crowley puts on a grin. “Anyway, I thought we were becoming friends, heh?”

Aziraphale blushes and the hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “I… Yes, I suppose we are.”

“Good, then. That’s settled. I’m buying you dinner.” Crowley pulls out his phone. “What do you want this time?”

Chapter Text

A regular occurrence, indeed.

It becomes routine for Crowley to drive to the cottage nearly every day after work, or earlier on Saturdays and Sundays, which he has off.

Gabriel is busy with classes most days, only visiting on Thursdays or the occasional Sunday, but Aziraphale is a bit fearful of getting caught, so he devises a system. Whenever Gabriel arrives, Aziraphale puts a book in the living room window facing the south side of the cottage where Crowley can see it from the gate.

It hasn’t been useful until when Gabriel comes by on a rare Tuesday to drop off a bag of God-knows-what at the lab. Crowley’s just about to hop the gate when he notices the book, and knows it won’t be safe until the book is gone.

He ends up spending three hours in the town center, checking the cottage every hour on the hour until the book is finally gone. When it’s finally safe to enter the cottage, he brings Aziraphale chocolates from a little gift shop attached to a pub, which had been just about the only thing open that late.

Aziraphale’s gloom from having to interact with Gabriel blossoms into a blushing smile when Crowley hands him the box of chocolates. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, already heading into the kitchen to open the box and pop one into his mouth.

“Wanted to,” says Crowley, grinning when Aziraphale’s eyes go wide at what might have been his first taste of deluxe chocolate ever. Then Aziraphale moans, and despite the fact that Crowley’s been getting used to the sights and sounds the man makes when eating, this one makes Crowley’s knees buckle. He has to sit down. “Glad you like them, then,” he manages to say, though his voice comes out a bit funny.

“Oh, they’re delicious!” Aziraphale picks out another one and gives it the same treatment. “Oh, you’ve spoiled me tonight, Crowley.”

“S’nothing,” says Crowley, as though he isn’t living for Aziraphale’s happiness at this point.

“Nonsense,” says Aziraphale, taking a seat across from him at the kitchen table. “These are lovely. You… have been lovely. To me. Thank you, my dear.”

And that… Oh, that… That makes Crowley’s heart do about ten somersaults in a row. He’s heard Aziraphale call him “dear” many times now. But this is the first time there’s been a “my” in front of it.

Now, Crowley’s almost certain he’s not alone in his feelings for the man. The amount of times Aziraphale has blushed in his presence is indication enough–not to mention the few times he’s caught him looking up at him through his lashes. Aziraphale isn’t exactly subtle. Shy, maybe. Nervous, definitely. But not subtle.

“S’no problem, angel,” says Crowley, reveling at the subtle intake of breath and deepening blush the pet name evokes from the man.

Still, Crowley doesn’t want to move too fast. Aziraphale has been sheltered for so long, belittled and abused and so unforgivably unloved… The last thing Crowley wants to do is scare him away by trying to progress the relationship before he’s ready.

Crowley made up his mind pretty early on that he won’t start pursuing him in a romantic sense until Aziraphale leaves the cottage. Until he’s truly free.

Chocolates don’t count, Crowley thinks. Friends can buy each other chocolates!

“Why do you call me that?” Aziraphale asks, surprising Crowley with his boldness. “You’ve said it a few times, now.”

Crowley shrugs with his mouth. “Ah, I dunno, just– The thing you said. About your name. Choosing it because of angels. Seemed fitting.” He bites his lip for a moment, then adds, “I can stop if it bothers you.”

“Oh no, it doesn’t bother me,” says Aziraphale, rather quickly. “I…” He clears his throat. “Thank you for the chocolates. They really are quite exquisite.”

Crowley smiles, softly, knowingly. “You’re welcome, angel.”

They talk for a few hours, and suddenly it’s nearly 2am and Crowley grimaces as he stands in the kitchen looking out the window. It’s pouring down rain.

Aziraphale joins him upon returning from the bathroom. “Oh,” he says, “that’s not ideal.”

Crowley hums in agreement.

“Can you… That is, do you think it’s safe to drive?”

Crowley sucks in a breath and makes a noncommittal noise.

“Your car is rather old,” notes Aziraphale.

“She’s in better shape than any modern car,” snaps Crowley reflexively. He frowns. “I’m more worried about me, you know, not being able to see well. If we were in the city it’d probably fine but the lighting out here is pretty shit at night, as it is. With the rain…”

“You could…,” Aziraphale begins, then stops himself and bites his lip nervously. He takes a breath, then tries again. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning.”

Crowley finally turns from the window to fix Aziraphale with a sincere look. “You’re sure you’re alright with that?”

Aziraphale hesitates, but then nods. “Gabriel is unlikely to come back within the next day, seeing as he was just here. And I would rather… I would rather know you’re safe, here, than driving in all this rain, with no way to know if you’ll be coming back…”

“You really ought to let me get you a mobile,” says Crowley.

“Yes, so you’ve said. More than once in the past month, I recall.”

“Well, if you’re so worried about me when I’m gone,” says Crowley with a smug grin as he saunters away from the kitchen window and into the living room, “wouldn’t you like to be able to call me whenever? Check up on me during the day? Could even teach you to text.”

Aziraphale snorts and follows behind him. “No, thank you. And I’m not always worried about you when you’re gone, for goodness’ sake. I do have a life outside of our visits, you know.”

Do you? Crowley doesn’t press it. “So,” he says, “where am I sleeping?” He’s never really had a full tour of the cottage, they’ve always stuck to the kitchen, living room, or library. Crowley’s not even sure if there’s a guest bedroom… Though judging by the size of the place there’s got to be at least two more rooms. And wherever the lab is…

“Ah, yes,” says Aziraphale, a bashful tone overtaking his voice. “I… I’m afraid there’s really only the sofa in the library.”

Crowley waves a hand. “That’s fine, I can sleep almost anywhere. S’a talent. Fell asleep standing up, once.”

Aziraphale scoffs, leading the way to the stairs. “You did not.”

“I did! I mean, I woke up half a second later when I fell, but I really did fall asleep standing!”

“Goodness, I hope you didn’t fall on anything too uncomfortable.”

“Eh, it was in the shop,” says Crowley, climbing the stairs casually behind Aziraphale’s leisurely pace. “I had worked ten days in a row, open to close, and hadn’t slept at all the night before. Fell asleep behind the counter and nearly collided with the cash register. Luckily I missed. Face planted into the counter. Which… You know, not comfortable, but better than a keyboard.”

Aziraphale chuckles as he enters the library, and Crowley wishes he could record that sweet sound and use it as an alarm or something. He’d have a much easier time waking up if it were to that sound…

“Oh, I’ll get you the blanket,” says Aziraphale, turning back toward the hall.

“The blanket?” Crowley chuckles.

Aziraphale retrieves a creme-colored knit blanket from somewhere in the hall–a cabinet, Crowley supposes–and brings it back to hand to Crowley. “Yes, there’s just the one,” he says simply as Crowley takes the blanket and eyes it curiously. “There were two, but the other got a hole in it. I tried to mend it but eventually it unraveled too much to keep up with.”

Crowley frowns, looking up from the blanket. “Gabriel never got you another one?”

Aziraphale thins his lips and shakes his head.

Crowley bites back a snarl. “Why?” he demands.

“He doesn’t… He only provides necessities.”

“He got you more books.”

“Yes, I… I think that he only got me that book subscription to, er… to shut me up. I wasn’t grateful… I was rather annoying, I think. About being bored.”

This time Crowley lets out the snarl. “Fuck that Gabriel. Fucking prick. You deserve all the bloody books! You deserve more than one blanket! You don’t owe him gratefulness for giving you food and one bloody blanket.”

Aziraphale stands quietly as Crowley rants, and then Crowley realizes the man is trembling.

“Oh, hey,” says Crowley, softening his voice, “sorry. I’m not– I’m not angry with you, to be clear.”

Aziraphale nods, swallowing thickly. “I… I know. I’m only… I’m not used to someone being so… defensive of me, I suppose.” He swallows again. “And I don’t fare well with raised voices…”

“I’m sorry. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to sleep elsewhere,” says Aziraphale. “Privacy and all.”

Crowley frowns. Deeply. “What?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would you sleep in here anyway?” asks Crowley, hoping to someone, anyone, that he’s not going to get the answer he thinks he will.

Aziraphale averts his gaze as he says, “I typically sleep on the sofa. Or in my chair, if I fall asleep reading.”

No, no, no, no, no, why does this keep getting worse? Crowley feels himself choking up but holds it back as he asks, because he has to know for sure, “Angel… haven’t you got a bed to sleep in?”

“Oh, I don’t… I don’t have a bedroom, I’m afraid.”

Crowley breathes deeply through his nose and reminds himself not to yell. “Gabriel…,” he says through gritted teeth, “keeps you in a cottage… with no bed?”

“Well, there… There are beds,” says Aziraphale. “Two of them. Two bedrooms. One up here, and one downstairs. The one downstairs is Gabriel’s, for when he stays over. The other is… unoccupied. He keeps both the rooms locked.”

It’s getting more and more difficult for Crowley not to shout. He entertains the idea of storming down the hall and kicking that bedroom door down. “He’s got an entire extra bedroom up here that he never uses and he makes you sleep on the bloody sofa?!”

“I don’t… He says I don’t deserve one.” Aziraphale swallows, avoiding Crowley’s horrified gaze. “A bed, that is. Or a room of my own… Although the library is, in a way, my–”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cuts him off, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, “you deserve a room of your own. You deserve a bed.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, then, just above a whisper, he says, “You don’t know what I am…”

“You’ve told me. You’ve explained it. You were created, I get it. You’re not going to convince me that that makes you some sort of monster. You’re not. Gabriel’s a monster. But how you came to be doesn’t make you any less human. Any less worthy of a decent li–”

“I’m a murderer, Crowley. I killed someone.”

“…Oh.” Crowley’s hand falls from Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to, I– I only– He was an awful man– Gabriel’s former assistant.” Aziraphale sniffles, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “He threatened to set the library on fire while I was inside! He said I was an abomination, a mistake, and that Gabriel would not miss me if I were gone, so he–”

Aziraphale begins to hyperventilate, holding his own hand as he sinks to the floor. Crowley sits down with him and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“He covered the floors in petrol,” Aziraphale continues, staring at the ground, “and was about to light a match, and so I… I rushed at him, and I shoved him against a wall, and I… I crushed his skull on impact. Shattered most of the bones in his body…” Finally, Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, eyes large and wet and pleading for understanding. “I didn’t mean to! I truly didn’t, I only… I was only defending myself.”

Crowley chokes back tears of his own and wraps his arms around Aziraphale, pulling him close to his side. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says gently. “It was self defense, like you said. He got what was coming to him.”

Aziraphale turns closer to Crowley, letting his head fall to his shoulder, and lets out a few hard sobs.

“Oh, angel,” sighs Crowley, hugging him tighter and rubbing soothing circles on his back. “S’alright.”

Crowley lets him cry it out, waiting until Aziraphale takes a few deep breaths several minutes later to say, “I don’t need you to sleep somewhere else, Aziraphale. I’ve half a mind to kick down the door to that guest bedroom so you can sleep in a real bed, but I don’t want to get you into trouble with Gabriel.” He sighs. “I’ll take the floor. I’m not going to have you sleeping in a chair because of me.”

“Oh, I,” begins Aziraphale, voice weak and wobbly from all the crying, “I couldn’t– I wouldn’t want you to–”

“I said I can sleep anywhere, didn’t I? Don’t worry about it.”

“But I– I sleep in my chair sometimes, you know, so there’s no need for you to–”

“Angel. You’re taking the sofa.” Crowley keeps his voice gentle, but firm. “If I were on that sofa instead of you, I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, you know, with the awful guilt eating me alive,” he says with a cheesy grin. “So, come on. Up with you.” He moves to stand and pulls Aziraphale up with him. “And you’re taking the blanket, too. Don’t make me fight you on it, ’cause I will.”

“You’re so terribly stubborn,” Aziraphale murmurs as he gathers the blanket in his arms and walks to the sofa.

“Well if you’re going to have a fit about it we could always share it,” says Crowley without even thinking.

Aziraphale freezes, pinkens, and stammers out a, “W-what?!” He looks from Crowley to the sofa, then to the blanket in his hands, then back to Crowley. “There isn’t– It’s– We would have to– I– I– We–”

“I was teasing, angel,” says Crowley, mentally kicking himself. “We’d have to snuggle up real close to fit on that sofa, and I don’t think you’re ready for that sort of thing.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he closes his eyes and kicks himself again.

“I–”

“Errr, ignore that. That was. Nngh– Awkward.”

Pointing out that it was awkward seems to only make things more awkward, so Crowley makes a strange noise in his throat and plops himself down on the floor while Aziraphale stands there wide-eyed. “Night, then,” Crowley squeaks.

“Good… Good night…”

Aziraphale turns out the light a moment later, and Crowley hears him fixing up his “bed” on the sofa. He still wants to kick that bedroom door down…

It’s quiet for a few minutes, before Crowley muses aloud, “You went to bed with your clothes on.”

“I did,” Aziraphale says from the sofa. “So did you.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly bring pajamas with me, did I?” Crowley frowns and turns on the floor, squinting pointlessly in the darkness. “Please tell me Gabriel’s at least given you pajamas.”

“Yes, I have a couple sets, actually. He’s gotten me one for cold weather and one for the summer that’s a bit lighter fabric.”

“How kind,” says Crowley, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” sighs Aziraphale.

“Right. Night.”

It seems like at least a half hour passes by before Crowley hears Aziraphale whisper, “Can you sleep?”

Crowley grunts his response.

“No, neither can I.”

“D’you want to just stay up and talk, then?” asks Crowley, already sitting up.

“Not… Not particularly.”

Crowley frowns. “Then…?”

“I think we ought to switch places. Or, I’ll sleep in my chair, but you sleep up here on the sofa.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I agree to sleep on the sofa will you be able to sleep?”

“I do think it would help.”

Crowley stands. “Fine, get up, then.”

“Are you upset with me?”

Crowley glowers, but not at Aziraphale. “No,” he says. “I’m upset with Gabriel. Keep that,” he says when Aziraphale extends the blanket toward him. “I get hot, anyway.”

“Alright…” Aziraphale takes the blanket and settles into his chair. Crowley sprawls onto the sofa and curls in on himself. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Night, angel.”

Aziraphale falls asleep within minutes, snoring quietly. Crowley can’t sleep. He lies on his back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling in the dark and imagining different ways to murder Gabriel.

He finally falls asleep as the sun comes up, and is awakened not 20 minutes later when Aziraphale gently shakes him by the shoulders.

“Hm?” Crowley groans.

“It’s morning, dear.”

Crowley blinks an eye open and watches Aziraphale back away with a smile. He sits up and rubs his face as he yawns. “Mm. Morning,” he says finally.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Your hair has made quite a mess of itself.”

A slow smile overtakes Crowley’s tired face. “Yeah? So’s yours.”

Aziraphale blushes and lifts a hand to fuss with his hair. “So,” he says, smoothing down his waistcoat as if brushing the last bits of sleep from it, “shall we have breakfast?”

Crowley swings his legs off the sofa and says, “Isn’t Gabriel going to notice you’ve been going through your food supplies faster than usual at some point?”

“I have thought of that, yes,” says Aziraphale. “But really, besides the hot cocoa and the occasional baking endeavors I’ve shared with you, there hasn’t been that much of a difference… You’re the one who’s been ordering delivery, anyway. I think it’s more likely he’d wonder why I haven’t been going through it as quickly as expected! If he notices at all…”

“Fair point.” Crowley puts on a thoughtful look. “What about breakfast delivered, then? We could order from a cafe. The one in town’s usually closed when I’m here.” He says the next part casually, hardly looking up at Aziraphale lest he scare him off. “Or… We could, you know. Go into town. Just for breakfast.”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “Oh, we– That isn’t– No.” He leaves the room and begins descending the stairs.

Crowley sighs and follows behind him. He isn’t surprised by the reaction, but he can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. He decides to push just a little more. “There’s no danger in it, really. The odds that Gabriel will come back while we’re out are extremely low. S’just an hour or two! Come on… There’s a place that makes crepes. Strawberry and banana–”

“I can’t be seen by others,” Aziraphale erupts as the two of them enter the kitchen. “It isn’t safe! I’m a– I’m not– Well, it would be a nightmare, Crowley. I just know it.”

“You don’t know it, you’re assuming! Out of fear that Gabriel gave you! There’s no reason you can’t be out in the world, you’re not the monster you think you are, angel.” Crowley realizes his voice has risen and Aziraphale has gone expressionless. He calms himself. “Look, it’s just… You’ve been confined to this place for six years, and you deserve more! If you’re worried about your scars, Aziraphale, no one’s going to see anything besides your face, and they’re not going to bloody say anything about it! They don’t know where you got it, it’s not as though–”

“Really, Crowley, let it be,” says Aziraphale, tiredly. He looks down. “I– I’m not even hungry anymore.”

“Aziraphale, come on–”

“No. If you’d like a cafe breakfast so terribly, you’re welcome to go by yourself.”

“I want to take you! That’s the whole point!”

“Well, I don’t want to go. I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Angel…”

“I said no, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, prim and with conviction. “And that’s final.” He softens, then. “I understand that you want to… Oh, I don’t know, to play the handsome prince and rescue me from a life that you deem unbearable. But I was getting on just fine before you showed up, and while I’m glad to have your company, I am not in search of a savior.”

Crowley swallows. “I– I just want better for you.”

“I know you do, and I appreciate that, but I… I belong here. I have my books, and my tea and cocoa and…”

Lack of a bed, Crowley thinks as Aziraphale hesitates.

“…And I have you, now,” says Aziraphale finally, his face going pink. “And that’s more than I could have ever asked for, really. Please don’t… Don’t push me too far, Crowley. We’re risking enough as it is, you being here. I’m not ready for more than that, and I may never be.”

Crowley lets that sink in for a minute, then takes a deep breath and says, “You do have me. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll come and visit you as often as I can for as long as you’ll let me.” He waits until Aziraphale looks up at him to add, “And I’m sorry for pushing you, angel. Really, I apologize. No matter what I might think would be good for you, it’s not my decision to make, and I’ll never push you like that again, yeah?”

Aziraphale looks damn-near tears. He offers a small smile. “Thank you.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment, and Crowley wants nothing more than to reach out and wipe the tears that begin to stream down Aziraphale’s cheeks. To pull him into a hug, kiss his forehead, his cheeks… his lips. To hold onto him and never let him go.

But he’s pretty sure that would be too much too soon. If that was something Aziraphale even wanted at all…

“Well, I ought to go,” says Crowley, reluctantly. “Don’t want to be late for work. Gotta open the shop in a couple hours…”

“Oh, of course, dear,” says Aziraphale, ushering him to the door. “I don’t want to keep you.”

Funny, thinks Crowley, because I want to keep you.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s late for work.

He stops at a shop to buy Aziraphale a new blanket. Or two. He carries a boxed blow-up mattress around for a bit before deciding it was too risky – he doesn’t want to risk Gabriel finding out. He grabs a few pillows on the way out, though. Three of them, each with different levels of softness so Aziraphale can discover which he likes best. Crowley’s sure there’s a spot in the corner of the library where Aziraphale can hide the bedding when Gabriel’s around.

He opens the shop half an hour later than he was meant to, but it’s not as though anybody was standing around waiting to get in. He scrambles behind the register to get to his morning tasks and tries not to think about Aziraphale sleeping on that sofa.

It’s not a particularly uncomfortable sofa, at least. But it’s still a bloody sofa, and can’t replace the comfort of an actual bed. Or the privacy of having one’s one room!

Crowley nearly snarls at the first customer who walks in, still preoccupied with his anger at Gabriel.

How could someone be so cruel?

Furthermore, how could someone create a living being, and treat them like garbage? You’d think Gabriel would feel more like a parent and be more caring towards Aziraphale…

Not that parents are inherently caring toward their children. Crowley knows this firsthand. His own mother had never truly been there for him, and had left him on his own at 17 when he’d come out as queer and a bit gendery bendery. He hadn’t the words for it then, simply saying he thought he might be gay, but that’d been more than enough to warrant his disownment, apparently.

Now, he understands himself to be nonbinary and attracted to people of any gender, though he tends to prefer masculine individuals.

He has no idea what the rest of his mother’s life looked like. He knows she’s no longer alive, thanks to a former family friend who caught him in a Tesco one day and gave him the news that his mother had been dead for two years. That was six years ago, and Crowley still isn’t sure if he wishes he’d been at her funeral.

He tries not to think about it.

He tries not to think about a lot of things.

Aziraphale, though.

It’s getting extremely difficult not to think about Aziraphale 24/7.

He’s not sure what to do. He’s not sure there’s much he can do. If Aziraphale doesn’t want to leave the cottage and find a better life for himself, what’s Crowley going to do? Drag him away? The man is at least two times as strong as he is.

He could get the authorities involved, he thinks. Have them bust Gabriel for all manner of wrongdoings, and then Aziraphale would have no choice but to move on.

That would put Aziraphale at risk, though. At best, he would be charged for whatever unlawful assistance he provided to Gabriel over the years. And at worst… Crowley grimaces as he imagines Aziraphale being carted off to some secret government lab to be examined like some sort of alien species.

“No, can’t put him at risk,” he says under his breath. “Wouldn’t want to start off a relationship with a kidnapping anyway.”

“Um, excuse me?”

Crowley looks up, brows shooting up as he realizes he’s just said that bit aloud. In front of a customer. Lovely. “Er, sorry. Are you ready to check out?”

“Well, I was,” says the young woman. American. In a sort of old-timey dress. Crowley’s seen stranger things, but he’s still taken aback.

“You were…?”

The woman nods, thinning her lips and frowning before she says, “Sorry, were you just saying something about kidnapping?” She pulls her pile of albums closer to herself, as though she’s not so sure she wants to do business with Crowley anymore.

“Er, yeah. I mean no! But– Sort of. Not a literal– Just, personal thing.”

“A personal thing involving kidnapping…” She’s still highly skeptical, and Crowley’s sure he’s gone red in the face.

“Friend of mine’s in an abusive situation and I’m thinking of ways to get him out without crossing his boundaries,” he says in a rush, reaching for the woman’s yet-to-be-purchased items. “D’you want a box for these?”

Instead of answering the question, the woman extends a hand over the counter and shakes Crowley’s when he takes it. “I’m Anathema. I’m a social worker.” She frowns. “Well, I’m going to be. I’m still in school. Studying abroad. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crowley frowns at the stack of records. “Box?”

“Not just yet,” says Anathema. “I’m studying primarily to be working with kids, but… I wonder if I you might be willing to sit down sometime this week and have a talk about your friend? I could use the experience, not to be too blunt. And it seems like you could use some advice. Or at least someone to talk to.”

“Christ, you really are American. Sticking your head in the business of strangers…” Crowley throws his head back and groans tiredly. “Fine,” he says when he looks back at Anathema. “But I can’t give you many details, yeah? I’m… I’m trying to protect him.”

“I understand.” Anathema gives him a firm nod that says she’s all business. “Here’s my card.”

Crowley huffs a laugh as he takes the little plastic rectangle she’s holding out to him. “Bit premature to have a card when you’ve not even graduated, isn’t it? I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe.”

“My credit card. I’m trying to pay for my stuff, if you don’t mind,” says Anathema, and Crowley shuts right up, looking down at the card in his hand and actually examining it.

“Right. That… That makes more sense.” He calculates the young woman’s total and runs her card, which is definitely a credit card, and tries not to look her in the eye as he hands it back to her and bags her stuff.

“And here’s my business card,” says Anathema, sounding just a bit ashamed as she slides a glossy paper card across the counter. “Call me when you’re ready to talk about your friend.”

She leaves without another word, and Crowley’s left standing behind the counter with the realization that he’s just told someone about Aziraphale.

It’s a big weight off his shoulders, really. He’s been keeping it entirely to himself all this time, and now someone else knows.

But also… now someone else knows. How would Aziraphale feel about that?

Crowley shuffles between feeling guilty and being eager to find out if this young woman has some actual advice for how to help Aziraphale.

When it comes time to close, Crowley heads home and takes a shower before he goes back to Aziraphale.

It’s dark by the time he gets to the cottage, but there’s no book in the window and the light is on in the library, so Crowley assumes Aziraphale’s still up and open to company.

“Too late?” he asks when Aziraphale opens the door for him.

“Er, no, only I… I wasn’t expecting you to come back tonight.”

Crowley frowns, already kicking his boots off. “Why wouldn’t I? Sort of our thing, isn’t it? I close the shop, I come here. I’m a bit late ‘cause I stopped home for a quick shower. Since I didn’t have one last night…”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Aziraphale looks unsure. “I just thought… perhaps you’d had enough of me for a little while, you know. Having stayed the night…”

“Never going to have enough of you, I don’t think.”

Aziraphale blushes and looks away, and Crowley spots the marks of the creases of the sofa on his face. He must have been napping on it before Crowley showed up. Damn. Now Crowley feels bad.

Oh! But that reminds him…

“I got you something!” Crowley’s already putting his boots back on before Aziraphale can question him. “It’s in the Bentley, I’ll be right back.”

He scurries off, out of breath by the time he reaches the car, collects the blankets and pillows in his arms, and decides to be a bit more careful in his walk back. Can’t go dropping Aziraphale’s new things, can he?

“My dear, what on Earth…”

Crowley beams at Aziraphale over the pile of bedding in his arms. “Three pillows, two blankets. Not as nice as a full bed but I hope it’ll make some sort of difference.”

Aziraphale looks as though he may melt for a moment, then visibly tenses. “I can’t,” he says, sounding guilty and just a bit frantic. “Gabriel–”

“There’s plenty of room in that corner by the bookshelf to shove all this when he’s around, isn’t there? He won’t notice.”

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Aziraphale…”

“If he were to come back while I’m sleeping, Crowley, I…”

Crowley frowns. Pouts, really. He’s pouting. From behind a pile of pillows and blankets. He kicks his boots off again, determined not to have to take all this stuff back home with him, and tilts his head pleadingly. “Angel… Come on. Will you at least have a blanket? Surely you can scramble to put it away in time if you need to. The van always wakes you up, anyway, doesn’t it? You always have time…”

“I… I don’t…”

“Aziraphale. Take the bloody blankets. And the pillows. You deserve a decent night’s sleep for once in your life.”

“No, I don’t!”

“What?!”

“I don’t deserve such nice things, Crowley! Need I remind you, I’ve killed a man!”

Crowley groans and finally sets the stuff down on the floor next to his boots. “You said yourself you didn’t mean to kill him,” he says, gently but firmly. “That it was self defense. So why are you still acting like you’re some awful, terrible person?”

“Because my intentions don’t matter, Crowley, I killed someone! I ended a life before its time!”

“The life of a man who was trying to end your life! Fair’s fair!”

“But I’m not…” Aziraphale trails off, lip wobbling as he holds his own hand.

“What? Not what?”

“I’m not worth the same as he was,” Aziraphale says weakly. “It isn’t fair. He was more… More human than I’ll ever be.”

Crowley can’t help the bitter laugh that tears from his throat. “Hah, no. No. You are more human than most people I know.”

“I doubt that.”

“I know you do,” Crowley says, his voice gentle in effort to match Aziraphale’s quietness. “Because you’ve been trained to. By a scientist so consumed with ambition he’s lost his own humanity, and a guy who intentionally tried to murder you and in doing so got what he fucking deserved. You’re more human than the both of them.”

Aziraphale won’t look at him, squeezing his own hand so tightly Crowley wonders whether the guy’s fingers might pop right off.

“Aziraphale… Please.” Take the pillows. Take the blankets. Take my word when I say you’re worth more than this, Crowley doesn’t say. Love yourself, for fuck’s sake!

“…Gabriel might come by tomorrow,” says Aziraphale after a moment. “Thursday, you know. I don’t… I’m not ready to take such a risk. Crowley, I won’t even be able to fall asleep if I’m worried about getting caught with these. Please, just… Take them back.” Aziraphale’s cheeks grow wet as he cries silently. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you went through all the trouble– I– Please, just take them back.” He adds, nearly under his breath, “You said you wouldn’t push me again…”

Crowley leaves with the pillows and blankets. He pulls out his mobile and texts the number on Anathema’s card.

It’s late and i’m not expecting you to be up just this minute. But i’m ready to talk.

This is crowley, by the way.

The guy from the shop. With the friend.

A few minutes pass before Crowley’s phone lights up with the response:

I’m ready to listen. Tomorrow?

Chapter Text

Crowley’s working the closing shift, so he has the morning free.

He meets Anathema at a local cafe at 10am.

She’s already waiting for him when he gets there, and motions for him to join her at the table she’s selected in the corner. Crowley appreciates the seclusion. He already feels weird about telling someone else about Aziraphale.

“So, like I said,” he starts after ordering his coffee, “not a lot of details here because, you know, protecting him and all that.”

Anathema nods. “Understood. What can you tell me?”

“So, he’s about my age.” Sort of, Crowley thinks. Only been alive for six years. “He’s entirely dependent on this guy–”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.” Crowley grimaces at the thought. He zones out staring at Anathema’s cup of green tea and tries not to imagine Aziraphale snogging Gabriel (whom he’s yet to actually get a good glimpse of – but he’s sure the guy’s got a face that just begs to be punched). “Thank Somebody, no.”

“Mentor?”

“Er… yeah, you could say that. He feels like he owes his life to this dude, who treats him like he’s not even human. Keeps him in a cottage that he doesn’t even visit all that often, yet refuses to give my friend an actual room. He sleeps on the fucking sofa.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. And besides keeping the kitchen stocked so he doesn’t starve, he doesn’t give him anything else.” Crowley tilts his head. “Well, books. He let him get a book subscription service so he wouldn’t be too bored. But not because he cares about him; he just wanted to shut him up. He’s… He’s… I hate him. With my entire being, I hate him.”

“Have you confronted him?”

Do the dozens of times I’ve done it in my head count? Crowley frowns. “No. Haven’t even met the guy, actually.”

Anathema nods. “That’s probably for the best. Pissing him off might just make things worse for your friend.”

“Yeah, probably.” Crowley sighs. He keeps quiet as the barista brings him his beverage. When they’re alone again, he continues, “I just… I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried spoiling him best I can, you know? I visit him and buy him dinner, but then I have to watch him meticulously clean up afterwards so that fucking bastard doesn’t find out… Just the fact that I’m friends with him, that I visit him… It could get him into real trouble. Could get me into trouble, too, but I don’t much care at this point. I’d do anything for Aziraphale.”

“That’s an odd name,” comments Anathema. “Though I guess I’m hardly one to make that point.”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to name him,” says Crowley, quickly. “Please don’t, er–”

“What am I going to do, track him down myself? It’s fine. Don’t worry. This conversation is confidential, as far as I’m concerned.”

Crowley makes an appreciative noise and takes a sip of his drink.

“So, have you talked to your friend about your concerns? For his wellbeing and all that, I mean?”

“Yeah. Several times. Tried asking him to leave the cottage with me yesterday morning, so I could take him to breakfast. Not even run away forever or anything, you know, just breakfast in town! But he wouldn’t have it. He’s terrified to leave. He believes he belongs there.”

Anathema frowns. “This sounds a lot more serious than I thought.”

Crowley makes a “tch” sound and nods. “You’ve no idea. I got him some blankets and pillows and brought them over last night and he refused them. He’s worried about being caught with something his captor didn’t provide,” he says bitterly. “And he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve comfort.” Crowley decides not to explain why. He tilts his head down and stares at the grooves in the wooden table. “It’s… I’m a bit out of my depth, here, honestly.”

“That is a lot…” Anathema sits with her lips thinned for a moment, then straightens herself. “Well, maybe I can get some of my professors to help. They’re more educated on this kind of stuff than I am, and–”

“No!” Crowley snaps his head up at the word “professors”, suddenly fearing the possibility that Anathema’s circles might overlap with Gabriel’s. He’s not even sure where the guy teaches…

“No?”

“No. I don’t– I’m risking enough as it is telling you. I don’t want my friend’s business becoming a university lesson, alright? I already feel like I’ve betrayed him by telling someone. This stays between us. Promise me.”

“I… Okay. Fine.” Anathema chews her lip for a moment, then says, “Do you think he’d be okay if I visited?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, okay. Hm…” With apparently nothing else to say, Anathema takes a long sip of her tea.

Crowley’s face starts to feel heavy with how intensely he’s frowning. “Don’t you have any basic advice? You know, how to get someone out of an abusive relationship? Er, not relationship, but, you know what I mean.”

“I mean, there’s not a whole lot you can do. He has to choose to leave. You can’t drag him away by force; he’s an adult, and if he chooses to stay in an abusive situation because it’s what’s familiar and thus what he’s more… comfortable with, in a way, then… You can’t force him to leave.” Anathema takes a breath. “But,” she says, “you can give him reasons to leave. Show him, every time you visit, that he’s worth more. That he deserves better. It sounds like you’ve been doing that already, buying him dinner. Just don’t push him too far. If he’s not ready to accept actual love from someone, he might push you away if he feels like things are going too fast.”

Crowley nods and considers pulling his phone out to take notes. Then Anathema drops a bomb on him.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“What?” Crowley looks up, mouth hanging open.

“Your friend. You’re in love with him.”

“How–”

“I’m very good at reading people. I could tell there was more going on the moment you opened up about your friend. I know there’s even more you’re not telling me. Something dark, which I won’t ask about. But, at least answer me this: you’re in love with him, right?”

Crowley swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

“Do you think he might feel the same way about you?”

“I… I think so. I really do. He blushes around me a lot, you know?”

“Well, that’s hardly an indicator,” says Anathema dismissively. “You’ve blushed several times around me already and I know you’re not interested in me.” She straightens herself. “People blush. It’s what they do. And if someone has as low self-esteem as your friend probably does, then they’re bound to blush even more, especially when someone surprises them by being kind.”

Crowley grumbles nonsense to himself about this young woman trying to crush his dreams, but then she speaks up again.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not attracted to you, though. And the reason I bring it up is because love can be a powerful motivator. Any kind of love, friendship included, of course. But if you guys have romantic feelings towards each other, odds are he fantasizes about you whisking him away to a better life just as much as you think about doing the same. It’s just that he might not be ready to accept it. It’s just a fantasy.”

“So… What am I supposed to do?”

“Keep visiting him. Keep being his friend. And hope that he starts to realize he deserves something better than what he’s been getting.”

Crowley leaves the cafe with something of a new friend but not much more confidence in his ability to get Aziraphale to leave that damned cottage.

Not to mention he’s now doubting whether or not Aziraphale feels the same way about him. What if he just seems to have an attraction to him because he’s been isolated for all of his life and doesn’t know how to behave around a friend? What if his blushes and coy smiles are just… just him being shy, or maybe a bit nervous due to the secret nature of their friendship?

And what’s Crowley supposed to do about it, ask him how he feels about him?

He doesn’t want to scare the guy away. Or, scare him into telling Crowley to stay away. It’s not as though Aziraphale has anywhere to go…

Fuck, he wishes he could just… take him to his flat for just one day, show him how great freedom is, how much better a life he could have…

He’s almost sure Aziraphale would never want to go back to the cottage if he knew what he was missing out on.

Not that Crowley flat is particularly home-y. In fact, the cottage is far more comfortable, aesthetically. But Crowley could fix that. Brighten up the place, put some throw pillows on the sofa. Or maybe replace the sofa with one less stiff. Something brighter and warmer and softer–all the wonderful things Aziraphale is.

He gets through his work shift by thinking of all the ways he could make his flat more welcoming for Aziraphale.

He almost drives off to see him at the end of the day, but then remembers it’s Thursday and he doesn’t want to risk running into Gabriel, in case the miserable excuse for a man decides to stop by and do… whatever the hell it is he does in that lab.

“What is he up to, anyway?” Crowley asks Friday night, when Aziraphale confirms that Gabriel had indeed visited the night before. “He’s not going to create a new, er, person, is he?”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably in his library chair. “I… I don’t think so, although that is an eventual goal of his, of course. To, er… To do better than he did with me.”

Crowley’s face scrunches up in disgust at the mere suggestion that Aziraphale isn’t already perfect.

“But I… I believe he’s still in the planning stages for such a feat.”

“What’s he been doing then? Just planning? All these months? What’s he do with all those body parts in the lab?”

“He doesn’t exactly keep me up to date… It’s a ‘need-to-know’ sort of thing, you know,” says Aziraphale, nodding to himself, as though recalling Gabriel’s explanation on the matter. “But I am aware that he’s, er– Well, in the meantime, he’s been working on re-animating limbs.”

Crowley’s brows shoot up and he leans forward in his seat on the sofa. “Re-animating? Without the rest of the body?” He grimaces as he imagines arms and legs moving of their own accord, like those brooms in that old Sorcerer Mickey cartoon. Or were they mops? Whatever they were, at least they weren’t legs.

Aziraphale snaps him out of his thoughts with a hum. “Mm. Yes. He– Well, his goal, as far as I can tell, is to bring limbs back into working condition, even after they’ve been severed. To be used for prosthetics, I suppose.”

“So… transplanting limbs.” Crowley frowns, but he’s visibly relieved that his little Disney nightmare was apparently too imaginative. “Isn’t that already a thing?”

“Sort of. Well, yes, but– It hasn’t been perfected. Certainly not to Gabriel’s standards. And he’s always said that the deceased go to waste when buried in the ground. I think… I think he imagines a future where bodies are, er… recycled, so to speak.”

“What, organ donation not enough for him?”

“I suppose not.”

Crowley hums, looking a bit distant as he tries to shake the persistent image of those bloody limbs dancing around–eurgh, now he’s thinking about them being literally bloody, and–

“Why do you ask?”

“Huh?” Crowley shakes his head and blinks a few times.

“About Gabriel’s work,” says Aziraphale. “Why do you ask?”

Crowley settles back into the sofa and shrugs. “We never talk about it. S’what led me to you in the first place, you know. And I mean… Angel, you know we can’t ignore it forever. What he’s doing… it has to stop.”

Aziraphale has that visible rising panic in his eyes and Crowley finds himself scrambling to keep from pushing him away again.

“But we don’t have to talk about it right now,” says Crowley. “I came here to have a drink with a friend, not plot to take down an evil mastermind.” He smiles and tries to catch the other man’s gaze, which somehow looks even more distant.

Crowley’s about to open his mouth to backtrack when Aziraphale says in a small voice, “He’s not evil…”

Great. The last thing Crowley wants to do tonight is have to listen to the man he’s in love with defend his abuser. But he’s not sure that a quick subject change would be enough to set the evening back on its course.

Crowley makes a mental note not to bring up Gabriel again unless he’s ready to have A Chat.

“He’s… He’s misguided, perhaps, but not evil…”

“Aziraphale… The man digs up corpses and rips their limbs off.”

Aziraphale looks distressed now, and Crowley can practically see his brain scrambling for a way to make Gabriel seem better than they both know he is.

Or maybe Aziraphale really doesn’t know. Maybe Gabriel’s manipulated his way into being something of a god in the man’s eyes. He is the one who created him, technically. Crowley hates to think about that. He hates the idea that something as perfect and pure as Aziraphale could be the result of such an evil man’s work.

“You don’t have to defend him,” Crowley says finally, softly, worrying that his words will get him kicked out of the cottage for the evening. Or longer. “I get that he had a major part in your… you know, birth, in a sense, but that’s not…” Crowley heaves an exhausted breath. “I mean, fuck’s sake, angel, my mum literally gave birth to me, but I won’t defend the way she treated me. Just because someone helped to put you on this planet doesn’t mean you owe them loyalty. Loyalty is earned. What’s Gabriel done to earn your loyalty? Or even your respect?”

“I–” Aziraphale chokes on his own words, and Crowley can see his eyes gleaming with tears from across the room. “I don’t– You don’t understand…”

Crowley gives him a sad smile. “No, angel, I don’t.”

“I’m not an angel…”

“You are to me.”

Aziraphale lets out a small sob at that, and turns his head, putting a hand over his mouth.

Crowley lets silence sit between them for a moment while Aziraphale gathers himself. Fuck, he just wants to hug him. Cross the room and pull him into his arms. He’s done it before, hasn’t he? But he doesn’t want to overwhelm him.

“I don’t wish to discuss these things anymore,” says Aziraphale after a few minutes, his voice small. Broken. Desperate, and it makes Crowley wish he’d followed his gut and just given him a fucking hug. But before he can even get himself off the sofa, Aziraphale’s straightening himself and putting on that polite, guarded smile. “Were we going to have dinner?”

Crowley tries not to bring up Gabriel after that. Or life outside the cottage. Or anything else that might prompt Aziraphale to shut himself off like he did that Friday.

Several weeks go by, and they get along just fine.

Just fine.

Crowley has to tiptoe through every conversation, careful not to bring up anything that Aziraphale might not be ready to face. They talk about books, the food they enjoy together, the plots of nearly all the James Bond films Crowley’s seen, the weather, and it’s all just fine.

But there’s this cloud hanging over them. These unspoken words that Crowley’s dying to say and he knows Aziraphale’s terrified to hear.

You deserve better than this, Crowley doesn’t say when Gabriel is half a week late in restocking the kitchen. Instead he just silently fumes as he pulls out his phone and orders Aziraphale a meal from the nicest restaurant in town.

I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, he thinks to himself when Aziraphale shares his dream of visiting Rome. He gets him Italian food that night, and even plays some classical Italian music on his phone while they eat.

You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever known, he has to actually bite his tongue to keep from saying when Aziraphale casually suggests that he’s “too boring to be part of the world out there, anyway.” Crowley sits patiently, listening to him talk about Shakespeare’s dramas for hours with a smile on his face.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Crowley never says it, but he does all he can to show it in ways that Aziraphale can handle.

Chapter Text

When springs rolls around, Crowley finds that he’s been visiting Aziraphale so often he feels like the cottage is his second home. He even spends the night a few more times, blaming the weather – but really it’s so that he can pull a pillow and blanket from the Bentley and tell Aziraphale to use them, that if they were to have to wake and hide the evidence from Gabriel, Crowley could just grab them and run.

Aziraphale refuses the first time.

He gives in the second time, after a particularly taxing day tending to the garden. “My neck has been aching lately…,” he says, eyeing the blanket and pillow in Crowley’s outstretched hand.

“Take them. Please, I am literally begging.”

When Aziraphale accepts the items, Crowley beams, and sleeps soundly for the first time at the cottage.

A month later, he purchases a foldable, foam mattress. Er, it’s more of a mattress topper, really – but it’s still softer and more bed-like than the sofa.

He’s not sure if Aziraphale’s ready for it yet, so he keeps it in the back of the Bentley for a while. Just in case.

As summer comes to an end, a rare intense thunderstorm keeps Crowley at the cottage overnight. He frowns out the window as the sun’s going down and doesn’t even notice when Aziraphale returns to his side after cleaning up their dishes from dinner.

“Something the matter, dear?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley hums, throwing a look over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the yard. “Need to go get the blankets and pillows if I’m staying.”

Aziraphale moves closer and looks out the window. “Mm. You might consider doing that before it begins to flood.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sucks in a breath. He turns to Aziraphale. “I got something,” he says. “While ago. A bed. Sort of. Not really. S’a foamy pad thing. Easily foldable – has bendy things in three spots. So, just like with the blanket and pillow, you know, I could… I could fold it up in a rush, and run out the back. Was gonna bring it in for tonight…”

Aziraphale’s brows narrow and his lips quiver. “Crowley, it’s too… You know it’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley groans.

“A mattress is a great deal larger to carry around in a rush than a blanket and a pillow,” Aziraphale argues. “You might be seen!”

“He’s not going to see me going out the back, and that’s if he even shows up on the wrong day, anyway! He hasn’t done that once in all the times I’ve stayed the night!”

“I don’t know…”

“Anyway, you really think he’s going to come out here tonight in this weather?”

Aziraphale remains quiet, fussing with his hands and worrying his teeth over his lower lip.

“Angel, please. I just want you to sleep on some semblance of a bed for once in your life.”

“The sofa is quite bed-like,” Aziraphale mumbles.

“It’s really not,” Crowley grimaces.

“It’ll get wet,” says Aziraphale. “Carrying it in the rain.”

Crowley takes a steadying breath to keep himself from grinning. Got him. “Nah, it comes in a plastic case thingy. S’fine.”

“If… If you’re sure–”

“I’m sure!” Crowley was already pulling his boots on at the word “if”. “I’ll go get it right now,” he chirps, yanking the door open with all the enthusiasm of someone who’s just been given permission to finally spoil the object of their affection.

“Take the umbrella, you ridiculous thing!”

Crowley steps back in and takes the umbrella from Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. “Back in a minute!”

He’s back in three and a half minutes, actually, but Aziraphale doesn’t comment on it.

They get the bed set up in the middle of the living room after Aziraphale insists that it’d be safer to stay downstairs and have a quick exit, just in case.

They stay up for a few more hours, because it’s too early to go to sleep, but Crowley finds himself giddy with anticipation of Aziraphale going to bed later.

As their conversation winds down and Crowley catches Aziraphale yawning, he smiles and stands from his chair. “Time to turn in?”

Aziraphale looks from Crowley to the makeshift bed on the floor between them, then to the hallway. “Er, I suppose I ought to get undressed.”

Crowley wills himself not to blush or blink or cough or do anything else that would give away just how very much he likes the idea of Aziraphale undressing.

“To change into my pajamas, I mean,” says Aziraphale, his cheeks rapidly flushing pink.

“Pajamas,” Crowley blurts out, “yes, obviously.”

Aziraphale gives him an incredibly awkward smile and heads out of the room, presumably to retrieve and put on said pajamas.

Aziraphale’s never actually changed out of his daywear when Crowley’s visited. Not once. Not even during their semi-frequent sleepovers in the past few months.

When Aziraphale returns, Crowley’s still standing awkwardly in front of his chair. He smiles at the man’s bedtime attire. It’s a light blue set, and while it covers the arms and legs entirely, it at least looks light enough not to be too stuffy.

“Suits you,” Crowley comments. “The blue. And the buttoned-up-to-the-top.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, then looks down at the bed and reaches for his own hand in that tell-tale anxious move.

“What?” Crowley asks.

“Would you…” Aziraphale gulps, keeping his eyes averted to the floor.

“Hm?”

“Would you… Would you sleep beside me?” Aziraphale says finally, then rushes to add, “It’s only that I just realized that since we set it up down here, your only other options are the chairs or the floor, and I don’t think I could sleep if I knew you were in such an uncomfortable position, although I know you say you can sleep anywhere, I think I would much prefer if you slept with me. Beside me! If you slept beside me. Just– Just for the night. If you… If you wouldn’t mind.”

Crowley blinks at him, gaping for a moment before he snaps his mouth shut and then opens it again to blurt out an awkward, “Nnyeah, c’do that, sure.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says without looking at him.

“Yup,” Crowley says without breathing.

Aziraphale finally flicks his gaze to Crowley’s, then, in a flash, returns it to the floor as he gets on the bed, pulling the blankets back and settling in.

Crowley takes a deep breath, then crosses the room to shut off the light before returning to the bed and sliding in next to his friend.

“Sorry it’s so small,” says Crowley, his shoulder tense with the feeling of Aziraphale’s against it.

“It’s perfect,” says Aziraphale, already sounding near-sleep.

Crowley smiles to himself, relaxing a bit at the sound of Aziraphale yawning, and closes his eyes.

Perfect, indeed.

When Crowley wakes, he’s got his nose in Aziraphale’s hair, and his arm around his torso. Aziraphale’s snoring softly against his chest, cuddled up to him like a giant teddy bear.

“Fuck,” Crowley breathes, partly in shock and partly in oh-fuck-if-he-wakes-up-like-this-he’s-going-to-push-me-away-awkwardly-and-my-heart-can’t-take-that. So, he carefully maneuvers his way out of the other man’s arms, but not before inhaling the scent of those soft curls.

He rolls off the bed and onto the floor, then quickly stands and heads into the kitchen to get tea going for Aziraphale, and coffee for himself. His heart is still pounding with the excitement of having woke up in the arms of the man he’s in love with – and aching with the pain of having to keep his distance.

By the time Aziraphale enters the kitchen, his pajamas adorably rumpled and hair sticking out on one side, Crowley’s almost finished with breakfast.

“Morning,” he says, carefully setting poached eggs onto a plate.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale says through a bright smile.

Crowley takes a breath to steady himself. He plasters on a grin. “See, what’d I tell you? Slept right through, no Gabriel, no rushing off with an awkwardly folding mattress thingy–”

“Ah, so you do admit it’s difficult to fold and carry out,” Aziraphale smirks.

“Awkward, not difficult. Could’ve managed it if I needed to.”

“Mmhm.”

“Well, anyway. We can… we can do that. You know, sleep on that thing. From now on. When I stay…”

Aziraphale swallows, and Crowley thinks for a moment that he’s going to suggest they never do such a thing again. He’s really not sure if that would be torture, or if having to wake up in his arms again would be torture. Before he can decide how to feel about it, Aziraphale smiles and says, “I suppose we could.”

And it’s torture, indeed, those words. Because they give Crowley hope. Hope that things will keep progressing. Hope that Aziraphale might one day be ready to leave this place, to have a better life.

And that newfound hope leads Crowley to carelessly ask over breakfast, “Don’t you ever want to go outside? See the world?”

Aziraphale looks up between bites of tomato. “I tend to the gardens, sometimes,” he says innocently.

“You know what I mean,” says Crowley, gripping the handle of his still-full coffee mug. “Don’t you want to be, you know… free?”

“I… I’m not free, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s fork hits his plate with a clink. “I can’t be free. I am the property of my creator; I don’t have any rights. I’m not even fully human!”

“Fuck that,” Crowley growls, though he tries to keep his voice from going too loud, for Aziraphale’s sake. “You’re the most human-y human I’ve ever known. You deserve better than this, angel.”

“Even if I wanted to leave, it doesn’t matter, I can’t be seen,” Aziraphale stresses. “I’m too… horrifying. I’m made of corpses, Crowley, I– I would be taken away to some government lab, or, or, or killed on sight!”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, pushing the words through a suddenly tight throat. He fixes a pitying gaze on Aziraphale, who refuses to look at him in return. “Aziraphale, even if people were to notice,” Crowley starts softly, “they wouldn’t be able to guess your origins just by looking at you.”

Aziraphale huffs a disbelieving laugh and turns his head to look out the window.

“And anyway, when you wear all your layers, you’re so buttoned up, all anyone could see is that patch on your cheek, and maybe your hands, if they’re looking.”

Aziraphale’s hand raises to his cheek, and he absently rubs at the aforementioned spot.

“For all they know, you had an accident,” Crowley continues, looking at Aziraphale with sincerity despite the fact that the man is still determinedly not returning his gaze. “Or it’s some sort of birthmark. You can go out there, angel, you can be free.”

“Well, I don’t want to!” Aziraphale shouts as he bursts up from his chair, the legs of which screech over the floor, earning a wince from both men. “I owe my creator for giving me life, a-and I must make up for the mistakes I’ve made. The death of Mr. Sands… I truly don’t deserve to be free, this is my punishment for… for what I’ve done. And for who I am.”

Crowley stands, too, though does so carefully, anxious to avoid any more sudden loud noises. “Mr. Sands? Is that the guy who literally tried to set you on fire?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Angel, I’ve told you before, he got what was coming to him. You acted in self defense. Your life is worth defending.”

“Gabriel doesn’t think so.”

“Fuck Gabriel!” Crowley winces when Aziraphale recoils at the sound of his voice. He quiets himself. “Honestly, fuck that guy. Gabriel’s a madman with an ego so big he doesn’t see the worth in any being besides himself. His thoughts on the matter of your worth are wholly irrelevant.”

“You don’t understand…”

“No, angel, I don’t.”

Aziraphale sighs and turns away.

“Aziraphale, I just… I don’t like seeing you like this. You’ve got to know how great you are, how much you deserve,” Crowley pleads, putting his hands on the table to hold himself up as he leans in his friend’s direction. “All the wonder and beauty and goodness in the world. I want to help give that to you. Would you at least… think about it?”

“About what, running away?” Aziraphale turns back to him, frustration like fire in his eyes. Or maybe that’s just the light from the window. “To where would I go, Crowley? What would I do?”

“Anywhere you want, whatever you want! You could– You could become a librarian. Or get into literature somehow, I don’t know. Whatever you want!” Crowley takes a breath. “And you can stay with me. My place. Plenty of room for two. Hell, in the mean time, I could get you a job at my music shop! Maybe we could even revamp it a bit, start selling books, too. We could–”

“Enough, Crowley! I refuse to discuss these unrealistic notions any further! I don’t want to leave. I am quite comfortable to remain here. I know what to expect. I know what life is like here. I don’t need you pulling me away into a world full of danger.”

“Living with a mad scientist is a bit more dangerous than sharing a flat with me, angel, I promise you th–”

“Stop calling me that! I’m not an angel, I’m a– I’m a thing,” says Aziraphale, though it sounds as though the words are catching in his throat. “I’m a wretched, terrible abomination. A monster. And I belong here.”

“Yeah? What about your name, then? What’d you give yourself an angelic name for if you won’t even allow yourself the chance to live up to it?” Crowley challenges, “I think you picked that name because deep down you know you’re worth more. You know you’re more than some creation from a lab. You’re just afraid to act on it. To stand up for yourself and demand better. You deserve better, Aziraphale! And I will keep telling you until you start to fucking believe it!”

Aziraphale’s eyes are tearing up now, and he looks away again. It's quiet for a moment before he says, “It’s time for you to leave. I don’t wish to see you again.”

Crowley blinks in shock. “I– What?”

“Get out, Crowley! And if I see you here again, I shall have no choice but to inform Gabriel. Stay away, for both our sakes.”

“Aziraphale–”

Aziraphale stamps his foot and turns to glare at him through his tears. “Leave me! Take your blankets and your pillows and all the unwarranted luxury you’ve attempted to throw my way and leave.”

Crowley stands frozen for a moment, replaying the words in his head in case he hadn’t interpreted them right. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding, this... this could not be happening.

Aziraphale huffs, still fuming, and turns to the living room. He makes his way over to the bed on the floor and tosses the blankets and pillows aside, then folds up the mattress and stuffs it back into its case.

Crowley’s still standing frozen when Aziraphale comes back, the bedding in his arms. He walks over to Crowley and shoves the pile at him, finally forcing him to blink and look up at him.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Leave.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to do. He’s scrambling for something to say that will fix all this, some way to backtrack, to ease Aziraphale’s anxiety and get back in line with his slow pace. But no words come.

“I will phone Gabriel,” Aziraphale warns. “I want you out of my life.”

“We’re friends,” Crowley finally manages to say, gaze dragging up from the pile in his arms to Aziraphale’s tense glare.

“No. We’re not. Not anymore,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley thinks he hears a hint of regret in the man’s voice, but he’s too in shock to point it out. He can’t argue with him any longer; he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he tries, utterly beside himself.

“Get out,” Aziraphale demands. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

With no other ideas, Crowley makes his way to the door, picks up his boots, and leaves, trudging through the muddied lawn in his socks.

The tears don’t come in full force until he’s in the car and on his way back to London. He pulls over before he gets off the backroad, screaming and hitting the steering wheel until his hands hurt.

Somehow, despite his blurred vision from tears and his lack of focus on the road, he makes it home in one piece.

He crumbles the moment he enters his flat, his bony knees hitting the floor with a painful thud as the door slams shut behind him. Crowley cries himself to sleep right there, in the middle of the cold entryway.

Chapter Text

Crowley gives Aziraphale space. He gives him space because he knows he needs it. And because he’s not entirely sure whether Aziraphale would make good on his threat to tell Gabriel about him. He doesn’t… He doesn’t think he would put him in danger like that, but…

Better to be safe than sorry.

A week goes by. Then another. Halfway through the third week, Crowley spends most of the day lying in bed, dreaming up a plan to break Aziraphale out of the cottage and take him somewhere safe, somewhere better, whether he likes it or not.

He’s about to get up and start writing out an actual plan when his phone goes off. He swipes it off of his bedside table and frowns at the unfamiliar numbers on his screen. Normally he’d let it go to voicemail, but he has a strange feeling…

“Crowley,” he answers, and waits.

It’s silent on the other line for a few seconds. Crowley’s about to hang up and curse himself for being so stupidly hopeful, but then the other person starts speaking.

“It’s me,” says a small voice that undeniably (wonderfully, thankfully) belongs to Aziraphale.

Crowley beams and pumps a triumphant fist into the air. “Oh, thank fuck,” he says, launching himself off the side of the bed and heading towards his wardrobe, ready to get dressed and drive to the cottage as soon as Aziraphale gives the OK. “Angel, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I m–”

“There’s no time for that,” says Aziraphale, voice hushed and anxious. “Gabriel is moving forward with his experiments. He…,” the line is silent for a moment, and Crowley can just imagine Aziraphale glancing around the room fearfully. “He’s going to attempt a full creation again. We… I need your help, Crowley. I cannot look away while he…” Aziraphale audibly gulps. “He’s going to create a child.”

Crowley gulps, too. “Meaning he… He’d need…”

“The brain of a child, yes. A fresh brain. He’s going to murder a child, Crowley, I can’t– I can’t let that happen.” Aziraphale takes a breath. “I need your help.”

Crowley nods, pressing his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pulls on his trousers. “Whatever I can do, I’m in,” he says. “Should I come over?”

“I think that would be best. I don’t feel it’s safe to discuss the details over the telephone.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

“Alright.”

Crowley finishes getting dressed in record time as soon as he hangs up the phone, then grabs his keys and bolts for the door.

He gets to the cottage and pulls right up to the gate instead of his usual parking space a ways down the road. Aziraphale’s already standing outside the door, anxiously watching for him.

“What are the odds of Gabriel coming by today?” Crowley calls across the yard as he makes his way to Aziraphale.

“Unlikely,” says Aziraphale, wringing his hands. “He’s rather busy, at the moment.”

“Why a child?”

Aziraphale sighs, distressed, and ushers Crowley inside. Crowley doesn’t bother to take off his boots this time. “He wants to see whether he can make one grow,” says Aziraphale.

“Grow?”

“Yes, you know, grow up.”

Crowley frowns. “Don’t you age?”

“Yes, but I– I don’t count, remember. I’m… I was a mistake. A failure.” Aziraphale gulps. “He’s… He’s going ‘all out’ this time, as he put it.”

Crowley snarls at the idea that Aziraphale is a “mistake” of any sort. He turns and leans against the door when Aziraphale closes it, folding his arms over his chest. “Do you know who it’s going to be?”

Aziraphale nods. “I helped find him.”

“Christ, Aziraphale,” Crowley swears without thinking.

“I know, I know. I didn’t know… I didn’t know it would come to this. I didn’t realize… He– He wanted to know where the surviving child of that family was.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “The one from the graves he dug up?”

Aziraphale nods, thinning his lips. “Yes, it– I thought it was because he wanted more genetic information or something. I thought he was going to ask me to find his hospital records, that sort of thing. But as soon as he discovered the boy’s location, he revealed his true plan. He thought I would be as excited as he was… I called you as soon as he left.”

Crowley kicks himself away from the door and reaches into his pocket for his keys. “He’s already on his way there?! Angel, we’re not going to–”

“No, no. He said he had some things to work on, and then he has a class later tonight. He won’t be… obtaining the boy… until tomorrow afternoon. We have time.”

Crowley relaxes a bit, but not much. “So what are we going to do, abduct this poor kid before he does? Go to the police? Angel, you’d be complicit. You could be arrested. I’m not letting that happen.”

“At this point, dear, I don’t much care what happens to me. I just need to be sure that the child is safe.”

“Well, I care.” Crowley shakes his head, folding his arms over his chest again. “No, we’re not going to the police. Not directly, anyway. We’re… we’re gonna get there ourselves, before he does, and wait until he approaches. Then we’ll call the cops and report suspicious activity in the neighborhood. An attempted break-in. Then they’ll show up and take care of the rest.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Crowley… That puts the boy at quite a risk, should law enforcement not arrive in time.”

“Well, we’ll be there. We can help defend him. They don’t have to know we’re involved at all, just neighbors passing by who heard a shout and came to help.”

“…Perhaps…” Aziraphale begins fussing with his hands again.

“So, where is he? Who is this boy?”

“Just a few towns over, in Tadfield. His name is Adam.”

“Who’s he living with now?”

“A couple called… er, Arthur, and… Deirdre Young, I believe it was. They’re in the process of adopting him.”

Crowley bites his lip as he considers their options. “Could we… Could we call them, maybe? Give them a heads’ up?”

“I tried that, while you were on your way here.”

“And?”

“No answer.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“There was no prompt. I don’t believe they have the option.”

“Who the fuck doesn’t have–”

“Crowley, please, we haven’t the time.”

“Fuck. Shit. Shit. Alright.” Crowley sucks in a breath. “So, we’re doing this ourselves.”

“It would seem so.”

Crowley glances around the place. “We should go to Badfield and get in position as soon as possible–”

“Tadfield.”

“–but since we technically have until tomorrow, we should clean up here, first.”

Aziraphale’s brows furrow. “Clean up? I hardly think this is the appropriate time for cleaning–”

“We need to destroy all evidence of your existence. Your creation. When they start an investigation into all of Gabriel’s doings, they might come looking for you if they know you exist.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, Gabriel took care of that a long time ago. He didn’t want there to be any chance of anyone discovering his shameful mistake. They won’t find any record of me.”

“You’re not shameful, and you’re not a mistake,” Crowley says reflexively. “But even if there’s no record, what about evidence that you live here? Fingerprints, DNA…”

Aziraphale swallows and holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers. “I never showed you, did I?” he says sadly. “Part of Gabriel’s big cover-up of my existence was to… quite literally sand my fingerprints down. They’re undetectable.”

“Fuck, angel, I’m– I’m so sorry. That must have hurt.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I do have a very high tolerance for pain, you know. I was created that way.” Aziraphale’s lip wobbles as he says, “I only mourn the… the sense of an identity, I suppose. Not even my blood is traceable, really. I’m made up of so many different parts… Different people… I’m truly not my own.”

Crowley shakes his head, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own, and seeks his gaze. “Hey, you are. You’re your own. And after this, you’re going to see for yourself, just how much of a life you can have, yeah?”

“I suppose there will be no other choice… I certainly can’t come back here.” Aziraphale looks around, looking as though he’s a half second away from bursting into tears. He’s squeezing Crowley’s hand so hard it hurts, but Crowley doesn’t pull away. “The only home I’ve ever known…”

Crowley brushes his thumb over Aziraphale’s hand. “I know.”

Aziraphale clears his throat and pulls his hand away to wipe at his eyes. He puts on a brave smile. “Well, no time for that, now. We’ve a child to save.”

Crowley nods, letting his own hand fall back to his side. “We should still tidy up, make sure it doesn’t look like more than one person was here.”

Aziraphale thins his lips and nods. He adds, “And of course there are your fingerprints to worry about, dear. If they do come investigating, we don’t want you to be linked to all this.”

“Good thing we have the time.”

They spend the next several hours doing a thorough cleaning of the cottage, sweeping and scrubbing away any evidence that anyone other than Gabriel had ever set foot in the damned place.

“Good to go, d’y’think?” Crowley asks, stepping beside Aziraphale in the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink. “We should really get to Tadfield sooner than later. Just to check on the boy.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale’s staring out the kitchen window at the yard.

Crowley follows his gaze and settles on the greenery that Aziraphale’d been tending to for years. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got plants back at my place, you know.”

Aziraphale swallows, his gaze not moving from the window. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Could get you a few of your own, too.”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh, finally looking away and turning toward Crowley. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says. “I hardly liked gardening to begin with.”

Crowley offers a gentle smile, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys, dangling them pointedly between the two of them. “So, time to go?”

“Yes, let’s,” says Aziraphale. Crowley tries not to notice the way the man is shaking as he turns toward the door.

If all goes according to plan, they’ll never be able to return here. Aziraphale’s about to leave all he’s ever known behind and Crowley knows there’s nothing he can really do to comfort him; they have a child to save.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath before opening the door, then steps outside and turns to Crowley. “Well,” he says, putting on an entirely unconvincing smile, “I suppose I’ll be becoming your roommate after all.”

“Yes, angel,” says Crowley, voice soft as he can manage as he falls into step beside him, “you will. You’ll have a proper home there, I promise. Bed and everything.”

Crowley refrains from mentioning that there’s only one bed at his flat–he’ll have to figure out what to do about that when they get there.

Aziraphale is shaking, tears in his eyes as he walks away from his home. His hands quiver in front of him, and Crowley doesn’t miss the way one keeps gravitating toward him like a magnet.

Crowley makes a snap decision and takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own, giving it a light squeeze. Aziraphale lets out a quiet sob and grips Crowley’s hand like he’s dangling from a cliff.

They get into the Bentley in silence, save for a slight whimper from Aziraphale when Crowley has to let go of his hand.

“Alright,” Crowley says, finally, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Seatbelt on.”

Aziraphale settles into his seat and glances around confusedly, before locating the seatbelt and clicking it into place.

Crowley pulls up the boy’s address on his phone, then starts the navigation feature. He quickly silences the voice instructions, partially because they annoy him but mostly because of the way Aziraphale tenses at the first piercing sound of the automated voice.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, just takes a breath. Crowley pulls out of the driveway and Aziraphale goes completely still.

He doesn’t say a thing through the entire ride into Tadfield. Crowley tries to provide some reassurance every couple of minutes, casting a soft glance his way and letting Aziraphale hold the hand he’s not steering with.

When they finally pull up near the Young residence, Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath and looks to Crowley. “Well, here goes nothing, I suppose.”

Crowley grunts in agreement and opens the door.

“What are you doing?”

“M’going to go up there and ask for him. See if he’s alright. Just in case. And maybe get a look at him so we know who to keep an eye out for.”

Aziraphale frowns and moves as though he’s going to open his own door, then looks down at the patchy skin on his hand and stops. “Well, what are you going to say?” he asks, turning to Crowley. “You’re going to seem suspicious.”

Crowley gets out of the car, eyeing the bike pump that’s resting on the lawn near the gate, and says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

He makes his way up the path, ignoring Aziraphale’s fretting noises, and knocks on the door.

A middle-aged blonde woman opens the door.

“Hi, ma’am, I’m wondering if you’ve got a boy of about eight to twelve years old?” Crowley asks, putting on a stern look. “Some kid nearly ran into my Bentley with his bike a moment ago and I’d like to have a word with his parents. He scurried off in this direction, and I noticed a bike pump on your lawn. Kid might not’ve been yours, ‘course, but I worry about safety and all that, you know. And my car.”

The woman frowns. “Oh, our Adam does have a bike, and that does sound like the sort of trouble he’d get into, if I’m being honest.” She puts on a smile. “I apologize. I’d like to have a word with him about this, too. Only he’s out with friends at the moment.”

“Ah,” says Crowley. “Well, if it turns out it was him, give him a warning about riding near the main road, yeah?”

“Oh, I absolutely will.”

Crowley’s already turning away as the woman–Deirdre Young, he presumes–wishes him well and closes the door.

As soon as he’s back in the car, he stares blankly ahead and says, “Boy’s gone.”

“What?!”

“Out with friends.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, “well, that’s not so–”

“Those friends, I’m guessing.”

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s gaze out the front windshield to a trio of kids approaching the house. They’re all on their bikes, but one of them is guiding a fourth bike along with them.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sounds like he’s going to be sick.

“Yeah, I see it.”

The kids get up to the house and knock on the door. When it opens, the girl who’d been escorting the empty bike says, loud enough for Crowley and Aziraphale to hear, “Adam ditched us, so here’s his stupid bike.”

Deirdre responds, but can’t be heard from the car.

“I don’t know,” the girl says, “we were in the woods searching for animals so we could be witches with our familiars, and then he was gone.”

Crowley turns back to Aziraphale with a grim expression. “What d’you think are the odds he ‘ditched’ them?”

“Oh dear lord,” says Aziraphale, blanching. “Gabriel’s already taken him. I thought we had more time. He must have canceled his class…”

Crowley’s already starting the car as he grits out, “We need to get to the lab. Now.”

Chapter Text

Crowley drives so fast the car nearly lifts off the road when the go over a few bumps along the way. “We should’ve stopped Gabriel months ago,” he hisses. “If a child dies I’m blaming the both of us for eternity.”

Aziraphale gulps, bracing himself with his hand pressed against the door. “So will I.”

When they reach the gate to the cottage, Crowley accelerates.

“Crowley, what are you–”

Crowley drives right through the gate, gritting his teeth as Aziraphale gives a shout and grabs his arm on instinct.

Crowley stops the car right in front of the cottage and jumps out, kicking the front door open with an an angry growl. “Where’s the bloody lab?”

Aziraphale’s right behind him. “There’s a hidden stairway to the basement in the bedroom upstairs.”

“Upstairs,” Crowley repeats, “got it.”

Just as the two of them are setting foot on that first step, a figure appears at the top of the stairs.

“Ah, I thought I might have company,” says that obnoxious voice that makes Crowley want to rip the man’s vocal cords out of his throat. “I knew I couldn’t trust you, Ezra,” Gabriel says, stepping closer until he’s halfway down the steps. He’s wearing a grey suit with a white lab coat over it and, oh, Crowley was right all along–he has an extremely punchable face.

“It’s Aziraphale,” snarls Crowley, balling his fists.

Gabriel huffs a laugh. “I suppose it is. And who are you, exactly?” Before Crowley can open his mouth to say something dramatic, Gabriel smiles and tilts his head. “Actually, I don’t care. But I knew something was going on. You must be the explanation for why ‘Aziraphale’ has been acting so weird these past few months.”

“Where is the boy?” Aziraphale demands, a firm hand on Crowley’s elbow as though he thinks he might need to hold him back from recklessly attacking the professor.

“Oh, he’s safe.” Gabriel smiles. “He’s exactly where he needs to be.”

“In the lab,” Aziraphale deduces.

“Get the hell out of our way,” Crowley snarls, Aziraphale holding him back from attempting to bolt up the stairs.

Gabriel keeps that same artificial smile plastered on his face. “Keep it down, gentlemen. Wouldn’t want to frighten the kid, would we? I had to put him to sleep in order to get him here quietly and he’s due to wake up soon.”

“Gabriel, this must stop!”

“No, Ezra, this is far more important than you realize.” Gabriel resumes descending the stairs, and Aziraphale backs up like frightened prey, tugging Crowley along with him. “I know you’re not capable of understanding these things, and I take responsibility for that; you were my mistake. But you were also a lesson.” Gabriel smiles. “A learning opportunity. Now, I can do better with this boy, and I will. He’ll grow to be a soldier. Stronger than you. And more obedient. And not concerned with trivial matter like reading books and drinking tea. He’ll be valuable.” Gabriel steps closer and puts a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Something you could never be.”

Crowley growls and smacks Gabriel’s arm away from Aziraphale. “He’s valuable to me.”

Gabriel’s forced smile flickers with anger for a brief moment. He opens his mouth as though he’s about to retort, when a young voice reaches them from the top of the stairs.

“Who are you lot?”

All three men turn to see Adam looking down at them, his brows furrowed more in confusion than fear.

Gabriel steps forward. “Young man, I am going to make you part of history–”

“Yes, literally,” says Crowley, moving closer as well. “He wants to harm you, Adam, come over here and we’ll get you somewhere safe.”

Adam looks skeptical, but begins descending the stairs.

“The local authorities are already on their way,” says Aziraphale. He shares a glance with Crowley; both of them know they hadn’t thought to phone the police in all the rush. But the lie seems to work on Gabriel, who tenses and takes a step back. Aziraphale extends a hand toward the boy, who looks at his scars with curious eyes. “We want to keep you safe until then. You mustn’t trust this man, Adam. He is not who he claims to be.”

Gabriel scoffs. “Don’t listen to this thing, Adam. It’s not even human.”

Aziraphale snaps, keeping his hand extended to Adam as he looks back at Gabriel and shouts, “You made me this way! Whatever I am, it is your doing!” He looks back to Adam. “This man–the man who kidnapped you–he created me, Adam. That is why my skin looks as it does. And that is what he wants to do to you.” Fear flashes in the boy’s eyes, and Aziraphale gives him a reassuring smile. “But we are going to protect you,” he says, stepping forward and finally grasping the boy’s hand, while reaching back to take Crowley’s with his other one. “We won’t let that happen.”

Gabriel snarls. “This is ridiculous.” He reaches into his lab coat and pulls out a scalpel. “I know exactly where to cut to do the most damage,” he threatens. “Give me the boy and we’ll be on our way. No one has to die tonight.”

Adam speaks up, sounding rather annoyed, “Excuse me, sir, but it sounds like you’ve got a plan for me to die tonight.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, letting go of both Adam’s and Crowley’s hands while keeping a sharp eye on Gabriel, “take the boy and get him somewhere safe. Take him home.” Before Crowley can respond, Aziraphale looks at him and says, “Now.”

Crowley stands frozen for a couple seconds–he doesn’t want to leave Aziraphale vulnerable, but a child’s life is literally at risk. Then he remembers that Aziraphale is far stronger than the average human, and has killed in self defense before. So, with a grim nod, Crowley grabs Adam’s hand and pulls him toward the door, away from Gabriel.

In his peripheral vision Crowley can see that Gabriel tries to launch after them, but Aziraphale blocks him.

Crowley’s out the door and getting Adam into the car before he can see much else.

He starts the car, though it takes a few tries after the damage the gate’s done, and peels out, driving back to Tadfield and ignoring the weird sounds the Bentley’s making along the way. He hopes she’ll at least hold together to get back to the cottage to rescue Aziraphale once he’s ensured that the boy’s safe.

“S’your friend going to be okay?” Adam asks a few minutes into the ride.

“Don’t know,” Crowley grits out, staring straight ahead and wanting nothing more than to scream. But he doesn’t have time for that.

“I hope he is,” Adam says. “He seems pretty cool. Like a real-life superhero.”

Crowley chokes out a sound that’s something between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah. I think he is.”

When he gets to Tadfield, he parks the car around the corner from the boy’s neighborhood, and tells him to go on home and tell his soon-to-be parents that he’d ditched his friends to chase a frog or something.

“And Adam?” Crowley calls, stepping out as the boy exits the car. “I told Mrs. Young you’d nearly hit my car with your bike. I did that so I could find out if you were home, and that’s how we knew you’d been taken. Now, if she asks you about that, play along, yeah?”

Adam looks skeptical.

“Better not to worry her any more than she probably already is, right?”

Adam considers this, then shrugs and says, “Guess so. Anyway, s’probably best she doesn’t know your friend exists.”

“Yeah. I– I’m going to have to ask you to keep all of this a secret, Adam.”

“So your friend doesn’t get in trouble for being like that,” Adam deduces. “‘Cause superhero mutants get dissected by secret government spies.”

Crowley manages a small smirk and silently thanks the Universe for comic books. “Exactly.”

The boy shrugs again. “Alright, then.”

“Good.” Crowley nods toward the neighborhood road. “Off you go, then. You’re safe now. That Gabriel’s going to be locked up for a long time.”

“F’your friend doesn’t kill him.”

Crowley swallows. “Yeah.”

“You should go,” says Adam. “And make sure the evil scientist doesn’t kill him first.”

With that, the boy turns away and starts walking up the road.

Crowley feels like he’s going to vomit the entire drive back to the cottage.

When he gets there, it’s immediately clear that something is wrong.

Crowley leaps out of the car without even turning it off, then stops in his tracks, taking in the scene before him for a moment.

Smoke is pouring out from the windows, and there’s something flickering at the side of the cottage, near the library.

“Oh, fuck,” says Crowley, beside himself with sudden panic. It’s on fire.

He runs into the cottage and starts shouting Aziraphale’s name.

“Aziraphale! Where are you?” Crowley coughs as he makes his way up the smoky stairs. “Aziraphale!”

There’s no sign of him, and Crowley tries to take a deep breath before entering the library. Flames are licking the walls and consuming the bookshelves, burning all of Aziraphale’s treasured collection to ash.

But Crowley doesn’t have time to process that loss, because, there, on the floor, is Aziraphale’s arm. Crowley picks it up without hesitation and screams one last time.

“Aziraphale! Where are you?! Please, I can’t–”

A garbled noise cuts him off, and Crowley thinks it sounds something like a voice. Something like Aziraphale’s voice. But he can’t make out the words. Still, relief floods through him at the familiar sound. “Angel! I’m here! Is that you?”

Through the smoke, Crowley finally spots Aziraphale, coming toward him with an extremely alert expression. He shouts something at him.

“What?”

Aziraphale finally reaches him and yanks him up off the ground with one hand–his only hand, at the moment, Crowley realizes, with a shaky grip on Aziraphale’s detached limb. “I said, ‘We need to get out of here,’ you idiot!”

The next thing Crowley knows, he’s being pulled down the stairs and out the door, back to the Bentley.

“Get us out of here, Crowley.”

When Crowley finally snaps himself into the present moment, he’s already in the car, hands on the steering wheel.

Aziraphale is quiet, buckling himself into the passenger seat as he says, “We need to leave now, Crowley. I phoned the authorities from the cottage five minutes ago about the fire. They’ll be here soon. We need to be gone before then.”

Crowley shakes his head, blinking several times in effort to focus on the need to drive rather than the fact that he thought he’d lost Aziraphale only a few minutes ago. He mumbles an affirmative and starts driving off the property, heading back to London.

“The boy is safe, I presume?”

“Back at home,” says Crowley, still feeling a bit distant.

Aziraphale nods, silent for a moment. Then, anxiously, “Do you think he’ll, er, tell anyone?”

“Told him not to. He seemed to agree.”

Aziraphale nods again. “Good,” he says. “That’s good, then.”

Another ten minutes go by in silence, Crowley keeping his eyes on the road and suddenly paranoid about getting into an accident, or the car breaking down, or missing an exit and taking longer to get home, or anything else that would bring Aziraphale discomfort or harm.

Finally, he glances down and sees Aziraphale’s severed arm in his lap as he’s driving. “I’ve– I’ve got your arm! Fuck! What–”

“Gabriel,” says Aziraphale, his voice tight. “Tore it off in an attempt to overpower me.” When Crowley shoots a horrified glance his way, he adds, “It doesn’t hurt, Crowley; remember, I’ve no feeling in that arm.”

Crowley nods, returning his attention to the road. “And Gabriel?”

“Dead.”

Crowley releases a breath and nods again. “Good.”

“They’ll find his remains in the yard beneath the library’s window,” says Aziraphale. “I… I pushed him out of it after he set it on fire. He told me he was going to finally finish what Mr. Sands had started…” There’s a small, broken sob, then, as he says, “I… I killed him. I killed my own creator.”

“You killed a murderer and a psychopath,” counters Crowley. “You saved a child.”

Aziraphale quiets himself after that, but allows Crowley to hold his hand for the rest of the drive.

As they get closer to the city, Crowley notices Aziraphale looking out the window with wonder in his eyes. And fear. So much fear.

He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. S’gonna be okay, he doesn’t say, afraid that disrupting the silence will startle him into a panic.

Aziraphale squeezes back–or, more clings to his hand, really.

“This is it,” he says, finally, as they approach his building. Aziraphale’s hand tenses, then lets go entirely, and Crowley’s heart aches when he hears him let out a small whimper.

“It’s going to be okay, angel,” he says, because he’s certain that now is the time to say it.

Aziraphale releases a shaky breath.

Crowley breathes a sigh of relief when he pulls into his usual parking spot at his building. They made it back in one piece. It’s over. Everything’s okay. The car might not start again once he turns it off, but he can deal with that tomorrow.

They’re safe.

Now, to convince Aziraphale of that.

“Angel,” Crowley turns to face him as he shuts off the engine, “we’ve got to go inside, now.”

Aziraphale thins his lips and shakes his head, staring blankly ahead at the wall they’ve parked in front of.

“Aziraphale, you can’t just stay in the car all night,” Crowley says gently. “Come on.”

With a pathetic whimper, Aziraphale turns to Crowley, eyes wide and glistening with anxious tears, and says, “I’m not ready!”

Crowley has to take a deep breath to keep from tearing up in sympathy. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all happened too fast and now I’ve no home and no books and my arm is off and I can’t– I can’t– I can’t–”

Crowley pulls him into a very awkward sideways hug. “You’ve a new home, now, I promise you I’ll do everything I can to make you feel safe and comfortable,” he murmurs softly. “I’ll get you some new books. Anything you want. And I’ll get your arm stitched back on, alright? I’ve got the proper materials in my medical kit.” He pulls back to say, “But in order to do that, we have to go inside.”

Aziraphale sniffles and says, “What if someone sees me?”

“I hardly ever run into anyone on the way up to my flat. If anyone sees you at all, they’re not going to be staring, angel, they won’t notice anything.”

“We’re covered in ash, Crowley. Even if they don’t notice my scars…”

Crowley grimaces. “Er, yeah, you’ve a point, there.” His brows shoot up when he gets an idea. “Hold on,” he says, reaching behind his seat and feeling around for the blankets he’s been keeping back there. They still smell like the both of them. “Here,” he says, handing one to Aziraphale. “We’ll just wrap ourselves in these, yeah? If people stare, let ‘em stare. They won’t see anything. Maybe we’re just cold.”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbles as he glances from Crowley to the blanket and then out the window at the path to the building’s entrance.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way. S’just two minutes–probably not even that–and then we’ll be home.” With that, Crowley opens his door, steps out, and waits for Aziraphale to do the same. It takes half a minute, but finally, he hears the door click open and Aziraphale steps out. “There we go,” he cheers. He helps Aziraphale wrap the blanket around himself, then pats him on the back. “Come on, let’s get upstairs.”

“But they could–”

“Aziraphale, I don’t know what more I can say to convince you you’re safe, here,” Crowley says, gently but firmly. “Just a short walk up to my flat and then you’ve nothing to w–”

“My arm, Crowley,” Aziraphale says in a hushed, annoyed tone.

Crowley’s eyes follow Aziraphale’s down to the detached arm he’s been holding out in the open. “Oh,” he says, pulling his blanket over it, “right. Sorry.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but finally allows Crowley to lead him up to the flat in silence.

They don’t even run into any neighbors, thank Someone.

Crowley nearly drops Aziraphale’s arm while he’s pulling his keys out of his pocket, but he manages to get the door open without any catastrophes. “Alright,” he says, stepping inside and flipping on the lights. “Welcome home, angel.”

Chapter Text

Once Aziraphale’s inside, Crowley closes the door behind them and makes doubly sure that it’s locked, briefly wondering if his friend’s paranoia is contagious.

He turns back around and watches Aziraphale’s eyes do a slow scan of the place before settling on Crowley. “Alright?” he asks gently.

Aziraphale gulps, but nods.

“Sure?”

“I’m… I’m alright as I can be, Crowley.”

Crowley gives a deep nod and starts walking toward his cold and drab excuse for a living room. “I know this place isn’t exactly, er, you know, a cozy cottage, but, in my defense, I didn’t think you’d be coming here so soon,” he says, tossing his blanket over the back of the sofa. “I’ve been thinking about redecorating, though. Softer furniture, and all that.”

Aziraphale approaches him and moves to toss his own blanket aside, then shudders and pulls it tighter around him.

“Cold?”

“A bit.”

Crowley nods. His place is usually a bit chilly. But he has a sneaking suspicion that Aziraphale’s clinging to the blanket for a sense of security, not warmth. “You should… You should take a hot shower, or something,” he suggests. To calm yourself, he doesn’t say.

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “Yes, I suppose we both ought to.”

They stare awkwardly at each other for a few seconds before Aziraphale adds, “Separately, of course!”

“Yes, obviously, separately, yeah,” Crowley says, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He looks down and frowns. “Uh, I’ve still got your arm.”

“It seems that you do.”

“You’ll probably want it back before you try to bathe or anything.”

“That would be nice, yes,” Aziraphale says, with that playful hint of annoyance that he would often use when they’d engage in banter back at the cottage. It makes Crowley feel hopeful that he’s going to be okay. That the events of the day haven’t broken him. He offers a smile, which Aziraphale returns.

They’re quiet for a moment, then Aziraphale clears his throat and Crowley remembers he’s meant to be playing doctor.

“Er, right, I’ll… I’ll take care of it, like I said.” Crowley runs off to his bathroom supply cabinet without another word and returns about 20 seconds later with stitching materials, motioning for Aziraphale to go sit on the sofa. “Lucky for you I remember something about sutures and all that,” he says as they both take a seat.

“Hm. Yes. ‘Sutures and all that’, quite a way to instill confidence in your patient, thank you.”

“Hush. I can take care of you, alright? I know what I’m doing.”

Aziraphale eyes him skeptically. “Mmhm.”

“I do!”

“Oh, I’m not arguing with you, dear.”

Crowley scoffs and does his best to conceal a fond smile. “I’m going to sew your arm on backwards, s’what I’m going to do,” he mutters dramatically.

“If you keep teasing me rather than focusing on what you’re doing, perhaps you will.”

Crowley huffs a laugh at that, nearly dropping the needle, and Aziraphale sighs dramatically and reaches for him with the only hand he has at the moment.

“Give me that,” Aziraphale demands.

“I can do it!” Crowley recovers quickly. “You can’t possibly think you could do a better job of it one-handed than I can with two hands and a history of medical schooling.”

Aziraphale heaves a dramatic, resigned sigh, and relaxes back against the sofa. “Fine. Get on with it, then.”

“Turn a little cl– That’s it, there.” Crowley takes a breath. “Gonna have to take your clothes off, angel.”

Aziraphale swallows, not looking at him. “I know.”

“Just the top layers, obviously.”

“Of course.”

“So…?”

Aziraphale fixes him with a frown, then huffs, “Crowley, I can’t exactly get my buttons undone with one hand.” He glances up for a moment before adding, “Well, I could, I suppose, but it would take me quite a bit of effort and I’d rather not struggle to undress myself with you sitting right here just watching me and waiting.”

“Want me to do it, then?” Crowley’s throat is suddenly dry.

Aziraphale’s not quite looking at him. “That’s what I was trying to say, yes.”

“Right.” Crowley sets his supplies down on the coffee table and turns back to Aziraphale with a steadied breath. “Alright. I’m going to start with your bowtie.”

“That does seem to be the logical first move.”

“Shut it.” Crowley manages a small smile, then begins undressing his friend with nervous hands, carefully avoiding touching Aziraphale’s skin. He relocates each piece to the table, folding them all carefully when he realizes that these are literally all the man has left of his things.

By the time he gets to unbuttoning Aziraphale’s shirt, Crowley’s breathing has become labored, and he’s sure he must be blushing.

Aziraphale seems to be taking deeper breaths, too, but Crowley’s avoiding looking at his face.

He pops each button undone in turn, then takes another deep breath as Aziraphale’s chest and belly are revealed.

“I… I know it’s unsightly,” Aziraphale says, his voice wobbly and quiet.

“What?” Crowley snaps his head up with a frown, then melts at the ashamed expression on Aziraphale’s face. “Aziraphale, I’m not thinking that at all.”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale replies. “It’s not like the isolated patches and scars on my face or hands. It’s all over, and I know it’s much worse, and I d–”

Crowley silences him with a finger to those perfect, quivering lips. He drops his hand back to himself, but keeps his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s. “I’m not thinking that, angel.”

“Then… Then why did you seem so bothered…?”

“I wasn’t bothered, I–” Crowley stops himself, not wanting to overwhelm Aziraphale with the fact that he’d had to take a breath to steady himself because the urge to caress him had been too strong. Instead, he lies, “I was just thinking about how I’m going to have to put a needle to your skin in a minute and I don’t want to hurt you.” Well, it’s not entirely a lie. He doesn’t want to hurt him, and he is a bit nervous about stitching him up. That’s just not the full truth.

Aziraphale’s mouth forms an “ah” shape, then he nods. “Well, then,” he says, “perhaps I ought to do it, after all.”

“No, no, I can do it,” Crowley rushes to say, “I just– I wish I had some way to numb the part where the needle’s gonna go in.”

“Crowley, I’ve told you, I’ve hardly any feeling in that arm.”

“Yeah, but what about the part I have to attach it to?”

“That part, too! I thought I’d told you that,” Aziraphale huffs. “The feeling doesn’t start until the shoulder.”

“How are you able to move it after having it ripped off and not even having feeling in it, that doesn’t make any sense,” Crowley muses aloud. “And for that matter why’s there no blood? Shouldn’t you have blood, like, gushing out of your arm right now? I thought you said you had blood, this makes no–”

“I am a monster, Crowley, not much of my existence ‘makes sense’–it’s all due to Gabriel’s brilliance. And my arm isn’t bleeding because that part of it doesn’t get any circulation; I’ve no blood below the shoulder. Which is perhaps why I can’t feel it.”

Crowley grumbles to himself at the mention of Gabriel, then fixes Aziraphale with a sincere look. “You’re not a monster.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Yes, well…” He straightens himself. “Are you going to tend to my wounds, or not?”

Oh, I’d like to, angel, Crowley thinks. Physical and emotional. If you’ll let me. Aloud, he says through a small smirk, “Thought it didn’t hurt?”

“Do wounds have to hurt to be considered wounds?”

“I dunno. Thought so. Maybe not.” Crowley blows a puff of air from his lips. “Alright, time to do the thing.”

Aziraphale quirks a brow at the casual wording of what’s meant to be a medical procedure, but shifts so his armless side is closer to Crowley. “Best get on with it, then.”

Crowley does. He wills his hands to be steady and starts stitching Aziraphale back together.

The initial shock and thrill of touching his friend’s skin quickly subsides as he focuses on his task. He keeps a determined expression, eyes not leaving his work until it’s finished.

“That should do it, I think.”

Aziraphale looks down at his arm and raises his brows. “I think so,” he agrees.

“Not a bad job, if I do say so myself.” Crowley brushes his hands after setting his tools aside. “Good as new.”

Aziraphale gives him a smile, a softness twinkling in his bright eyes. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley wants nothing more in that moment than to kiss him.

Well, almost nothing. He wants Aziraphale to feel happy and safe, above anything else. And he doesn’t want to push him to do anything he’s not ready for. So, he clears his throat, and puts on a smile. “You’re welcome,” he says, calmly.

Aziraphale keeps smiling at him, looking just a bit lost in some sort of feeling that Crowley’s not bold enough to name for him.

Christ, he wants him so bad it makes his chest ache.

“So, shower?” Crowley springs up from the sofa. “You can go first. I’ll get a new towel out for you and everything.” He winces. “There’s not… I mean, there’s not really anything for you to change into. Fuck, I wish we’d thought to pack some of your things in the Bentley when we were cleaning up the– Oh, oh fuck, angel, hey.”

Aziraphale’s suddenly started weeping, so Crowley crouches down in front of him and puts a comforting hand on his knee.

“It’s okay. Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s– It’s not!” Aziraphale blubbers, “I’ve nothing! All my things, what little I had to begin with, it’s all– It’s all burnt to ash by now. I haven’t even anything to sleep in. No toothbrush or teacups or… or books…”

“I know, angel, I’m sorry.” Crowley seeks out his gaze and tells him, “We’ll get you all new things, yeah? Tomorrow, we’ll… I’ll go out–I’ll call off work for the next few days, close down the shop if I have to–and I’ll get you new pajamas, toothbrush, toothpaste, your own cups and mugs and… and I know it won’t be the same, and the first week or so’ll be rough… But we’ll order you books, and s–”

“I don’t wish to be a burden,” Aziraphale interrupts, his voice small and eyes wet.

“You are not a burden,” Crowley says firmly. “You’re my best friend, and I want– Fuck, Aziraphale, do you not realize how much I’ve been holding back from utterly spoiling you? I want to buy you things. I want to give you all the things you deserve–all the good things in the world, whatever you want. If I can give it to you, I want to. Please let me. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t deserve all this,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I don’t deserve you.”

Crowley has to suck in a breath to calm himself. He wants to shake Aziraphale by the shoulders. He wants to shout at him until he realizes how fucking lovable he is. But that’s… not an effective method, Crowley knows. And it’s not Aziraphale he’s frustrated with, anyway. It’s Gabriel, really. Gabriel and that Mr. Sands guy. For teaching Aziraphale that he wasn’t human, that he wasn’t worth anything.

“I will spend the rest of my life if I have to,” Crowley says through grit teeth, yet his voice comes out soft, “proving to you how much you deserve to be loved. I promise you that, angel.” He puts his other hand on Aziraphale’s other knee, and gives him a gentle squeeze. “I will just keep caring for you until you realize you fucking deserve it. And the only– The only thing that could ever make me stop, is if you walked away. As long as you’re here with me, you’re being cared for. So you’d better learn to deal with it.”

Aziraphale cries silently for a while, and Crowley lets him, patiently waiting while keeping his hands on the man’s knees. “I don’t know what to say,” Aziraphale finally manages after a few minutes.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Crowley pats his leg, then pulls his hands back to himself and stands. He stretches with his hands on the back of his waist, then sighs. “How about I get that shower ready for you?”

Aziraphale slowly nods, releasing a shaky breath.

“Alright. Stay here,” says Crowley. “Or follow me, f’y’want. Up to you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t move, so Crowley turns and heads into his bedroom. He gathers some old clothes for Aziraphale to wear, then heads to the bathroom and gets out a fresh towel. Aziraphale doesn’t appear to have moved when he reenters the living room. “Alright,” Crowley says, keeping his voice low so as not to startle his friend, who looks a bit beside himself. “Here we go.”

Aziraphale blinks and turns to look at him. “Oh,” he says, standing slowly. “Thank you.”

“‘Course.” Crowley tilts his head and frowns at Aziraphale’s newly repaired arm. “That working already?”

Aziraphale frowns, then looks down at his own arm. “Oh,” he says, looking back up at Crowley, “yes.”

“Thought it’d take longer to be able to move it again.”

“I tend to heal faster than most people do.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, it’s very convenient. Which I suppose makes up for the inconvenience of losing my arm every so often.”

Crowley fights off a smirk, not sure if Aziraphale’d meant it to be a joke. “Well, here,” he says, extending a hand full of clothes, “here’s a pair of boxers, and an old t-shirt. Plus socks to walk around the flat in since the floors can get cold.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, accepting the offered pile.

“And here’s a towel.”

“Oh! I’ve always wanted to use one of these.”

Crowley bites his tongue. “You’ve never used a towel?” he asks with a forced calmness.

“Gabriel said I could use one of the smaller dish towels, or simply air dry, and that there was no need for any more laundry. I was only permitted to use the shower once per week, anyway.”

“I swear to fucking Christ if you hadn’t killed him yourself, I would–”

“I’d really rather not talk about my creator’s death, if you please.” Aziraphale sounds firm but looks about half a second away from bursting into tears. Crowley blinks and straightens himself.

“Right. Er… Shower’s this way.”

Crowley leads the way, throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure Aziraphale’s following. He turns the shower on when he gets to the bathroom, sliding the glass door open, then steps away and blows air from his lips. “Alright,” he says after a moment, turning to exit the bathroom, “I’ll just, er. Leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, putting a hand on his forearm.

Crowley turns back to smile at him. “‘Course, angel.” He pats his friend on the bottom and says, “Now hurry up and get washed up; I need a shower, too, you know.”

Aziraphale gives a little surprised shout, then chuckles, and it’s the most beautiful sound Crowley’s heard all day. “Yes, I believe you do,” he teases.

Crowley feigns offense, putting a hand on his chest and letting his mouth fall open. Then, he grins, and leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

He leans against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes and letting out a long exhale. He brings his hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose, only just realizing he has a massive headache as the stress of the day finally has time to catch up to him.

“Right,” he murmurs to himself. “Ibuprofen, shower, sleep.”

He casts a wary glance to his bedroom, and the single bed therein.

“Sofa,” he says, kicking his legs in the direction of his bed, pulling one of the pillows from it before retrieving an extra blanket from the chest under the bed. He then goes into the living room and tosses the bedding on the sofa. “See you later,” he mumbles.

He’s not exactly looking forward to it, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm Aziraphale. They’ve only slept in the same “bed” once, and after the events of the day, Crowley wants to make sure Aziraphale feels like he has some space to himself, to recover.

He heads into the kitchen and takes a couple ibuprofen, then sits on the sofa, awkwardly waiting for Aziraphale to come out.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens, the noise startling Crowley out of an unintended nap. He shoots up from the sofa and turns toward Aziraphale, who’s just emerged from the hall.

“Oh… were you sleeping?” Aziraphale asks guiltily.

Crowley waves a hand. “Nah. Nodded off for a minute, but m’good.”

Seeing Aziraphale in his too-tight clothes is definitely doing something to him, but he manages to keep a neutral expression as he says, “Feeling better?”

“Mm, yes. Thank you.”

“I left a couple ibuprofen on the counter if you have a headache. I know I definitely do.”

“I’m… I’m alright, thank you,” says Aziraphale. “I rarely suffer from such things.”

“Ah.”

“Were you going to shower?”

“Er, yeah. You can make yourself comfortable here, f’y’want, or go right to bed.”

“Oh, I… I’ll wait for you, dear.”

Crowley smiles. Then winces. “Oh. Forgot to tell you this earlier, but, er, there’s only just the one bed in my room.”

“Yes, I… I’d gathered.”

“I was planning on taking the sofa tonight, and tomorrow we can see about getting–”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts. “We’ve already slept together once, and I don’t th–Slept in the same bed, that is!” Aziraphale turns pink under Crowley’s amused gaze. “Don’t look at me like that, you know quite well what I– A-anyway, er… What I’m trying to say, Crowley, is that I’m perfectly comfortable sharing a bed with you.”

Crowley grins. “Alright, then,” he says. “That’s a relief. Sofa’s uncomfortable as shit.”

Aziraphale returns his smile with one of his own, and Crowley has to scamper off to the bathroom to keep himself from doing something stupid, like flirting with a man who’s just lost everything.

Not the time.

He takes a twenty-minute shower without meaning to, washing the stress of the day off of himself thoroughly before emerging from the bathroom in his sleek black pajamas.

Aziraphale’s sat primly on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, his eyes darting around the room before settling on Crowley. He’s brought the pillow and blanket from the sofa back into the bedroom, and draped the blanket over his shoulders.

“Have you just been sitting there the whole time?”

Aziraphale looks shy for a moment, then admits, “I actually gave myself a bit of a tour of your flat. I hope you don’t mind.”

Crowley smiles. “It’s your flat, too, now. You can go wherever you like, eat the food, watch the telly. S’all yours.”

“You’re very generous,” says Aziraphale. He looks nervous as he says, “I… I’ll be sure to get out of your hair, as it were. As soon as I can, I’ll… I’ll find my own place.”

Crowley’s face falls. “You don’t have to do that,” he says. “You’re welcome here as long as you want to be here. I don’t…” Crowley sighs. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, angel, but I’d be happy to have you stay here forever.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, his brows shooting up for a moment before he collects himself into a refined smile. “Ah, that’s… Thank you, Crowley.”

“So… Tired yet?”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “A bit. It’s been a rather long day.”

Crowley smiles and flicks the ceiling light off, leaving only the lamp by his bed to keep the room dimly lit. “Sort of has been, hasn’t it?” He nods toward the bedroom door, still halfway open and letting in light from the hall. “Need anything before we settle in? I’m sorry I don’t have an extra toothbrush for you, but you can always, uh, put some toothpaste on your finger if you want to at least freshen up a bit.”

“Oh, is my breath that terrible?”

“No! Not bad at all, can’t even smell it from here anyway, I just– Oh,” Crowley stops when he sees Aziraphale chuckling. He laughs, too. “Alright, alright,” he says, gathering himself but unable to wipe the smile from his face, “do you need anything before we get to bed, or not? Glass of water, or something? Could keep one by the bed in case you get thirsty.”

“No, no. I think I’ll be alright, Crowley. But thank you.”

Crowley blows out a sigh and looks down at the bed, which Aziraphale has positioned himself on the left edge of. Guess that’s gonna be his side of the bed, then, he thinks, and tries not to beam excitedly at the realization. Or vomit from nerves. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he actually hates sleeping next to me and wants a bed to himself? I mean I can just get him another bed but where would I put it? It’d be too cramped in here, and the living room isn’t–

Crowley’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt when Aziraphale gets up from the edge of the bed and peels back the covers, looking to him with a raised brow. “Er, we are going to bed, aren’t we?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yup,” says Crowley, getting in on his side of the bed–his side of the bed!–and pulling the covers up to his chin. He nods toward the door. “Gonna leave the hall light on and the door open like that, in case you need to use the bathroom or something in the middle of the night. Don’t want you running into any walls.”

Aziraphale climbs into bed beside him, pulling the covers over his shoulders as he says, “Thank you, dear.”

“Welcome.” Crowley chances a look at his friend, turning his head and catching his breath when he’s greeted with the sight of Aziraphale smiling softly at him from the other pillow. “Night, angel.”

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

Christ, Crowley wants to kiss him so bad. He doesn’t, of course. It’s not the right time. But he still has to chew on his own lip in order to keep from blurting out something stupid, like, Holy shit I love you so fucking much can I give you a quick kiss goodnight?

The temptation proves irrelevant, as Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed, and he begins softly snoring in minutes.

Crowley falls asleep ten minutes later, after putting a pillow between himself and the love of his life.

Chapter Text

It’s midday when Crowley wakes to the scent of his own shampoo in Aziraphale’s hair.

Somewhere through the course of the night, the pillow he’d put between them as a barrier had been shifted so low as to be pointless, and Aziraphale had ended up in his arms, his head resting gently against Crowley’s chest.

Crowley takes a deep breath, letting his eyes fall closed again as he holds Aziraphale and rubs at his shoulder. Then he remembers the whole some-kid-almost-died-and-the-cottage-went-up-in-flames thing, and figures that Aziraphale probably isn’t going to want to wake up to a sudden shift in their relationship.

So, he lets go. He gently guides Aziraphale’s head away from his chest. And he gets out of bed.

He’s halfway through making breakfast when he sees Aziraphale standing in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Hey, angel,” he says, greeting him with a bright smile. “Was just making breakfast. Hungry yet?”

Aziraphale lets go of his own hand and takes a hesitant step into the room. “Er, I… I suppose.”

Crowley frowns and turns off the stove, not wanting to burn anything while he tends to whatever Aziraphale might need. “Alright?”

“I… I…”

Aziraphale’s clearly trying not to cry, but the tears are obvious in his bright eyes, glistening in the light, and his lip is trembling just enough to be noticeable.

Crowley doesn’t say anything. He just opens his arms wide, and waits for Aziraphale to rush into him for a hug.

Aziraphale doesn’t move.

“Er,” Crowley drops his arms back down to his sides, “anything I can do?”

“No, I… I don’t believe there is,” Aziraphale says, putting on the bravest face he can muster. He looks to the stove behind them. “Perhaps… breakfast, as you said?”

Crowley frowns. Deeply. Alright, he thinks, whatever it is, he doesn’t wanna talk about it, so I’m not going to push it. He walks back to the stove and resumes cooking. “I’m a bit low on food, so it’s just eggs and toast at the moment. I’ve got jam, if you want it. Some sort of berry, I don’t remember.”

“That… That will be perfectly acceptable. Thank you.”

What in the hell’s got him so distant all of a sudden? Crowley wonders. I get being stressed by, well, everything, but he’s acting like we’re strangers. “Sorry I haven’t got a proper table,” he says, “s’just the barstools at the counter.”

“That’s alright.”

“We could eat on the sofa, f’you want.”

“I… I’m not sure it will make a difference.”

Crowley turns to give Aziraphale a sincere look as he pushes the eggs onto their plates. “S’too cold and grey here, isn’t it? I promise I’ll get some things to brighten it up. Or warm it, or whatever. Make it more like home. I already let my staff know I’m closing the shop for the rest of the week so you can get adjusted, and that’ll give me time to g–”

“Please, don’t go through all that trouble on my account,” Aziraphale interrupts, taking a seat at the counter. “I wouldn’t want you to lose any business.”

Crowley makes a dismissive noise as he sets Aziraphale’s plate in front of him. “It won’t be too bad. S’usually dead this time of year, anyway. And, really, angel, I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone right now.” He frowns as he takes a seat next to him. “Unless… you want to be alone?”

“No! No, I… I don’t want to be alone, I only… I don’t want you to, er… I don’t wish to inconvenience you.”

Crowley regards him patiently. “Aziraphale, I’ll say it again: You are not an inconvenience. Nor a burden, or anything like that. Listen, I’m happy to care for you, alright?”

Aziraphale gives him an unconvincing smile. “Alright.”

Alright. Crowley turns back to his breakfast. Going to have to show him, since words aren’t doing shit, apparently. He’ll figure it out eventually. Little by little. I’ll make him believe he’s worth the effort.

Aziraphale eats his breakfast in silence, his head tipped down and avoiding Crowley’s occasional glance.

Crowley’s taking their dishes to the sink when Aziraphale says, “I… I can sleep on the sofa tonight.”

Crowley whips his head around to stare at Aziraphale like he’d just confessed to believing the Earth is flat. “Why the hell would you do that?! S’uncomfortable as shit!”

“Well, I don’t… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Aziraphale explains as Crowley sets their dishes in the sink and proceeds to stare at him with a troubled frown. “Sleeping near me, that is.”

Crowley makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“You were rather quick to get out of bed…”

Oh, shit. Crowley mentally kicks himself. Was he awake? Ugh, of course he’d take it that way. I practically pushed him off of me. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

Aziraphale blinks as though genuinely taken aback. “Me?” A small smile crosses his face. Crowley thinks it looks rather sad. “Oh, I truly don’t mind being so close to you, dear.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” says Crowley, offering the man a smile.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows, his lips forming a considering pout. “You mean… You don’t mind sharing a bed with me, then?”

“Nope. Prefer it, f’I’m being honest.” Crowley tries to present the information as casually as he can, but what he really wants to do is scream, You are literally the love of my life, I could breathe you in place of oxygen, of course I want to sleep beside you… for the rest of my fucking life!

“You’re quite certain you’re not disgusted by me?”

Crowley’s utterly flabbergasted. “Disgusted by you?!”

“I thought perhaps you wouldn’t want to be so near to someone who’s…” Aziraphale attempts to cover his arms, which are bare in Crowley’s old t-shirt. “Well, what I am…”

Crowley’s gaze flicks down to Aziraphale’s patchwork skin before he looks back up at his friend and says firmly, “A hundred percent not disgusted. I swear.”

“Crowley, when you first learned of my origins, you had to leave,” Aziraphale points out, letting his arms fall to his sides. “You could hardly look me in the eye.”

“Because you’d just crushed my perception of the world! I had to deal with the fact that I live in a world where someone would just… take parts of other people and create a new one. And it worked! That’s– That’s a lot, yeah?”

“Then you’re proving my point! You’re disgusted by my creation. By what it took to create me.”

“I’m disgusted that Gabriel would do that. I am not disgusted with any part of you.”

“Not even the limbs that are taken from others’ bodies?” Aziraphale challenges. “Not even that my face is only ‘mine’ because someone was murdered?”

Crowley sighs. “Look, I don’t like how you got them, I don’t like what Gabriel did to obtain them, but they are yours now. It’s like…” He flails his arms about, helplessly. “You know, s’like organ donors, yeah? Or people who donate their body to science? They’re dead now, and you got parts you needed in order to live.”

“But they didn’t give them willingly, Crowley!”

“I know that! I’m not saying it’s all good and fine and natural, just that it doesn’t make me think of you as any less human, any less worthy of a good life! You’re not to blame for your own creation, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s quiet for a moment, his head turned away, avoiding Crowley’s pleading gaze. Then he murmurs, “I don’t understand…”

“Disgusted with Gabriel, in love with you. Got it?” The words are out of Crowley’s mouth before he can think to stop them.

Aziraphale looks up and freezes, his eyes going wide. He blinks a few times. “In… love?”

Crowley gulps. “I said what I said.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“As in… romance?”

“The whole thing.”

“Oh…”

“Yup.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment, and Crowley looks away, rubbing the back of his neck and wondering how in the hell he could possibly make this okay if it turns out that Aziraphale isn’t ready… or perhaps doesn’t even want…

“May I…” Aziraphale swallows thickly and waits until Crowley looks up at him to continue. “May I kiss you?”

Oh. Oh! Crowley sucks in a breath and nods. “You can do that, yeah.”

Aziraphale walks over to him and leans in and stops just shy of the other man’s mouth, eyes heavy-lidded and flicking from Crowley’s eyes to his lips and back up again. Crowley holds his breath.

And then they’re kissing.

Aziraphale’s mouth is on Crowley’s and it’s warm and soft and perfect and Crowley can’t keep from pulling him closer, grasping Aziraphale by the sides of his face and pressing their lips together harder.

Aziraphale gasps and lets out a small moan, his hands flying to Crowley’s face and hair, tugging as though he could possibly get him any closer.

“I love you,” Crowley finds himself murmuring against those sweet lips. “I love you,” he repeats.

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale urges against his mouth, then pulls back to kiss Crowley’s jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips again.

They kiss slowly and sweetly for a couple of minutes, before Crowley forgets himself and swipes his tongue over Aziraphale’s bottom lip. He pulls back abruptly. “Sorry,” he says.

Aziraphale dazed expression is quickly replaced by one of his adorably perplexed frowns. “Whatever for?”

“Tongue,” Crowley mumbles. “Too fast. Sorry.”

Aziraphale remains confused for a moment, then softens into a smile. “Crowley,” he says, reaching for the man’s cheek and seeking his avoidant gaze. “My dear, I’m… I’m with you now. You needn’t hold back the weight of your love anymore. I…” He bites his lip, looking down before looking back up at him. “I wish to drown in it.”

Crowley puts on a funny smile. “Fuck, hope not. No drowning on my watch, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Yes, well. I’d like you to kiss me however you like, please.” He leans back in, looking to Crowley with expectantly raised brows, and smiles when Crowley closes the distance.

Crowley swipes his tongue over Aziraphale’s lip again, and is rewarded with a soft sigh and an invitation to explore his mouth further. Crowley licks along Aziraphale’s tongue and moans. “Fuck,” he whines, pulling back, “I’ve wanted to do that for months.”

“So have I,” Aziraphale says, blushing. “I’d like you to continue, please.”

“Demanding,” teases Crowley.

Aziraphale hums and tugs Crowley closer by the collar of his shirt.

They kiss deeply for a few minutes, licking into each other’s mouths and even biting the other’s lip, before Aziraphale finally sighs and pulls away.

“Was nice,” Crowley says, dazedly.

“Mm,” Aziraphale agrees. “You know, I’ve never kissed anyone,” he says, with a smile and a small giggle.

Crowley smiles back. “No, I guess you wouldn’t’ve.” The smile fades. “You’ve only known three people…”

“I’m so glad you’re one of them,” says Aziraphale, at the same time that Crowley begins to say, “Aziraphale, I don’t want you to–”

Aziraphale frowns. “What?”

“I don’t– I don’t want you to settle for me, just because I’m the first guy you’ve known who’s treated you like a person.”

“I don’t…,” begins Aziraphale, slowly, as though he’s considering this, “I don’t think that’s what I’m doing, Crowley.”

“No?” Crowley challenges. “Angel, you don’t know anyone besides me. You’ve never… How do you know there isn’t somebody out there who… I dunno, maybe you’d like better?”

“Crowley,” sighs Aziraphale, “listen to me. I’ve read quite a lot of literature, and I’m no stranger to the themes of romance. And… and sex. And I… I know I’m attracted to you, Crowley. I’ve read about it. The feeling of… of…”

“Infatuation,” Crowley supplies.

“Yes,” Aziraphale acknowledges, holding Crowley’s gaze meaningfully, “but also love. You excite me, you make me… want things… But you also make me feel safe. And I’m… I would be very interested in loving you full-time, as it were. To be your partner, if it isn’t too bold to say.”

“It’s not. It’s not too bold. Not at all. It’s just…” Crowley sucks in an anxious breath, then lets his worries rush out of him on the exhale, “I don’t want you to regret never getting out there and seeing who else could be good for you.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “…Do you really think you’re not good for me?”

“That’s not my point. Angel, I want you more than anything. More than anyone I’ve ever… ever, you know, cared for, I… I feel that way about you. It’s just that I don’t want you to, to miss out on, you know, a normal life, exploring your options, experimenting, sleeping around, dating around, being in other relationships… I don’t want you to just jump into something with me because I’m the first available option.”

Aziraphale’s mouth forms an “oh” in understanding. “I see,” he says. “You’re afraid of getting hurt, then.” He nods to himself. “Of me abandoning you to experience something–or rather someone–else.”

Crowley’s quiet for a moment. “I… maybe,” he admits. “But I also don’t want you to feel like you’re missing out. It’s… not entirely selfish.”

“My dear,” says Aziraphale, in the most gentle, endearing voice, “as I’ve said, I’ve read quite a lot about romance. And do you know what I’ve learned? There are often other ‘options’, as it were. I don’t believe there is any one person meant for only one other person, even for monogamous types, as we both seem to be. I’m quite sure there are many potential partners for the both of us.” His lips tremble into a small frown that’s gone in a split second. “Well, perhaps more options for you… I’m… I’m not sure how many people would be willing to accept my… origins.”

Before Crowley can open his mouth to argue in Aziraphale’s favor, the man continues, “But, the mere fact that you exist, and that you care for me as you do, is…” Aziraphale beams. “Well, it’s proof that it’s possible, that– That I am lovable, at least to some, and so it’s reasonable to believe there may indeed be others who could love me. And I’m sure I could love them, too.”

Crowley looks down, and kicks himself for feeling so jealous by those emotionally mature words.

“But Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s chin, tipping it up so he can lock eyes with him, “I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend my life searching for other possibilities of love when I already have it right here. I want you. I choose you.” He lets his hand fall away from Crowley’s face and adds, sheepishly, “If you’ll allow me to, that is.”

Crowley’s crying, he can feel it on his cheeks. And that’s fine, really. Everything’s fine, he realizes, because Aziraphale is telling him he chooses him. Things couldn’t be more fine, he’s pretty sure.

“Crowley?”

“Yes! Sorry, yes. You can… you can choose me. You can choose me. Fuck, I love you, Aziraphale.”

The rest of the day goes much like their previous days together. Only, they spend it on a stiff sofa rather than the cozy furniture of the old cottage. They discuss which books Aziraphale wants in order to start off his new collection. Crowley tries not to plead with him to just accompany him to a bookshop. Give it time, he tells himself. He’ll be ready in time.

After dinner (which Crowley orders delivered – sushi, because it’s familiar), they move to the bedroom and Aziraphale falls asleep cuddled up to Crowley while they’re in the middle of talking about all the new dining options available now that they’re in London.

Crowley smiles down at him and squeezes him closer, kissing the top of his fluffy hair. Then, he closes his eyes, and with a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “Goodnight, angel.”

Chapter Text

“Come on, angel, just one breakfast out,” Crowley pleads as Aziraphale gets dressed and shakes his head, his lips in an adorable pout.

He’d agreed the night before, after quite a bit of fussing with his hands and fretting about undesirable possibilities, to let Crowley take him out for breakfast this morning.

And promptly changed his mind upon waking up.

This has happened four times now, in the two months since he’s come to live with Crowley.

“Angel, you never have to go out again if you don’t have a good time, yeah?” Crowley pulls his shoes on and gestures widely at the door. “Just give it a chance!” He gives Aziraphale a sincere look before kissing him on the cheek. “No one’s going to bully you, sweetheart, I promise. Not on my watch.”

Aziraphale leans into the kiss, but sighs and turns away as soon as it’s over. “I don’t know…”

“Exactly! You’ll never know if you don’t give it a shot,” says Crowley. “Come on, you can’t stay in this boring old flat forever.”

“It isn’t boring,” says Aziraphale, defensively.

He’s had quite an influence on the flat’s aesthetic since moving in. The hard, cold grey sofa has been replaced with a big, soft brown one. There’s a bookshelf in the living room, not to mention the dozens of books scattered about the flat. Half the closet’s full of beige and blue and brown and, to Crowley’s dismay, tartan.

But Aziraphale has made the flat his home, alongside Crowley. It’s cozy, and warm, and them, and that’s better than Crowley could ever have imagined. Still, he feels bad leaving him alone when he goes to work. He just wants to show him the world! Parade his boyfriend on his arm, grin like a devil at all the envy he’ll no doubt stir up in the hearts of strangers.

“Alright,” Crowley concedes, “it’s not boring, but it’s not… There’s so much more out there! So much to experience. And I mean, we were planning on going out of the city, anyway, right? If anything… If anything uncomfortable happens, it’d be around people who don’t even live in London, probably, and we never have to see ‘em again.” He reaches out to fluff Aziraphale’s hair. “I’ll even get their names and make sure they’re banned from the shop, too.”

Aziraphale offers him a half smile, then looks down and bites his lip.

“Look, angel, I won’t lie to you, you stand out. The both of us do. I can’t promise you that people won’t look,” says Crowley. “But they’re not going to know how you were made. They can’t possibly– Aziraphale, you’re safe. You’re safe, alright?”

“Are… Are you absolutely sure I won’t be carted away to a… a government lab or something?”

“I promise that won’t happen.” Crowley nods towards the door so heavily that he has to take a step in that direction and pretend that the weight of his head didn’t just make him stumble. “Let’s go, yeah? We can be back in, er, a few hours tops. And then the rest of the day can be quiet and, y’know. Just the two of us. Come onnn,” he drawls, “the Bentley’s finally in proper shape again and I want to take you out in it.”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “Darling, I don’t think that’s the best way to convince me to go on an outing with you,” he says. “I didn’t exactly enjoy my first ride in that car.”

Crowley raises his hands. “I’ll go under the speed limit, I swear.”

“That’s not safe, either! The key is to keep up with the flow of traffic,” Aziraphale explains, as though he has any experience in operating a vehicle.

Crowley smirks. “I’ll drive safely and responsibly,” he says, “to protect the precious cargo I’ll have in the passenger seat. Yeah?”

Aziraphale sighs, then worries his teeth at his lower lip for a moment. He glances from Crowley to the door and back again, before finally, finally saying, “Alright.”

Crowley beams and tugs the door open, stepping outside before Aziraphale can change his mind again. “Crêpes?”

Aziraphale offers a small smile. “Crêpes sound lovely, dearest.”

He holds Crowley’s hand the entire ride. It becomes a death grip when they walk into the crêperie. Crowley squeezes his hand leans over to press a quick kiss to the side of his face. “You’re going to be fine, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile is wobbly, but as much as he looks like he’s thinking of running off, he lets Crowley guide him to a seat. Crowley makes sure Aziraphale is seated with his left side toward the wall, so his cheek isn’t quite as visible. Aziraphale still tries to cover his face by resting his cheek on his hand. It looks so out of character for him–a too-casual mannerism in contrast with Aziraphale’s usual prim posture.

Crowley tries to distract him by going over the menu with him and asking him to choose two options that most appeal to him, so Crowley can order the second one and let him try it. Aziraphale smiles a real smile for the first time since they left the flat, and settles on a Nutella crêpe, and a peaches and creme one.

He lets out a small whimper when Crowley gets up to go place their order, his eyes wide and darting wildly around the room when Crowley returns.

Crowley reaches across the table and covers Aziraphale’s fidgeting hands with his own. “Hey,” he says, seeking those pale blue eyes. They look more grey in this light. “Alright?”

Aziraphale blinks and gives a sequence of unsteady nods.

“Sure?” Crowley smiles in effort to cheer him up, but it’s a bit lopsided as the sight of his boyfriend in such distress makes his heart ache.

“I… I’m alright.” Aziraphale dips his head and covers the rosy patch of skin on his cheek as new customers walk past them to find a seat.

Crowley’s eyes ricochet around the place as he tries to find something to distract Aziraphale with. His brows shoot up and he nods to a photo hanging on the wall opposite them. “Look, s’France,” he says.

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s gaze and a small smile overtakes his worried face for a brief moment as he looks at the black and white photo of the Eiffel Tower. “Ah,” he says, turning back to Crowley, “it’s lovely.”

“You’re lovely,” Crowley says, big cheesy grin on his face. His heart swells when it elicits a blushing smile from Aziraphale.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale mutters.

“Yeah, well. You make me ridiculous,” Crowley says. “With how lovely you are. How much I care for you. S’stupid, s’what it is. Look at me, all dressed in black, sleek as a… as a fox, or something, and you’ve got me all mush. Ruining my reputation, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “I do hope you’ll forgive me, dear.” The uncertainty creeps back onto his face as more people enter the building, and he pulls his hands away from Crowley in order to fidget with them under the table.

Crowley narrows his eyes as Aziraphale looks away. He thins his lips for a moment, then stretches in his seat and casually takes his sunglasses off, setting them on the table. If Aziraphale’s worried about standing out, it’s only fair that Crowley’s unique features be on display, too.

Aziraphale looks up at him, his eyes suddenly a little brighter. His little smile emanates gratefulness, and Crowley beams back at him with a wink.

When the server approaches with their food, Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and he looks at Crowley with a plea for help. Get me out of here, Crowley hears when he looks at those grey eyes. Protect me. Keep me safe.

Crowley reaches across the table to take his trembling hand and give it a squeeze.

The server sets their plates down in front of them and nearly turns away before they look to Aziraphale with wide eyes. “Oh!”

Aziraphale blanches, and Crowley’s getting ready to get banned from a creperie for throwing punches at an employee.

“Your hair is gorgeous,” they say, a wondrous smile on their face as they gesture at Aziraphale’s soft blonde curls. “S’exactly how I always try to get mine, but mine always comes out all brassy, so I just go orange or reddish. Looks fantastic on you, though!”

Aziraphale blinks, eyes wide, and melts into a warm smile. “Oh! Oh, thank you, dear,” he says. “You’re very kind.”

The server gives him another smile and turns to the kitchen.

Crowley beams. “They’re right, you know,” he says. “Gorgeous hair. Like a halo, s’what I’ve always said.”

Aziraphale’s bright smile spills over into a pleased little giggle. “You flatter me.”

“Anything for that smile.”

Aziraphale blushes and looks up at him through his lashes.

They eat their meal in peace, and Aziraphale hums happily as he forgets about the world around them, immersing himself in the world of crêpes.

He spots a little park on the way back to the Bentley, and asks if they might take a walk before heading home.

Crowley has never been happier.

Chapter Text

After the success of his first outing, Aziraphale grows more courageous around the idea of being “out and about”, as he so adorably puts it.

He lets Crowley take him out for a meal once every two weeks (saying he needs enough time to “settle down” after each outing), and soon enough he’s accompanying him to the shops for groceries and other necessities.

They make a weekly habit of taking a stroll in St. James’s Park, where Aziraphale finds the perfect spot near the pond to stand beside Crowley and watch the ducks swim past. They often go just before dusk, and Aziraphale will hold his hand and rest his head on his shoulder before sighing and suggesting they return home for the evening.

Home. Not a prison he can’t leave, but home, where he can return after wandering about boldly in the rest of the world.

He gets a few lingering stares every now and then, and he needs a great deal of comfort and reassurance from Crowley after the first few times. But he seems to stop caring after a while. Perhaps it’s due in part to the way Crowley lavishes love upon him at every opportunity, pressing sweet kisses to his cheek and telling him how beautiful he is.

And perhaps, in part, it’s because, as Aziraphale becomes more comfortable in the world, his tendency to be a bit of a bastard starts to come out.

One rainy Tuesday evening, they’re at a Tesco when a small boy of around six years old wanders up to them alone and asks, “What ‘appened to your cheek?”

Crowley glares at the kid from behind his glasses, but Aziraphale surprises him with how he handles it.

“Well,” he says, leaning down closer to the child’s level, “I had a bit of an accident, you see. I had far too many sweets, and they rotted my cheek right off! So, I had to have it replaced, you see.”

The boy scurries off to his mother with a whimper, and Aziraphale puts on an innocent face when Crowley gapes at him in wonder.

“What?” Aziraphale thins his lips in a futile attempt to hide his smirk.

Crowley breaks out in a grin. “Forget you’re a right bastard, sometimes.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, holding his hands primly in front of his belly. “Well, you know,” he says, “children ought to learn not to talk to strangers. Particularly about such things as their appearances. I believe I’ve just taught him a valuable lesson.” His lips fall into a pout as he throws a glance in the direction the boy had run off to. “Oh,” he says regretfully, “I hope I didn’t give him too terrible a fright…”

Crowley chuckles and pats him on the back, steering him toward the baking aisle. “Served him right, f’you ask me. Anyway, he’s less likely to get a cavity, now, I think.”

Aziraphale lets out an adorable little giggle, and they continue their shopping in peace.

They’re walking through the park one afternoon when a familiar young woman approaches them.

“Crowley?”

“Anathema,” says Crowley, smiling before he remembers she knows things about Aziraphale that Aziraphale doesn’t know anyone knows about Aziraphale. Maybe not the stitched limbs bit, but the abuse from Gabriel? Crowley gulps and hopes she’ll know better than to bring it up.

“Is this a friend of yours, dear?” Aziraphale asks, arm in arm with Crowley and looking up at him with a little smile.

Crowley stares blankly at the young woman for a moment before blinking and saying, “Ah, yeah.”

Aziraphale smiles at Anathema and says, “Hello, dear. I’m Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale?” Anathema frowns and looks between the two men. Then her face lights up. “You’re Az–” At Crowley’s wide-eyed glare and subtle shake of the head, Anathema shuts herself up. “Um. It’s so nice to meet you,” she says to Aziraphale, extending a hand.

Aziraphale shakes her hand, smiling but shooting a brief questioning look at Crowley, who clears his throat and begins to usher Anathema away.

“Good to see you Anathema have a nice day we don’t want to keep you,” Crowley rambles, hooking an arm around Aziraphale and guiding him in the opposite direction. “Text me sometime, yeah?” he says over his shoulder.

Anathema looks concerned for a moment, then shakes her head and smiles.

Crowley tries to distract Aziraphale by buying him an ice lolly, but Aziraphale frowns before the treat even goes near his mouth.

“Dear, did she… know of me?”

“I mean…” Crowley heaves a deep breath. There’s no getting out of this; he can’t lie to Aziraphale. “Yeah. She did, angel. I… I told her, some time ago. She came into the shop one day and overheard me mumbling to myself about wanting to break you out of the cottage and, uh, inserted herself into the situation.” He lets go of Aziraphale to rub nervously at the back of his neck. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell her the details, just… that you were in a rough spot and deserved better and I didn’t know how to help you and I’m sorry. Honestly, angel, I’ve felt kind of shit about it ever since. I know I broke your trust and I can’t t–”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale puts a hand on his beloved’s wildly gesturing arm. “Crowley, dear, it’s alright. I’m not upset.”

Crowley frowns. “No?”

Aziraphale smiles. “No. I might have been, some time ago, when I was so concerned about being… found out. But… Now that all’s settled, I find it… I find it endearing that you cared so much for me, even then.”

“I’d already been in love with you for some time by that point, you know,” Crowley says with a smile he fails to conceal.

“Oh, had you?” Aziraphale beams. He leans on Crowley’s shoulder with a sigh. “I think I might have fallen for you the moment I saw you outside that window, you know. I just didn’t know what it meant at the time.”

Crowley melts, squeezing Aziraphale closer against his side and tilting his head to press a kiss to the top of his fluffy hair. Before he can respond, Aziraphale turns to look over his shoulder.

“I would like to properly meet your friend, I think,” he says. “We hardly ever talk to people when we’re out, save for ordering at restaurants.”

“And taunting obnoxious children,” Crowley teases.

“Mm, yes.” Aziraphale tries to hide his smirk by turning his head again.

“Craving more of a social life, angel?”

Aziraphale hums. “Now that I’m growing more… comfortable with being in public… I would like to try making some, er, friends. It would be nice to have people we could meet for brunch and such, I think.”

Crowley smiles and rubs Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’ll arrange a large social event at the flat soon as I can. Your grand debut into society.”

“Well,” Aziraphale pouts, “I don’t know about that…”

Crowley cackles and gives Aziraphale a kiss as they keep walking.

Not long after they get home, Crowley’s mobile buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a text from Anathema.

Hope I didn’t get you into any trouble with your… boyfriend?

Crowley smirks and types his reply.

boyfriend, yeah. no trouble. sfine. he even mentioend wanting to meet you again.

I’d love that!

“Is that your friend?” Aziraphale asks, inclining his head before apparently remembering that it isn’t polite to read someone’s private messages.

Crowley hums. “She says she’d like to meet you again, too.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, how lovely.”

“You’re lovely,” Crowley says, tossing himself on the sofa and kicking his feet up. “Golden Girls?”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “You know, when I used to fantasize about coming to live with you, I’d imagined there would be a great deal more of James Bond than Rose and Dorothy.”

“Oh, you fantasized, did you?”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale chides, swatting Crowley’s legs from his side of the sofa so he can sit down. “What have I told you about boots on the furniture?”

“To not to.” Crowley grins.

“You utter fiend,” Aziraphale huffs.

Crowley cackles a bit, then sits up and turns so he can put his head in Aziraphale’s lap. “You love it.”

“I do,” Aziraphale sighs, then smiles and runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “I love you.”

A couple of days later, Crowley bursts into the living room, pulling his coat on as he says, “Angel, will you allow me to whisk you away today?”

Aziraphale looks up from behind the book he’d been reading on the sofa, quirking a brow at his grinning boyfriend. “And where might you be whisking me away to, I wonder?”

Crowley’s grin widens. “Oh, you’ll see.” He nods to the door. “C’mon.”

“What, now?”

“Mm.” Crowley drops his grin and gives Aziraphale a snarky look. “Oh, sorry, I can see you’re terribly invested in,” he leans sideways, squinting at the book Aziraphale’s holding, “the mating cycles of birds.”

“It’s interesting,” Aziraphale defends with a pout. “Some of them even have special dances to entice their mates. It’s really rather charming.”

“S’that what I have to do to get you to come with me? A little dance?” Crowley wiggles his hips, eliciting a bright laugh from Aziraphale.

“Oh, alright, alright.” Aziraphale chuckles and stands, shaking his head as he adjusts his waistcoat before looking up at Crowley with an extremely put-upon huff. “Let’s go, before you embarrass yourself.”

Crowley tilts his head back with a laugh as he hooks his arm with Aziraphale’s. “I think I might have crossed that line already, angel.”

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asks as they exit the flat and Crowley locks up behind them.

“Told you, s’a surprise.”

Aziraphale murmurs something about Crowley being “ridiculously dramatic”, but smiles nonetheless. He keeps flicking a suspicious gaze over to Crowley on the ride over, with Crowley growing more and more giddy by the second.

“And voilá, angel, here we are,” Crowley announces when they walk up to their destination. He spots the exact moment that Aziraphale reads the word “library” at the forefront of the beautiful building, his eyes lighting up as he looks to Crowley with a big, hopeful smile. “Yep, books galore, in there,” says Crowley. “Rows and rows and rows of books. Books for days.”

Aziraphale beams. “Oh, my!” He does a happy little wiggle, putting a slight skip in his step, and Crowley chuckles.

“Obviously I couldn’t get you a library card,” he says, “but I’ve got one, so. Pick out, uhhhh, however many the checkout limit is, and we’ll take ‘em ho–ngAH!”

Crowley lets out a startled noise when Aziraphale suddenly tugs on his arm and starts heading for the library as though he thinks the entire building may disappear in a matter of seconds.

They spend just over three hours in there, and Crowley leaves the building with an armful of books and a very happy boyfriend at his side.

He huffs teasingly about the weight of the books, pointing out that Aziraphale is a great deal stronger than he is and ought to carry his own books.

“Yes, but that would hardly be any fun, would it?” Aziraphale puts on a knowing smile, his bastard brow quirking as he says, “You can’t play the hero that way, can you? Rescuing me from the… the utter inconvenience of carrying those books alllll the way to the Bentley.” He pats Crowley on the shoulder, and walks ahead of him with his hands behind his back, looking around at the trees before tossing an innocent look back at him. “Aren’t you coming? Do try to keep up.”

Crowley gives him a theatrical scowl that quickly shifts into a grin. He follows behind his love–the man he’s seen grow from a timid, trapped and tortured soul, to the beautiful, ridiculous bastard he was always meant to be.

Aziraphale hums happily as they walk back to the Bentley, slowing down so Crowley can walk beside him. He murmurs a genuine, “Thank you, Crowley. I’ve so enjoyed this particular outing.”

Crowley smiles. “Yeah? Books?” He snorts.“Who’d have guessed?”

“Books and you, my dear,” says Aziraphale, taking gentle hold of Crowley’s elbow as he leans in to press a sweet kiss to his cheek. “All I need to be happy, really.”

Crowley flushes bright pink and mumbles something unintelligible, hiding his face behind the stack of books and prompting an amused chuckle from Aziraphale.

“I love you, dearest.”

“Love you, too,” says Crowley, grinning like the luckiest idiot in London (which he’s quite sure he is–perhaps even in the whole world).

He loads the books into the backseat of the car, gets into the driver’s seat, and leans over to give Aziraphale a kiss before starting the engine.

Aziraphale sighs contentedly, taking Crowley’s hand and holding it atop his knee, and they go home.