Work Text:
It starts, as things in Aziraphale's life tend to start, with a book.
Not just any book. A Sapiential book, centuries old and written entirely in Septuagint. It was a stroke of luck (luck actually being Aziraphale's own slightly immoral master scheme) that had caused the manuscript to come into his possession, and he was rather satisfied with himself. Following the almost-apocalypse his collection of books has been steadily growing, no longer hindered by supernatural events or divine interventions, and Aziraphale is quite pleased. He looks down at the manuscript in his hands with a hint of smugness that would be invisible to untrained viewer.
But Crowley, of course, knew different. He has spent a long time in Aziraphale's company, and Aziraphale's occasional smug smile or pompous twinkle of the eye always gives Crowley a lot of amusement. So when the demon strides into the bookshop and notices the look on Aziraphale's face, he smiles a tiny, mischievous smile. There's nothing quite as entertaining than teasing Aziraphale. Crowley would know. He's been seeking entertainment for his entire demonic life.
"What're you so happy about?" Crowley drawls, in way of greeting. Aziraphale turns to him quickly, always pleased to see him, and the manuscript is still held carefully in his small hands.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale smiles. "I was just admiring the new addition to my collection."
He holds up the manuscript proudly. Crowley saunters over to him, and leans down to peer at the small, printed text with narrowed eyes. He's never understood why Aziraphale goes in for this sort of thing, and personally he finds no pleasure at all in looking at dusty old books, but Aziraphale does. And so Crowley looks, and makes an interested little hum.
"Stolen another one, have you?" He asks, delighting in the way Aziraphale frowns.
"Oh, no, not stolen." Aziraphale insists. "I've just borrowed it."
"Right, yeah." Crowley lets out a bark of laughter and straightens up again. "Borrowed it. Suppose you'll return it, then? Like the rest of the books you've borrowed?"
"Anyway," Aziraphale pulls the manuscript away from him and places it gently on the desk. He sends Crowley an affronted look. "I wasn't expecting you this afternoon."
"Sorry, should I make an appointment?" Crowley says. "Wouldn't want to interrupt your busy schedule."
"You know that's not what I meant. I was just surprised, that's all. I thought now that we were- free agents, as it were, you might have, ah, things to do. People to see. That sort of thing."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale busies himself with the manuscript, fussing over it and not looking at Crowley's face. Crowley has no idea how to tell Aziraphale that he doesn't actually have anything to do or anyone to see, except for Aziraphale, and even if he did he'd not sure he'd do it anyway. He'd much rather be in the bookshop. But Crowley doesn't know how to say that, so he doesn't. It's been that way for 6000 years.
"Thought I'd pop in." Crowley says casually, leaning against the desk where Aziraphale is fussing. It brings them closer, perhaps too close than what is safe, but Crowley doesn't mind a bit. "See how things were going. Check you hadn't been whisked away by heaven and thrown into hell fire, or something."
"Thankfully not." Aziraphale looks up at him, a little shy, and smiles. Crowley is thankful he hasn't overstepped by turning up at the bookshop unannounced. "I appreciate it, though."
There's a pause for a moment, and then,
"I suppose things are alright on your end too, then?"
"Oh, yeah. Nothing from Hell. Nah da. Radio silence." Crowley returns Aziraphale's smile with a toothy one of his own. "Suppose we're unemployed now."
"I prefer to think of it as... a break." Aziraphale says carefully. "Or maybe a holiday."
"A vacation, huh?" Crowley laughs. "Should've booked somewhere. Italy, or something. Venice?"
"Oh, it has been a while since I went to Venice." Aziraphale says dreamily. Crowley has fond memories of the city, all of them including Aziraphale. "Oh, when was I last there? I think it might've been-"
"1432." Crowley supplies helpfully.
"Oh! Yes! The renaissance." Aziraphale lets out a wistful sigh. Those were good days, Crowley remembers. "There was nothing quite like it. The art, the architecture-"
"The alcohol." Crowley interrupts, and smiles broadly Aziraphale sends him a scandalized look. "And the fashion! Gotta love the fashion."
"Yes, it really was quite lovely." Aziraphale says. "...But oh! You've distracted me."
"From what?"
"The Sapiential book, of course."
"Don't you just have to, uh, put it on a shelf?"
Aziraphale gives him a look that can only be compared to divine wrath.
"My dear, this manuscript is centuries of years old." Aziraphale says, "And you're suggesting I put it on a shelf?"
"Uh." Crowley blinks. "Well, I dunno. What else would you do with it?"
Realisation dawns on Aziraphale's face.
"Oh! How could I forget? You've never seen it, have you...?" Aziraphale says, picking up the manuscript and beckoning Crowley to follow him.
"Seen what?" Crowley asks, but Aziraphale is distracted, muttering to himself as he leads Crowley to the back of the bookshop. Crowley saunters behind him, watching the angel curiously as they reach the back room.
But something is different. There's a door there that definitely wasn't there before. Crowley would know. He was here when the shop opened.
It's a thick oak door, with a rune on the outside. Crowley eyes it curiously, running a pale, slender along the engraving.
"What's this?" He asks.
"If I show you what's behind that door, you mustn't tell a single soul." Aziraphale warns him. When Crowley looks down at the angel, his eyes are twinkling. "Promise me, Crowley."
Crowley shrugs.
"Sure."
"Say the words." Aziraphale says, and then adds, "Please."
"Fine, okay. I promise."
Satisfied, Aziraphale presses his hand against the engraving. The door creaks open, slow but sure, and Aziraphale slips inside.
"You got any more secret rooms hanging around anywhere, angel?" Crowley asks, amused as he follows the angel through the dark doorway.
"Oh, no, just the one." Aziraphale says, and smiles. "...This is where I keep my rarest and most prized books."
Crowley, from the doorway, looks around at the small room. It's dark, and dreadfully cold, and lined with several shelves. The surfaces are very clean, everything well-dusted and painstakingly preserved, but there's an old armchair in the corner of the room that looks worn and well-used. Crowley feels a sudden, warm rush of affection when he realises this is Aziraphale's space, and he has been permitted entry.
"Huh." Crowley says softly. He offers Aziraphale a warm smile from the doorway, and Aziraphale's gaze lingers for a moment too long before he clears his throat and looks away. Crowley, too, looks down at his shoes. For a moment he feels overwhelmed.
"...What's with the rune on the door, then?" Crowley asks, once the feeling has faded into something manageable.
"Oh! That's a protection rune. It stops anyone getting out that isn't me." Aziraphale explains. He looks rather proud of himself as he reaches up on his toes to carefully set the manuscript amongst the other books. "Stops those pesky thieves. The door automatically locks when it closes. Then it can only be opened from the outside-"
Crowley, in an attempt to seem suave and casual, had began to lean against the secret door through the entire speech. So when it clicks shut behind him and plunges the room into darkness, just as Aziraphale speaks those words, his eyes widen.
"Uh." Crowley turns around, and shoves the door, but it remains closed. "Aziraphale?"
The darkness is still and quiet for a long moment, but then Aziraphale speaks.
"Let there be light." The room is lit up once more. Instead of being panicked, however, like Crowley expects, Aziraphale looks rather amused. "What is it?"
"Closed the damned door, didn't I?" Crowley mutters. He feels a dawning panic upon realising he might be trapped in this small space with Aziraphale for a considerable amount of time.
"Oh, dear." Once more, the angel just sounds amused. "Whatever shall we do?"
"Trust you and your fancy runes." Crowley grumbles. "Getting us into all sorts of trouble. Why'd you make a door that can only be opened one way?"
"Why, indeed." Crowley really can't figure out Aziraphale's tone. The angel looks unconcerned as he settles into the armchair in the corner.
"Suppose we can't miracle our way out of here, either?"
"Oh, no. That would rather defeat the point of my rune. You can never be too careful, you know. Angels and demons can be thieves too." Aziraphale's lips twitch.
"So," Crowley frowns, "What are we going to do?"
"Well," Aziraphale says, "I think we may be stuck down here."
"Stuck? Surely not." Crowley gives the angel a blank stare.
"Oh, yes. At least until the door is opened from the outside."
"And how do you suppose we do that? Got any angels on speed dial?"
"Certainly not." Aziraphale sounds offended, though Crowley would bet he doesn't even know what speed dial is. The angel is quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and then he speaks again. "I'm sure there's someone we could call..."
So Crowley takes out his mobile phone, and rings the entirety of his (admittedly quite small) contact list. Eventually Madame Tracey answers Shadwell's phone, and kindly agrees to rescue them, but warns it'll take up to an hour or perhaps longer.
"Fantastic." Crowley mutters, hanging up the phone and shoving it into his pocket. Aziraphale, quite content in the armchair, just raises his eyebrows. "An hour, at least."
"Suppose we should get comfortable, then."
"'S a little cold, though."
"Oh, don't complain."
"Snake, remember? Cold blooded?"
Aziraphale's eyes twinkle with amusement as Crowley sends him a miserable scowl. He doesn't particularly mind the situation. In fact, the demon has been searching for ways to be alone with Aziraphale since the Garden of Eden. But he wasn't quite prepared to be stuck in a secret room with him for the foreseeable future, close and lit by heavenly light. Especially considering that now the apocalypse has been successfully averted, there's really nothing standing in the way between them. He feels a strange sensation in his chest that he blames on the temperature and his human form.
"Don't... hover like that, Crowley." Aziraphale says. Crowley obliges and steps out of the shadows. He runs a cold hand along the bookshelf, peering at the old books curiously. "That's better."
"How long have you been hiding this place?" Crowley asks.
"Oh, practically since I opened the bookshop." He says, and Crowley's heart stutters. Once more, he feels privileged to be here. Aziraphale has took him somewhere private, somewhere meaningful.
"Hundred years and you haven't worked out a better security system?"
"Oh, I know, I've never been very good with that sort of thing." Aziraphale huffs. "But it's worked quite all right until today."
"Right." A smirk pulls at Crowley's cheeks. He pauses when he notices something on the shelf. "...Didn't I get you this?"
It's a book of prophecy, but it isn't old or rare, because Crowley hadn't the faintest idea how to obtain a book like that. In fact, Crowley had suspected even as he took the book from an unsuspecting Lord of the manor that it was really quite useless, and that Aziraphale would be unimpressed with it. He'd gifted it to the angel when the bookshop first opened, and since then the demon had never spotted it on any of the bookshelves in the shop. He'd always thought Aziraphale must have thrown it away. But here it is, nestled in amongst Aziraphale's prized possessions. Crowley swallows a hard lump in his throat.
"Oh- yes." Aziraphale says lightly. "I suppose you did."
Crowley pointedly doesn't meet Aziraphale's eyes as he continues exploring. The more he sees, the more intimate the space feels, as if just being present here is bringing him closer to Aziraphale. He feels a little flushed beneath the collar, despite the cold room, and curses his human form once more.
Eventually, Crowley reaches the last shelf. He smiles when he finds a small pile of letters on the middle shelf, tied with a ribbon. He recognises his own handwriting. During the early days of The Arrangement, they'd send letters arranging to meet. Short, 'professional' little notes, but each one got longer the more they met. Crowley unties the ribbon.
One just says, Lunch? It's scrawled in his own handwriting, and signed hastily Crowley at the bottom.
"Forgot about these." Crowley says softly.
"I suppose writing letters is considered quite old fashioned now." Aziraphale says. "But I do remember."
So does Crowley. But he doesn't want to ask why exactly Aziraphale keeps the letters here. He fears the answer might ache a little, might reveal too much too quickly. Aziraphale had been the one that asked to go slower, after all.
"Sated your curiousity?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley hums, running his hand over a letter dated 1941. That was when Aziraphale had stopped writing to him. Strange, Crowley had thought at the time. And disappointing, too, because Crowley had always got a little thrill of pleasure whenever he saw Aziraphale's handwriting on an envelope addressed to him.
Crowley sets down the letters gently back on the shelf. He feels quite vulnerable, all of a sudden.
"Shame we didn't bring any wine down here." He says. If Aziraphale knows why Crowley is saying that, he doesn't let on. He just smiles good naturedly.
"Do sit down, Crowley, all of this pacing is making me dizzy."
Crowley obliges, sliding down the wall and curling up his legs beside the armchair. Aziraphale leans his chin on his hand and looks down at Crowley thoughtfully. They sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.
"I suppose we ought to make use of our time down here." Aziraphale says. "What shall we talk about?"
Crowley's lips twitch.
"Riveting conversation starter, angel."
Aziraphale turns a little pink in the cheeks. Amused, Crowley takes mercy on him.
"Thinking of changing my hair." He says, picking on something safe, something easy to talk about.
"What's wrong with your hair?" Aziraphale frowns.
"Nothin', really. Just fancied a change. Post-apocalyptic spirit, and all." Crowley says. He runs a hand through his hair. "Thinking of dyeing it red. Growing it out a little, maybe. Long hair is back in fashion these days."
"Angels don't change their hair. Vanity, you see." Aziraphale says.
"Huh." Crowley says. "...You think I'd suit red hair?"
"I'd have to get used to it." Aziraphale says.
"So you wouldn't like it?"
"I didn't say that." Aziraphale insists.
"So you would like it?"
"Well-" Aziraphale, flustered, stops to consider the question, and then tries again. "I don't know. But it shouldn't matter whether I like it or not, Crowley, it just matters if you like it."
"Does though." Crowley mutters to himself, and Aziraphale either doesn't hear him or dutifully ignores him.
But it does matter what Aziraphale thinks. Crowley enjoys fashion, yes, but he enjoys it more when there is someone to appreciate it. Someone, of course, being Aziraphale. He's never been able to resist showing off just a little for the angel. Bastille is a memorable example. Oh, good lord, Aziraphale had said, but there'd been something appreciative in his voice.
"Post apocalyptic spirit, hm?" Aziraphale murmurs. "Perhaps I ought to make a change too."
"Oh, you don't need to change, angel." Crowley drawls. It comes out far warmer than he intends, but it's worth it for the pleased smile that blooms on Aziraphale's face.
"Thank you, my dear." He says. "But I suppose I am rather stuck in my ways. There's just nothing new I want to try. Perhaps a new dish?"
"'S always new places opening in Soho." Crowley says. "We could try a new restaurant."
"I'd like that." Aziraphale says.
Crowley looks up at him, and is surprised to see sincerity in Aziraphale's face. He's so sweet, so willing, and Crowley swallows. Their celebratory dinner at the Ritz was only a few days ago, but Aziraphale seems willing to go out with him even without the pretext of the apocalypse. Spending time together without an excuse is new, and daunting, but Crowley has always wanted this. He can't quite believe his luck.
"Huh." He says.
"What is it?"
"I just thought," Crowley shakes his head, starts again, "When this was all over you'd- I dunno. Just wasn't expecting... You know."
Aziraphale gives him an inquisitive look.
"Well, now that there's no arrangement." Crowley says. "I was expecting more umming and ahhing about the whole thing."
"Ah." Aziraphale taps his fingers on the armrest. His voice is low and tentative when he speaks. "Well, this is what... friends do, isn't it? Spend time together?"
There's a long moment of silence while Crowley processes this. Aziraphale has never called them friends. In fact, just recently he'd denied it vehemently. Friends, we're not friends.
"Oh. Well, yeah." Crowley smiles. He doesn't mention the fact they've been spending time together for centuries now. "Yeah, I suppose they do."
Aziraphale nods, satisfied. He purses his lips.
"Right. Yes, good. Well. Um, how are the plants?" He asks conversationally. Crowley smiles to himself.
"It's a sensitive subject, angel." He says. "I'm not happy with them."
"Ah. Misbehaving, I presume? You know, maybe if you were a little nicer to them-"
Crowley shoots Aziraphale a glare.
"Nevermind." Aziraphale says hastily. "It was only a suggestion."
"They just need to grow better." Crowley says sternly. "Coddling them makes them lazy."
"Right." Aziraphale says, with the skeptical tone of someone who doesn't believe that's how plants work. "Yes."
Crowley decides not to mention the fact he's been growing several types of flowers with the intention to gift them to Aziraphale. He's not quite brave enough.
"Well, regardless, I wouldn't know the slightest thing about your plants." Aziraphale continues, "Since I've only seen your apartment once."
Crowley freezes. He remembers that night very well. He remembers how Aziraphale had held his hand for the entire bus journey. He remembers spending the night awake with Aziraphale, trying to work out how they were going to get out of the situation, if they even could. The dread, the desperation, and the lingering feeling of closeness... He had been closer that night to Aziraphale than he ever had been before. There wasn't much left to lose, at that point.
"'S nothing special." Crowley says. The bookshop is more of a home to him than his apartment.
"But I do want to go back." Aziraphale says. Crowley makes a little noise of embarassment.
Oh. Aziraphale... Aziraphale wants to know him. Crowley stays quiet for a moment,
"You can always come to mine. If you want." Crowley says. Aziraphale looks at him, and Crowley turns his head to meet his eyes. He doesn't feel cold anymore. Beneath his sunglasses his yellow eyes have crinkled. "Whatever you want, angel."
There is that look Aziraphale gets, when he's overwhelmed by Crowley. The look from 1967 in the Bentley. The look from their fight at their Bandstand. He wears it now, and Crowley finally recognises it for what it is. That fear, that longing in his face is undeniable. Crowley knows it, because it's reflected in his own.
He expects Aziraphale to retreat. He always does. But this time, Aziraphale doesn't back down. There's a softness in his eyes that he usually disguises.
"...Crowley, dear. You're always so..." There's a little crack in his voice. It makes Crowley's heart jump.
"Yes?" Crowley asks, expectant.
"Do you remember 1941?"
Crowley pauses, surprised at the sudden question.
"Ah, the Nazis." He remembers. "Feet stung for ages, after that."
Aziraphale doesn't even smile. His eyes flicker to his lap, where he's twisting his hands.
"You saved my books, do you remember?"
"Oh- uh, yeah." Crowley remembers passing over a book bag. He hadn't looked at Aziraphale's face, then. He was far too embarrassed. "Why?"
"Well." Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip. "You see, I-I still have those books. I keep them right here."
Crowley nods, a little confused. He remembers seeing them on the shelf, and had thought nothing of it.
"They were books of prophecy, yeah? Love those things, you do."
Aziraphale shakes his head, a tiny little thing.
"Well, yes, I do, but that's not... That's not the point."
"What point?"
"...The point is that you saved them." Aziraphale says quietly. "For me. I remember every time I look at them. You're always so..."
Aziraphale takes a breath. He presses his lips together as if he's about to cry.
"So kind, Crowley." Aziraphale says. "You're always so kind."
Crowley is so startled he almost forgets to protest.
"You... What... I wasn't being- kind! I'm not kind! I'm not good, I'm- I'm a demon!" The words burn Crowley's tongue. They feel like lies.
"Then why-"
"It was for you!" Crowley bursts out. Aziraphale's eyes widen.
"It's always been for you, angel." Crowley says, softer. "All of it. Surely you know that."
There's a silence, and then,
"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale breathes.
They look at each other for a long time. Crowley feels the air crackle with it, the unspoken, as it always does.
He watches with wide eyes as Aziraphale stands and then leans down beside him, his gaze warm and open. He reaches out and takes Crowley's sunglasses. Crowley, surprised, sits stiff and still.
"I always wanted to bring you here." Aziraphale admits. Crowley's yellow eyes meet his. "I'm sorry it took me so long."
"'S okay." Crowley mumbles, "Eternity is a long time."
They look at each other, and Crowley feels as if they're the only two beings in the universe. He hears his heartbeat in his ears as he searches Aziraphale's face.
"But I can keep waiting." Crowley says quietly. "If you... If it's too much."
Aziraphale shakes his head. He takes Crowley's hands, and Crowley looks down at their fingers, finally intertwined.
"We've waited long enough. And we're... free, now, I suppose. At least for a little while."
Crowley swallows. We. He shifts closer to Aziraphale, seeking the warmth, the intimacy. Their voices are hushed in the quiet room.
"...We?" He asks softly.
Aziraphale smiles at him, a little scared and a little hopeful. It's a sweet thing. Crowley loves it. Loves him.
"We never did have that picnic." He says warmly, and Crowley smiles too.
"Whatever you want, angel. Anything."
There's a pause while Aziraphale looks at him. His cheeks slowly turn pink.
"Anything?" He asks. His gaze drops to Crowley's mouth. Oh.
"Ngk."
He never could say no to Aziraphale, could he?
Crowley reaches forward and kisses him, long and warm. It makes up for 6000 years without it. And Aziraphale... Aziraphale makes a pleased noise, and opens his mouth, the way Crowley has always imagined. He's everything. Everything. He tastes sweet, and he's so willing, so open.
Crowley gasps and pulls away. He half expects Aziraphale to run away. But the angel smiles at him, really rather pleased, as if he's just found a particularly rare book. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
Crowley makes a flustered noise.
He is suddenly very glad he accidentally closed the secret door behind him.
(Later, Madame Tracey will open the door and set them free. But for now, Crowley is quite content to stay here for as long as it takes).
Several weeks later, Aziraphale is reading happily in the secret room.
The door is shut behind him. Nestled against the armchair, alone and at peace, Aziraphale feels quite content. He will resurface soon, to tend to his shop and see Crowley, but for now he has some time to himself.
At some point that evening, he stretches and rises from the armchair. He carefully sets down his book on the shelf and steps quietly through the empty room. With a smile, he reaches the closed door. He sets his hand against it, and it swings open immediately.
He had told Crowley a little white lie. You see, the protection rune does trap unwanted visitors inside of the secret room. But not him. If Aziraphale had just set his hand upon the door, instead of Crowley, it would've opened for him. He's much smarter than one would think - especially in regards to his books.
When Crowley had shut the door, however, Aziraphale had come up with the rather brilliant idea to pretend they were stuck there. He thought it might give him a little bravery, to have Crowley in the secret room, and it had.
Well, all's well that end's well, Aziraphale thinks. He smiles as he closes the secret door behind him.
Crowley doesn't have to know, not yet. That's a secret for another day.