Archive of Our Own

Everything had been going so well, to begin with.

   Post-apocalyptic life wasn’t too bad, all things considered. That was mostly because Armageddon hadn’t actually taken place, thanks to a couple of kids. It was also thanks to these kids – or, more accurately, one of them, called ‘Adam’ of all names – that Crowley’s flaming Bentley had been given a second chance at life, and Aziraphale’s bookshop had risen from the ashes.

   It was in that phoenix of a building where everything had fallen apart again, yesterday. Crowley had vowed that, if they survived the Greatest War (as heaven and hell were calling it), he wouldn’t let anything come between them again – and he’d meant it, too. He’d bitten his tongue on more than a few occasions over the last couple of years, including the time Aziraphale had given the Bentley’s passenger side a tartan makeover, and when he’d forced the demon to try tea. It’d been exceptionally hard to keep his lid on for that second one: seriously, what did Aziraphale see in the stuff? All the experience had offered him was enlightenment as to why the Americans had dropped heaps of the stuff into Boston Harbour.

   Still, he’d persevered, because now he knew the alternative – a life without Aziraphale in it at all – suffering garish fabric and mouldy-tasting drinks seemed worth it. After a successful two-and-a-bit years of this, something golden had taken root in Crowley’s chest which whispered to him that maybe, just maybe, it was time to take the next step.

   Not even a week after this budding idea had begun to blossom, however, it was squashed by the arrival of an unexpected dinner guest.

   Gabriel, clad in nothing but a makeshift toga, had decided to mosey on into their peaceful life, so he could ruin everything all over again. The cherry on top was the fact that the blanket covering Gabriel’s decency was the very same one which used to reside on the armchair in Aziraphale’s back room, where Crowley once enjoyed lounging. Now, as he sat glaring holes into the back of the archangel’s head, all he could focus on was the coldness of the leather seat beneath his backside, akin to the layer of ice forming around his redundant heart.

   Today, Gabriel perches on the end of his wooden chair, watching Aziraphale’s every move. Crowley’s thoughts about this – which are so despicable, unhinged, and macabre – are hardly worth transcribing onto the page.

   ‘But what do we do with him?’

   It’s the same question Aziraphale has asked a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours, looking increasingly forlorn and twisted with anxiety each time he does so. Crowley still hadn’t provided him with a substantial response – partly because he doesn’t know, either, but also selfishly because he didn’t want to have any part in helping Gabriel at all.

   This time, though, he can’t stop himself from murmuring, ‘Get him some proper clothes, for a start.’

   It was an off-handed comment to vent his frustrations, but the idea seems to dig its claws into Aziraphale’s scattered mind, giving him some sort of a short-term direction to follow. As the metaphorical lightbulb appears over his head, Crowley regrets his sarcastic suggestion.

   Aziraphale disappears out of the door. Crowley’s ire, apparently, is radiating off of him, so Gabriel doesn’t make any attempt to strike up conversation – doesn’t even dare glance in the demon’s direction – in Aziraphale’s absence. By the time the angel returns, the wick of Crowley’s self-restraint has burned all the way down, and he is fully prepared to throttle Gabriel then and there.

   Aziraphale enters with an armful of tidily stacked clothes. Either being too distracted to notice or otherwise opting to ignore the inky black aura pouring off of Crowley like smoke, Aziraphale hurriedly crosses the room and thrusts the pile of fabric into Gabriel’s arms.

‘Here you go. Now, I want you to go out and put these on, please. While you’re busy getting dressed, Crowley and I will… talk about something else.’

   Aziraphale’s tight smile fades quickly from the beginning to end of his sentence, swept off of his face by another gust of anxiety. Predictably, Gabriel doesn’t notice, instead tottering out of the room as instructed. If there was one good thing about this new Gabriel, Crowley thought, it was definitely his obedience; maybe if Crowley told him to discorporate himself, he would do it, sending himself back to heaven so he could be their problem instead.

   A look of desperation had engraved itself deep into Aziraphale’s features. As he takes a step closer, Crowley stands, figuring they were about to have another conspiratorial meeting, of which they’ve had seven already in the last day and a half. Certain conversations have to be conducted behind Gabriel’s back, for fear of him hearing something that would send him into a spiral, flying off to God-knows-where. Crowley, as he had already voiced, didn’t think this sounded like such a bad idea: after all, if God knew where he went, they could just let Her deal with it – but remembering Aziraphale’s stern look stopped him bringing this up a second time.

   ‘He’s been mentioning some strange things,’ Aziraphale whispers confidentially, ‘Yesterday, he said… well, it seems he might be in love.’

   Ignoring the invisible fist squeezing his heart, threatening to rip it from his chest, Crowley asks, ‘Whaddya mean, ‘in love’? In love with who?’

   ‘I don’t know,’ Aziraphale admits, shoulder slumping, ‘He just mentioned having a particular person you can turn to, when everything else feels wrong. Not in those exact words, mind; I can’t remember quite how he phrased it.’

   How convenient that the archangel spewing such rhetoric happened to turn up on his angel’s doorstep, seeking his aid. Could Aziraphale not see the implication? Or, even worse, was he trying to break the revelation to Crowley gently? Maybe Gabriel had already confessed his feelings. Another hand, not the one gripping his heart, rewards him with a swift punch to the gut.

   ‘Is that possible? Can angels even fall in love?’ He splutters, ‘Not in the ‘love and reverence for all things’ way – I mean can they feel actual love, like humans do?’

   Something about Aziraphale’s pained gaze softens slightly, but then Gabriel is trudging back into the room, dragging his heavy, newly-socked feet along the floorboards. His clothes are shabbily thrown on, and one of the buttons of the shirt has been done up too high, throwing off the order for the rest of them.

   ‘Aziraphale, how do you put this on?’

   He’s holding a bowtie in his flat palms, like a theist worshipping their hold book, or a bug-obsessed child carrying a woodlouse into their house to show their unimpressed parents. Dotingly, Aziraphale rushes to Gabriel’s side, deftly plucking the item from his hands and discarding it atop a nearby stack of books.

   ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he reassures, and just like that Gabriel’s eyes are fixed back onto the angel, unwavering as a well-fuelled fire. ‘Here, why don’t you just take a seat, and I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea. How about that?’

   Gabriel smiles broadly – a big, dopey smile – before plonking himself back down in his assigned seat. Not only unable but also deeply unwilling to sit with the archangel in heavy silence again, Crowley is quick to follow Aziraphale. As they make their way to the kitchenette, he hisses in the angel’s ear.

   ‘You gave him a bowtie?’

   With a side-eye, Aziraphale only provides a short response.

   ‘It’s important to accessorise.’

***

Nothing more gets done about the issue that day. As much as Crowley hates being at the bookshop now, finding it little more than a theatre where the only thing playing is the ‘Gabriel Fawning Over Aziraphale’ show, he makes sure he’s there early the next morning. This is doubly-effective: to Aziraphale, this makes him look like a caring friend who wants to help him solve their issue, which is partly true. Mostly, however, it means he doesn’t have to wallow at his flat, making up scenarios about Gabriel and wondering if he’s successfully stolen his angel from him yet.

   As he enters the bookshop, however, the sight he sees makes him want to turn on his heel and bolt in the opposite direction. In the aisle closest to the door, framed perfectly in his line of sight, is Gabriel, tidying away books. Donned head-to-toe in Aziraphale’s clothes, he’s merrily working away like he doesn’t have a care in this world, nor any of the kingdoms beyond.

   For some reason, this feels like a bigger betrayal than walking in on the angels locking lips. Aziraphale’s books are sacred; he never lets anybody touch them, not even Crowley.

   ‘Angel?’ He shouts, because he needs somebody to explain what’s going on for the love of Go- for the love of Sata- for the love of anybody.

   A tuft of white hair appears first, peeking out from the bookshelf behind Gabriel. Then, Crowley can see Aziraphale’s entire face, positively beaming at him.

   ‘Crowley! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. What time is it?’

   Pulling back his sleeve, Aziraphale checks his watch, then gasps overdramatically.

   ‘Oh, dear! I’m sorry,’ he apologises again. Crowley side-steps towards him, eyes fixed on Gabriel as though his nice act may shatter at any moment, and he might leap out at him like an untamed tiger. ‘The night must have gotten away with me. We decided to start sorting the books, you see, and I just got so caught up in it all that–’

   Aziraphale doesn’t finish his rambling, and he doesn’t need to. Crowley has stopped listening, white noise reverberating inside of his skull after hearing the word ‘we’. What, he’s gone for one night, and suddenly it’s ‘we’? It took Crowley six-thousand years to earn ‘we’ status. Not even twenty-four hours ago, Aziraphale had been positively paralysed, petrified by the archangel’s arrival on his doorstep. And now they were a ‘we’?

   ‘Would you like some tea, or perhaps a glass of wine? It is after nine o’clock, after all; I think that’s an acceptable time to start drinking, don’t you?’

   Normally, Crowley would have a witty retort prepared, something to make the angel chuckle, or roll his eyes and crack a smile. All of a sudden, though, his tongue feels too big for his mouth, and his voice box has grown legs and run away. Not literally, obviously, but all the same, he’s rendered unable to speak.

   ‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale’s brow furrows, ‘Are you feeling quite alright?’

   ‘Yes,’ Crowley crackles, ‘Tickety-boo. Actually, I think I left something in the car…’

   His words fail, but it doesn’t matter; he makes his point just as well with body language. Swivelling around and skipping out of the shop, he doesn’t stop until he gets to his car, ignoring Aziraphale calling after him. As fast as possible, he’s turning the Bentley on and racing down the street, driving anywhere as long as it’s far, far away.

***

He’d been planning on another dramatic disappearance – a couple of decades ought to do, like he’d done after their previous tiffs. But even now, despite the cocktail of emotions bubbling in his brain, he still can’t fight the fear that any moment really might be their last. Hell has been eerily quiet since his trial, which can’t be good news; if they were to pop up out of the floor right now, he might well never see Aziraphale again.

   It’s this idea that has him begrudgingly making his way back to the shop around teatime, hanging his head like a scolded dog as he parks and strolls inside. The bell above the door chimes, as if only to shame him further, and he notices Aziraphale sat at his desk in the dimly lit backroom.

   ‘I’m back.’

   ‘I can see that,’ the angel murmurs in response, but his ambiguous tone of voice conceals how he’s feeling about being stood up – or whatever you’d call it – earlier that day.

   Sheepish, but desperate not to show it, Crowley forces himself to saunter down the steps, casting a casual glance around the room to scout Gabriel. Knowing him, he’s probably charmed his way into sleeping in Aziraphale’s bed with little more than a lame word and a daft grin.

   ‘He’s not here,’ Aziraphale asserts, not even looking up from his book. Crowley fights the flush that threatens to flood his cheeks at having been so predictable.

   ‘’m not sure what you mean,’ he says, all innocence. This breaks Aziraphale’s trance, and he finally catches the demon’s eye to give him a knowing eyebrow raise. At last, he sighs, slipping the page marker in his book before putting it down and removing his glasses.

   ‘You know, there really was no need for you to run off like that before.’

   It’s Crowley’s turn to quirk a brow at Aziraphale’s newfound forwardness.

   ‘I told you, I had something to do,’ he shoots back, a little too sharply, and immediately regrets it, attempting (failing miserably) to soften the blow by adding, ‘And besides, you two were busy anyway.’

   Aziraphale looks taken aback. ‘You said you had to get something from your car. I can’t imagine that would have taken eight hours, would it?’

   Instead of responding, Crowley shuffles on his feet, maintaining eye contact to avoid admitting defeat. Taking this as a challenge, Aziraphale rises from his chair and swiftly crosses the room, coming to stop in front of the squirming demon.

   ‘Crowley, I know neither of us like having him here, but–’

   Impulsively, Crowley scoffs. Which is another huge mistake, because Aziraphale immediately calls him out on it.

   ‘What’s funny about that?’

   ‘’s nothing, just…’ he’s not planning on finishing his sentence, but Aziraphale’s incessant stare implores him to do so, ‘It’s just, you seem to be very friendly, is all.’

   ‘There’s nothing friendly about it, Crowley.’

   Ah. So, here it comes. Crowley mentally braces himself for the biggest slap in the face of his life. He figures, once it’s been said, a good thousand-year sleep ought to get him over the worst of it. Maybe then he’ll feel up to going out for meals with Gabriel and Aziraphale, third-wheeling on dates with the archangel he despises, and the angel he loves most in all the world.

   Maybe. Probably not.

   ‘He’s damaged,’ Aziraphale continues, ‘I don’t know what’s happened to him, but I’m not just going to turn him out without at least trying to help. Something is clearly very wrong, and having him around is the safest way to keep an eye on him while I try to figure out exactly what’s happened. Why are you so opposed to him being here?’

   Looking into Aziraphale’s eyes is a bad idea right now, and not just because there’s something about an angel’s stare that elicits the truth. Crowley, hyper-aware that he’s teetering on the edge of doing something very, very dangerous, forces himself to look away.

   ‘Well, he’s not here now, is he? Where’s he got off to?’

   ‘He’s with Maggie next door, if you must know.’

   ‘And she’s keeping an eye on him for you, is she?’

   ‘Yes.’

   ‘The lady with the vinyl shop, mismatched socks, and issues with forgetfulness – she’s got an eye on your damaged archangel, has she?’

   If looks could kill, Crowley would be a dead-demon walking. Aziraphale glares at him with an intensity comparable to approximately four-hundred burning suns, and it’s almost too easy to imagine great gusts of fiery breath shooting out from between his parted lips.

   ‘Ah, so you don’t like Maggie now either, is that it? I’m not sure why, because you seemed perfectly happy with her last week when she gave you your Queen vinyl at a generously discounted price. If I didn’t know any better, Crowley, I’d almost think you were–’

   Crowley can hear the word, even though it’s never spoken. It hisses at him, echoes bouncing off of the walls. The angel’s accusatory glare flickers, but before he can drop the bombshell the bell above the door is chiming again, and the sound of four feet walking in abruptly ends their conversation.

   ‘Knock-knock!’ A woman’s chipper voice calls ironically, and when he turns Crowley sees it’s Maggie, with Gabriel trailing close behind.

   ‘Speak of the devil…’ he mumbles, only so Aziraphale can hear. If the angel reacts, he doesn’t show it as he steps forward and welcomes the pair, asking what they’ve been up to.

   ‘Gabriel’s been giving me a hand with today’s deliveries,’ Maggie nods, and Gabriel smiles back at her sweetly. Maggie turns back to look at Crowley, ‘We thought we might find you here. Do you want to take a look at the new stock? I’ve got one I think you might like!’

   Great, Crowley thinks, another ‘we’. How has Gabriel managed to usurp his life so quickly?

   ‘Oh, how kind of you,’ Aziraphale grits his teeth as he says the adjective, and Crowley knows exactly what he means by this, ‘Crowley, dear, why don’t you have a look? You go with Maggie, and Gabriel and I will finish up everything here.’

   I bet you will, is what Crowley thinks, but does not say. Grumbling something green and vague, he acquiesces, following Maggie out of the shop. She’s nattering on about something or other, but he’s only half-following the conversation, because his attention is glued to the fact that Aziraphale and Gabriel have been left alone yet again in that damned bookshop, where they only seem to be growing closer.

Upon entering Maggie’s store, however, there’s a sudden change, not unlike a switch being flipped. The door shuts behind them, and Maggie’s questioning shifts.

   ‘So, how do Gabriel and Mr Fell know each other?’

   Crowley, suddenly feeling cornered, splutters out the first response that springs to mind, ‘Work. They’re, uh… old work buddies.’

   ‘That makes sense,’ Maggie nods, leading him to the back of the shop, where he can see a pile of boxes stacked on top of each other. Flicking on the light, she says, ‘Well, I think he seems very nice, don’t you?’

   ‘He’s fine.’

   ‘Oh, I think he’s more than that. He was a huge help today, and the way he talks about Mr Fell is so lovely. Gabriel says he’s been having a rough time lately – mentally, you know – and that he’s really been a rock for him. I think they’re quite…’

   Trailing off, Maggie opens the top box and flicks through the records, clearly looking for a particular one she thought Crowley would like.

   Ever the masochist, Crowley can’t help but pry. ‘Quite what?’

   ‘Cute,’ she shrugs with an angelic smile. Much to Crowley’s dismay, she decides to add an unambiguous, ‘Together.’

   Crowley all but growls and snatches the vinyl from Maggie’s hands. He doesn’t say thank you as he stalks out, which aids his demonic karma that has been rather lacking as of late, but this is balanced out by the money he magically conjures into her till.

***

He makes a point of returning to the bookshop that night, even though he rather feels like curling up on his bed in a big pile of snake and weeping. Maggie’s words repeat on a loop in his head, like venom spit in his face: ‘cute together’. What had she been implying? Unfortunately, having been around humans too long, Crowley can’t pretend he doesn’t understand – he knows exactly what she meant, and why she said it, too.

   He sees it for himself as the three of them sit in Aziraphale’s back room. He hates that he notices how Gabriel’s seat is one and a half inches closer to Aziraphale’s than his, and he hates how well the two complement each other. It’s not just the fact that they’re wearing matching suit pants and jumpers: it’s a shared history by beings who are of the same kind. It’s a well-spokenness and a love for ancient literature that Crowley couldn’t dream of possessing. It’s even in stupid little things, like their mutual appreciation for terrible tasting leaves in customary drinks, and how they both prefer ginger biscuits over chocolate ones.

   Unlike Crowley and Aziraphale, they make perfect sense.

   He feels so stupid for ever having believed Aziraphale would have chosen him – a fallen angel, a demon – over anybody else. Of course, Aziraphale could have had anybody he so wished, so why had Crowley bothered waiting so long, hoping to be chosen? If six-thousand years of no reciprocation didn’t give him the hint, he must have been thicker than he thought.

   Meanwhile, Aziraphale spends the evening trying to pry information out of Gabriel about what had happened that had led him from paradise all the way to his door in Soho. So far they had learned that Gabriel remembered basically nothing, except speaking to a shadowy somebody while he was up in heaven, and then being woken up on the street by a bald, bearded man in a suit who thought he’d been concussed.

   It wasn’t great progress, but it was something, and so at ten o’clock, they decided to call it a night. Crowley managed to maintain his façade all evening, right until the point he hopped in his car, then he became a mumbling, mad mess. He uttered a range of ‘would’ve, could’ve, should’ve’s, as well as a jumble of other, less coherent words.

   They hadn’t mentioned their tense conversation earlier that evening, and Crowley was glad for it. The drive back to his flat was disappointingly peaceful, and for the next week he excused himself from any meetings with Aziraphale, under the pretence that he was trying out his new gift from Maggie.

***

On Friday evening, his phone rings. He contemplates not answering, given how it’s halfway across his bedroom, which is impossibly far for a slumbering demon. But when the chime continues relentlessly, he finally claws himself out of his blankets like a zombie out of the grave, holding the receiver up to his ear.

‘Wot.’

   ‘Crowley! I’m so glad I caught you. Has your record been playing well on your gramophone?’ Aziraphale’s voice is too airy, too bright for this time in Crowley’s morning. He suppresses any thoughts about why Aziraphale might be sounding so cheery.

   ‘Vinyl player,’ he corrects groggily, ‘Mm, good, yeah.’

   In all honesty, Crowley hasn’t even taken it out of its packaging yet. Casting a glance over to the doorway, he sees The Velvet Underground’s ‘White Light/White Heat’ propped up against the wall by his door, where he had discarded it a week prior.

   ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Aziraphale says whimsically, ‘I wanted to call to invite you out to dinner.’

   Crowley grimaces. He’d anticipated getting in at least another week’s worth of rest, and now he was being asked to go out for food? Worst of all, he thought, the chances were that they wouldn’t be alone, like they usually were.

   ‘What day?’

   ‘Today,’ Aziraphale states, matter-of-factly, ‘I’ve an inkling that the Ritz will have a table free for us in about an hour’s time.’

   Crowley hums, ‘I don’t know, angel–’

   ‘Gabriel won’t be there.’

   Somehow, every ounce of Crowley’s drowsiness dissipates instantaneously. Snapping his fingers, he miracles himself into fresh clothing – just his usual black vest and jeans, nothing too jazzy – and reaches for his car keys on the floor.

   ‘Pick you up in twenty.’

***

Dinner is positively delightful. Crowley doesn’t actually eat anything himself, of course, opting instead for his usual glass of pinot noir, but Aziraphale orders a full meal – complete with starter, side dish, and dessert – and seems to thoroughly enjoy it.

   What Crowley feasts on is Aziraphale’s attention, whole and undivided, devoted entirely to him. Aziraphale is listening closely to his words, even watching them tumbling out of his mouth at points, chuckling at his jokes, and making red-cheeked comments of his own. It almost feels like everything is back to normal for them, when Crowley can bring himself to forget the problem that still remains back at Aziraphale’s shop.

   It’s when the waiter comes over – and keeps coming over, far too often – that a crack starts to form in their diamond of an evening. Crowley misses it at first, thinking the employee is probably just a newbie over-compensating, desperate to be seen as a good hire. It’s irritating, sure, how he keeps offering to top up their drinks, or take Aziraphale’s plates, or asking if Crowley is sure he doesn’t want anything, but harmless.

   As he delivers Aziraphale’s dessert, however, he makes a comment that gets right under Crowley’s scales. He says he’s ‘wasting the opportunity’ to eat with Aziraphale, and how he ought to take his place and share dessert instead. Worst of all is how Aziraphale smirks at this. It throws a spanner in Crowley’s works, and he feels it chewing up all his cogs as he watches his angel dig obliviously into the cheesecake served by that miscreant.

   ‘He’s right, you know, you really ought to try some; it’s delicious,’ Aziraphale says, moaning as he eats another spoonful of layered biscuit, cream cheese, and strawberries.

Crowley simply tuts, leaning back in his seat and sipping on his forth glass of wine. He watches Aziraphale eyeing his place lustfully, then the waiter’s irritatingly handsome face catches his eye behind the angel, and Crowley clenches his jaw.

   When he’s sure Mr Handsome Waiter can see, and without considering anything else that logic might dictate, Crowley deliberately leans across the table, using his free hand to swipe at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, wiping away a small piece of cheesecake that had gotten itself stuck there, and slips the finger into his own mouth.

   ‘Mhm, it’s good,’ Crowley agrees, even though to him it tastes like a mountain of sugar with sour lemon squeezed on top. Meanwhile, Aziraphale’s just watching him with bewildered – though, admittedly, not affronted – eyes.

   Neither of them says anything for a moment, and Crowley hopes he manages to fight off the violent blush creeping its way up his neck from his clavicles long enough that Aziraphale doesn’t see it. Wordlessly, the angel returns to his dish, and Crowley scours the room for the waiter. When he can’t see him, he surprises himself by finding he doesn’t actually care either way.

   Instead, he’s hyper-focused on his breathing, trying to keep it regulated, and making sure he doesn’t accidentally spill any of his wine with his hand which seem to be having their own personal earthquake. Aziraphale is about to finish his last spoonful, which means he’s got about ten seconds to get ahold of himself.

   What had he been thinking? After millennia of holding himself back, he’d gone and done something so foolish because, what, a random man had made a subtle pass at him? Hadn’t that happened before, in the six-thousand years they’d spent on this earth together?

   But of course, the dreaded Voice of Reason told him, this time it was different. And it was different because, this time, there was the very real possibility of Aziraphale being stolen from him. It wasn’t that Crowley believed Aziraphale would run off with some human – and even if he did, he’d only need to wait about eighty years to get them out of the picture, anyway, because fortunately mortality worked that way. No, this time, he was acutely aware of the real potential of losing Aziraphale for good, to a fellow immortal being. Mr Handsome Waiter’s innocuous-enough flirtation was just a bad omen for what was yet to come.

the ringing of Aziraphale’s spoon being placed onto his place signalled his time was up. The angel was looking at him expectantly, swallowing his last bite, and Crowley could barely remember how to speak English. There were only two words left in his vocabulary – two words which had worked wonders in the past. Sucking in a breath, he asked:

   ‘Lift home?’

***

   ‘Are you quite sure you don’t want to come in?’

   ‘No, thanks.’

   ‘I have an unopened bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape,’ Aziraphale offered, obviously trying his hand at temptation, which he had picked up rather well since he and Crowley had become acquainted. Even so, Crowley managed to shake his head, looking straight forward.

   ‘Sorry, I’ve got to… do stuff,’ he said, glancing at Aziraphale, who was still stood outside of his car, leaning against the open door. Sensing the angel’s trepidation, Crowley shot him his best smile, adding a quick, ‘Thanks for dinner.’

   Still not wholly convinced, Aziraphale reluctantly shut the Bentley’s door and stepped back. Crowley revved the engine, having not shut it off as Aziraphale stepped out, and drove off down the street, twenty miles over the speed limit, towards his flat.

***

The phone call came the next morning, before Crowley even had sufficient time to ponder upon his foolish actions at the Ritz. He had half expected it to be Aziraphale, inviting him out for a meal again, like Groundhog Day (a film which was one of Crowley’s proudest demonic achievements, actually).

   But as he picked it up, he realised the caller’s voice – albeit prim and confident – was much too high to be Aziraphale’s.

   ‘Anthony Crowley,’ a woman said, and Crowley realised instantly that it must have been Maggie, as she was the only one who used his first name nowadays, ‘What are you thinking?’

   ‘Is that a rhetorical question, or is this some sort of psychic thing?’

   Maggie doesn’t dignify his joke with a response, instead launching head-first into a tirade.

   ‘Do you want to explain why I had Mr Fell at my door late last night, all worried and eaten up about the way you’ve been acting?’

   Ah, damn. It was, Crowley supposed, only fair that Aziraphale told somebody about his behaviour at dinner last night, but it still stung that that somebody had to be Maggie. Despite his harsh comments last week, borne from no more than rotten insecurity, he liked her quite a lot, and now he would be forever tainted in her image. Then again, maybe he deserved it.

   ‘Listen, about what happened, I’m sorry,’ the word stung like citrus in a cut on his tongue, but he felt obliged to say it anyway, ‘I can’t even explain what I thought, it was just… I don’t know what came over me–’

   ‘I’ll bloody well tell you what came over you! It’s jealousy, it is, plain and simple.’

   ‘Yeah, well, I guess…’

   Crowley was shocked at having been seen through so clearly – and over the phone, no less. Humans were getting too advanced for his liking.

   ‘That poor man, you should have seen his face when he told me. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, messing him around like that. I never took you for a player, Anthony; I thought you were really in love with Mr Fell. I’ve never been wrong about these things before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’

   Wait, what?

   ‘What?’

   ‘You heard me right, mister. If you want to break hearts, I can’t stop you, but when it comes to my friends, Mr Crowley, you’d best be warned I get protective over them. I can’t be held accountable for what might happen if you hurt Mr Fell again, like you’ve been doing too much lately.’

   ‘Wait, you think I’m in love with Aziraphale?’

   ‘Thought, that is. Past participle. With the way you’ve been treating him recently, now I’m not so sure.’

   Crowley’s brain feels like it’s been cracked and scrambled, ready to be eaten with toast.

   ‘But you said you thought that he and Gabriel…’

   ‘Oh, don’t be dense. I only said that so you’d finally get yourself in order and tell him how you feel. A bit of good, old-fashioned jealousy usually works a treat, but in this case… Oh, my heart breaks for him! And to think, he’s so lost on you.’

   ‘Lost?’

   ‘Yes, lost,’ Maggie reiterates, voice dripping with frustration now, the sort of involved only a true friend can be, ‘Obsessed, in love, hopelessly devoted to you. How many other ways do you need me to spell it out for you?’

   ‘None,’ Crowley answers, voice barely above a whisper, ‘Absolutely none at all.’

***

Even as he hops in the Bentley, there’s still doubt in his mind, gnawing away at him like an underfed hamster. He plays the conversation with Maggie over in his head a thousand times, making sure he hasn’t misinterpreted anything that could lead him to yet another dire situation. Then again, she’s made things hard to misconstrue.

   Obsessed. In love. Aziraphale was in love with him. The realisation hits him so hard, it sends his entire world spinning off its axis, hurtling through space to the edge of the universe.

   This drive has never felt so tedious. Crowley’s well aware he could just teleport himself there, but it lacks the theatricality, the dramatic tension, that driving provides. His fingers on the wheel are buzzing, electricity coursing through his entire body, and his legs feel like jelly when he finally arrives, making his way out of the car, heading straight for the bookshop.

As he bursts through the double doors, the dingling bell hardly registers in his mind. The only thing he can think about is finding his angel, and making up for lost time. He calls for him, but gets no response.

   ‘Aziraphale!’ He tries again, ignoring the niggling feeling in the back of his brain, that memory of him arriving at the bookshop too late, shouting the angel’s name in this self-same spot. ‘Where the heaven are you, you daft angel?’

   Aziraphale, with furrowed brow, rounds the corner from his backroom. Crowley releases a heavy sigh of relief, making a beeline straight for him. Aziraphale’s lips part, no doubt to demand to know why Crowley had called for him in such a rude, impatient manner, but he doesn’t get the chance.

    With Maggie’s reassurance in mind – and figuring that, if anything is worth risking their relationship for, it’s definitely this – Crowley grasps clumsily at the lapels of Aziraphale’s tan jacket and crushes their mouths together. A squeak erupts from the surprised angel, but no form of protest, which waters the wilting hope in Crowley’s chest until it flowers.

   Ethereal hands find their way to an occult jawline, and their lips slot together with ease. This close, Aziraphale smells like fresh cotton, mixed with his usual cologne. He tastes like tea, Crowley realises, but not the usual kind; it’s sweet like honey, and for once he can’t get enough of it.

   When they finally part, Aziraphale is giggling harmoniously, which sets Crowley off, too. They daren’t move further than an inch away from each other’s faces, now they’ve finally got each other so close, but Crowley feels the overwhelming urge to speak.

   ‘’m sorry it took so long,’ he murmurs against the plump skin of Aziraphale’s cheek. With this proximity, he can feel the angel shake his head.

   ‘Don’t be, my dear; it was worth the wait,’ he soothes, adding after a beat, ‘Although, it was beginning to drive me slightly insane.’

   ‘Me too. Six-thousand years does that to you, I guess.’

   Aziraphale hums, then his body stiffens beneath Crowley’s hands. Frightened he’s made a mistake, Crowley hesitantly pulls back.

   ‘I’m afraid we do have another problem on our hands, however.’

   ‘What’s that?’

   ‘Gabriel told me who he’s in love with.’

   Crowley’s heartbeat quickens, bracing himself for the name he’s about to hear. Somehow, even though he has Aziraphale, the thought of anyone else wanting him still drives him wild.

   ‘It’s Beelzebub.’

   Crowley can’t suppress his laughter. Snaking his arms around the angel’s back, he pulls him into an embrace, pausing to appreciate how soft the fine fabric feels beneath his fingertips.

   ‘Ah, well, a little interspecies romance,’ he finally coos, ‘’s not something we haven’t dealt with before. Maybe we can lend a hand.’

   ‘Mhm,’ Aziraphale hums contentedly, melting against Crowley’s body, slotting in as though he was designed to nest inside his arms, ‘I was hoping you could give him some one-on-one guidance.’

   ‘Don’t push it.’