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Crowley woke in an empty bed, frowning until he reached over and felt that Aziraphale’s accustomed spot was still warm. Making a happy noise, he rolled over and buried his nose in Azirpahale’s pillow, drinking in his sunshine-scent until the last of the drowsy cobwebs cleared from his brain. Lifting his head again, he parted his lips and scented the air in the flat.
“Crepes,” he chuckled, flopping back against Azirpahale’s pillow with a grin.
What better anniversary breakfast? Not that today was actually their one-year anniversary. Neither was really sure when they’d officially become a couple, so they’d decided to compromise by celebrating a few other important dates. They had plenty of them to choose from. In autumn, they’d celebrate the day they met. In winter, they would celebrate blowing up some Nazis.
Today, though – this warm, glorious day they were planning to share – today was The Day The World Hadn’t Ended. The day they’d stood shoulder to shoulder against Gabriel and Beelzebub. The day an exhausted Crowley had told a heartbroken and homeless Azirpahale that he could stay at his place. The day a Cunning Plan had been hatched to save them, and to set them free. It hadn’t been a uniformly good day, of course. Things had gotten horrible at times. The fire, their arguments, Aziraphale’s discorporation, the knowledge that they weren’t safe even with the Final Battle averted. But everything they’d gained that day, everything that couldn’t have happened before those events, those were things that deserved celebration. So, from now on, they would make a day of it. It hadn’t been the beginning of their relationship, not by a long shot, but it had been the day when all the worst roadblocks had been removed.
Of course his angel was making crepes to celebrate.
Laughing, Crowley climbed to his feet, pulling on a pair of pants and the black silk dressing gown Aziraphale had gotten for him recently. Not presentable enough to go out in public, but more than good enough for the privacy of the flat. Following his nose into the kitchen, he smiled at the sight of Aziraphale, standing in front of the antique stove in a pair of linen pajama bottoms and an apron, humming to himself as he worked. Something in Crowley’s chest warmed at the sight, so mundane and domestic, and he slid up behind Aziraphale, pressing his chest against the angel’s back and looping an arm around his waist. Smiling, he pressed a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s temple.
“Good morning, my love,” Aziraphale greeted him, making a happy noise at the kiss. “I wasn’t expecting you to wake up so early.”
“I got lonely,” he teased, nuzzling Aziraphale’s shoulder and the side of his neck. “No angel to keep me warm.”
There’d been a time, and not very long ago, when Crowley couldn’t have joked about finding Aziraphale being unexpectedly absent, but he was more secure these days. They both were. Aziraphale laughed at his words, leaning back against Crowley a little as he gave the frying pan in his hand a little shake, flipping the crepe he was cooking into the air. Crowley watched with wide eyes as it went airborne, then started to fall again. For a moment, he thought it would land right on top of the flaming burner, but Aziraphale moved the pan deftly and the crepe slid right back into it, sizzling merrily.
“Wow,” Crowley murmured, eyes wide. “Did you use a miracle to do that?”
“No, it’s just a matter of practice,” Aziraphale assured him casually. Chuckling, he added, “I only need to miracle it about three quarters of the time.”
Crowley snorted at that, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Lucky throw, then?”
“Well, one does like to show off for the love of one’s immortal life.”
He smiled at that, nuzzling his angel’s cheek. “Should I set the table?”
“Whatever for?” Aziraphale chuckled. “I was planning on bringing them to you in bed.”
“Breakfast in bed with my angel?”
“Of course. It’s a special day,” Aziraphale agreed. “Of course, if you’re still tired, I can always keep this warm while you get some more rest.”
“Sweet angel,” he murmured, smiling. “But no thank you. I’m not tired any more. Slept well last night.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
Crowley smiled and took the excuse to kiss his cheek again. “So, after breakfast in bed, what’s on the itinerary?” he asked.
“Mmm, feeding ducks at St James’s, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed, smiling at his angel. “Weather going to be good for that?”
“The forecast looks splendid, so I thought we might follow up with a picnic?” Aziraphale suggested.
“Ooh, I like that plan. Eating and canoodling in the grass.”
“On a blanket, Crowley.”
“On a blanket. In the grass.”
Aziraphale snorted, shaking his head and transferring the crepe he was working on onto a plate of waiting ones. “And then I thought we might take a turn around Kew, if you’re in that sort of mood.”
“In the mood for a walk in the garden with an angel? I think I will be. If the weather holds.”
“If the weather holds,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding. “There’s always a museum, if it doesn’t.”
“Perfect backup plan,” Crowley told him, kissing his shoulder. “Then dinner at the Ritz?”
“Of course,” he answered, lightly pressing into Crowley’s kiss. “And then, I thought, we might have a night in?”
“Ooh, angel. Got wicked plans for me tonight?”
“You wish, fiend.”
“Yes, yes, I do. But do you have wicked plans, angel?” he countered, grinning.
“Oh, I imagine we’ll end up making love at some point. I can come up with something naughty if you like.”
“I never complain about vanilla,” Crowley pointed out.
“No, and I never complain about a little spice. And on the subject of sweet versus spicy, would you prefer your crepes with fruit, or a cinnamon and nutmeg filling?”
“Decisions, decisions.”
“We can do both,” Aziraphale offered.
“Sounds perfect, angel. Need help?”
“Yes, please,” Aziraphale answered, smiling at him.
They worked in comfortable near-silence after that, only speaking about the task of getting breakfast ready. It was a peaceful, domestic little moment of the sort Crowley wouldn’t have dared to dream about a year ago. And, since he hadn’t let himself imagine it, he’d never suspected how much he would thrive on such mundane, gentle moments.
It was such a warm, soothing feeling, and the best part was knowing that they had all the time in the world to enjoy moments just like this in the future. This was married life at its finest. Sex and passion were fine (wonderful in fact!), but it was the little moments of togetherness and unspoken communication that really reinforced the fact that he had been invited to spend eternity with the love of his life. Had he really missed Heaven once upon a time? More likely, he’d just missed the things it had symbolized but never really been. There’d been a song, hadn’t there, decades ago? Something about making Heaven on Earth? It hadn’t been Queen, but it was a catchy enough tune, even if he couldn’t remember it now. It didn’t matter. The point was that ‘Heaven’ as a state of mind was far better than the actual place could ever be.
“You’re in a good mood,” Aziraphale noted as they finished filling the crepes.
“Am I leaking?” Crowley asked, grinning at him. He’d spent so long shielding his innermost thoughts and feelings, and now, not only did he not have to, Azirpahale liked it when he didn’t. “Dripping love all over everything?”
“You are, and it’s charming,” he answered, kissing Crowley’s cheek as he garnished their plate with berries.
“Glad you think so, angel,” he answered, grinning and picking up the food once Aziraphale was done arranging it. “Back to bed now?”
“Definitely,” Aziraphale agreed, opening a cabinet and pulling down a bottle of champagne.
“Ooh, breakfast in bed with bubbly? Fancy.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Crowley followed Aziraphale back to the bedroom, setting the plate on the nightstand and carefully moving Aziraphale’s antique leather-bound journal out of the way so it wouldn’t get stained.
“Thank you, love,” Aziraphale whispered, kissing his cheek and then opening the champagne.
The angel was careful not to spill a drop. Corks hitting the ceiling while champagne sprayed everywhere, he’d once told Crowley, was for the kind that didn’t taste very good to begin with. Nothing really worth drinking deserved to end up all over the carpet. Which meant that Aziraphale had dusted off a bottle of the good stuff for them to enjoy this morning. Grinning eagerly, Crowley belly-flopped into the bed, then squirmed around until he was sitting with his back propped up against the pillows. Aziraphale was watching him with a fond smile and when he was comfortable, handed him one of the glasses of bubbly.
“Going to join me, angel?” Crowley asked, giving him a come-hither look.
“Trying to Tempt me, fiend?” the angel chuckled, settling on the edge of the mattress and smiling at him. “To our side?” he suggested, lifting his glass to Crowley.
“To our side,” Crowley agreed, touching his glass lightly to his angel’s. “To… to breakfast in bed and picnics and feeding the ducks.”
Aziraphale smiled warmly at that, nodding. “And to gardens and to always making our home where we find it.” Smile widening, he added, “And to always coming back to each other before long.”
“To all that, angel, and to so much more,” Crowley agreed, sipping his champagne and then leaning forward to kiss his angel tenderly.
Aziraphale smiled against his lips, making a soft, happy noise. It was a gorgeous, lazy kiss, not even a little heated or urgent. Just two people who loved each other comfortably and confidently enjoying the fact. They were well past the fear and uncertainty that had existed before, didn’t need to prove anything or reassure each other. They could just enjoy being close and in love, in whatever way they chose. Today, they chose a soft champagne-flavored kiss before a day spent together in which they wouldn’t do anything special, just enjoy all their usual favorite activities.
He sighed softly as Aziraphale drew back, although it wasn’t an unhappy sound. There would be other affectionate moments, after all. Too many to count. And no need to keep count any more. Tender gestures were still precious, but no longer fleeting or rare.
“Are you hungry?” Aziraphale whispered, nuzzling his face.
“I wouldn’t say no to a bite, after you went to all that trouble,” Crowley answered, smiling over at the plate piled high with stuffed crepes and berries. Smile widening, he sat back and opened his mouth.
“Fiend,” the angel laughed, beaming as he picked up a large strawberry and brought it to Crowley’s lips.
Crowley grinned at him, biting into the strawberry with an approving noise. He’d never really had an appetite before they’d schemed their way to freedom, and for the most part, he still didn’t. He didn’t often get hungry, per se, but he enjoyed eating more than he ever had in the past. It was such a simple, human thing to do, and no wonder Aziraphale had always found food and drink so comforting. The two of them had gone thoroughly native at some point, too far back to remember. It didn’t just make sense for them to engage in all the best human customs; it had become natural. They didn’t talk much as they fed each other breakfast, mostly just enjoying the good food and better company until the plate was almost empty. Aziraphale set it aside and refilled their glasses, then snuggled close to Crowley while they enjoyed the last of the champagne.
“We should do breakfast in bed more often, angel,” Crowley told him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“You’re right. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t think of it before.”
“Even a genius can’t think of everything. We’ve thought of it now, though, and that’s all that counts.”
Aziraphale smiled and nodded, telling Crowley, “We’ll start making a habit of breakfast in bed. At least once a week.”
“Now you’re just spoiling me, angel,” Crowley chuckled.
“Well, if we can’t spoil each other on a day like this, when can we?” he countered in that ‘reasonable’ tone of his that meant that he was being silly and knew it, but just didn’t care.
“Good point. I guess I’ll let you spoil me if you really want to.” Smiling and kissing his angel’s cheek, he added, “Want to get dressed and head to the park now?”
“Not just yet, if you don’t mind. There’s something I wanted to show you first.”
Crowley grinned at that, giving him a curious look and teasing, “Angel, you start ‘showing me things’ and we might never make it to the park…”
Aziraphale snorted softly, smiling and shaking his head. “It’s nothing of that sort, love, although we can still wait if you prefer.”
“No, angel,” he answered, shaking his head and smiling curiously. “I was just teasing. What did you want to show me?”
Azirpahale leaned over without pulling free of Crowley’s embrace, miracling away the empty plate and glasses, then picking up the leather-bound volume he liked scribbling in from time to time.
“You want to show me your journal?” Crowley asked, blinking. He’d seen it lying around a lot lately but he’d never looked inside. An angel deserved his privacy, after all. “You don’t have to if you’d rather not.”
“Oh, but I do want to show you, Crowley, if you want to see. I know you’ve been curious since you first saw it, and there’s nothing in it that I wouldn’t want you to see. If you’re still curious, I’d like to share it with you.”
“If you want, I’d be honored, angel. I know how private a diary can be.”
“It’s not a diary. Not exactly,” Aziraphale told him, settling it across their laps. “It’s a sketchbook.”
Crowley’s eyes widened. “A sketchbook?” he repeated.
Sometimes, when my heart is full, I like to put some of my feelings down on paper, the angel had told him once. Crowley had assumed he was writing, but Aziraphale had never actually specified, and Crowley hadn’t asked.
“Yes. Drawing is sometimes easier than trying to find words,” the angel explained.
“I didn’t know you still drew. I haven’t seen you sketching anything since… the Renaissance, I think.”
“Probably not. When I realized it was a good way to vent my emotions, it became a more private sort of pastime,” Aziraphale explained.
Crowley leaned into him a little, staring down at the sketchbook. “You’re allowed to have feelings you don’t share, you know, angel. I don’t have to know all your secrets.”
“Secrecy and privacy are different,” he pointed out reasonably. “And, as I said, I’d like to share this with you if you want to see. After all, it’s… Well, you show up a lot, don’t you?” he asked, smiling almost shyly.
“Do I?” Crowley asked, grinning.
Then he blushed, remembering the first time he’d seen Aziraphale with the sketchbook. Had the angel been drawing dirty pictures of him? But, no, of course not. Even if there were erotic pictures among Aziraphale’s sketches, they wouldn’t be dirty . And surely that couldn’t have been Aziraphale’s only subject. Back in the day, Aziraphale had been more draftsman than artist. Crowley hadn’t even known he drew people, although he must if he’d been drawing Crowley a lot lately. Perhaps pictures that weren’t of buildings or cityscapes had always been too personal for him to disclose? And now he wanted to share an entire sketchbook’s worth of pictures with Crowley. That was more than just flattering, it made Crowley’s heart swell in his chest.
“Angel…”
“Of course, I wasn’t always very good,” Aziraphale told him, untying the ribbon holding the book shut and opening it to the first page.
The drawing was definitely crude, probably not helped by the fact that it was charcoal on papyrus, back in the days before charcoal could be got in handy sticks with sharp edges. But it was undeniably a sketch of Crowley, sitting on a hillside in a long black robe, hair blowing in the wind. It must have been ancient, and the page curled around the edges like it had been stored in a roll long before it had been bound into a book.
“This must be thousands of years old, angel,” Crowley whispered, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the fragile page.
“Yes, I drew it not long after the Flood,” he answered quietly. “You can tell I was still learning. Papyrus is so tricky, even if you’re using a brush. You’re always smudging or blotting.”
Crowley nodded, still studying the drawing. “You can tell it’s me, though. Which isn’t bad for a beginner.” Smiling curiously, he asked, “Why were you drawing me that far back? You didn’t already love me?”
“Not like I do now,” he answered, biting his lip. Smiling, he added, “But you were one of the few constants in my existence. Your presence was always comforting to me. So I drew you, at first to… remind myself.”
“That everything was going to be okay?”
“Or at least that it had the capacity to be,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding and smiling at him. Blushing a little, he added, “It doesn’t hurt that you’re a very fetching subject.”
Crowley laughed at that, smiling from ear to ear. “Angel, did you think I was pretty?”
“No, I thought you were beautiful,” he answered, trying to look prim and failing miserably. Smiling, he told Crowley, “You are. You were. It used to terrify me, but I liked it even so.”
“I never meant to make you uncomfortable,” he answered gently.
“You never did. I made myself uncomfortable at times, perhaps, and there’s no changing that. But that’s fine. We wouldn’t be where we are today if we hadn’t once been the people we were back then. Our personal growth was as necessary to what we have now as everything else was. I don’t regret the past, Crowley, not any more.”
He smiled at that, resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Neither do I, angel. Not really. And it wasn’t all bad. We had a lot of good times over the years.”
“And we’ll have many more in years to come,” he agreed, kissing Crowley’s hair.
“Lots of new additions for your sketchbook.”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to all of them.”
“Maybe next time I can pose for you instead of you drawing me from memory,” he offered.
“I’d like that, love,” Aziraphale told him, “although to be fair, I have drawn you from life a time or two.”
“You have?” he asked, blinking. “When?”
Aziraphale blushed, clearing his throat. “Um… while you were asleep. Nothing improper!” he added quickly. “I’d never do that without express permission.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, angel,” Crowley answered, smiling and patting his knee. “I know you’d never take advantage of me.”
“You just looked so lovely,” he explained, still blushing but also smiling faintly.
“Can I see?”
“Oh, yes,” he assured Crowley, nodding and reaching to turn the page, then pausing. “Do you want to see the first one I drew, or the most recent?”
“How about the newest one?”
“All right.” Smiling shyly, Aziraphale leafed through the sketchbook, turning it to a page with a sketch of Crowley sleeping soundly. This one was on modern paper, and much more skillfully executed. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a gallery.
Crowley was female in it, and naked, but Aziraphale had been right that it wasn’t actually improper. The main focus was on the peaceful facial expression and relaxed posture, the details beyond those blurring into soft-focus. It was a comfortable, intimate sort of portrait, not meant to be erotic and not coming even close to it despite being a picture of a naked woman in bed. The nudity wasn’t the focus, just another detail to illustrate Crowley’s absolute comfort and security.
“Angel,” Crowley whispered, staring. “This is beautiful.”
Aziraphale smiled, obviously pleased with the praise, but told him, “It helps to have a beautiful subject. And there are few subjects quite as beautiful as you are, love.”
“You’re biased,” Crowley chuckled, grinning and blushing.
“Me?” He smiled and shook his head, grinning at Crowley. “I just know a beautiful model when I see one.”
Crowley blushed worse, snuggling close. “What else have you drawn?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. You’re my favorite subject, but hardly the only one.”
Crowley reached to turn a page, then froze since some of the pages in the sketchbook were obviously very old and fragile. When Aziraphale smiled and made an encouraging sound, Crowley carefully turned back to the first page of the sketchbook, momentarily surprised to find that every page was as sturdy as if it was brand new. Even the papyrus sheets hadn’t lost their initial flexibility, let alone start to mildew the way papyrus should after centuries of English humidity. Aziraphale must have treasured these sketches and guarded them as carefully as any volume of literature. Crowley smiled fondly at that, glancing down at the first crude sketch again and then carefully turning the page.
The next picture wasn’t of Crowley but of a little Mesopotamian village on market day. The technique was still crude, but Aziraphale had managed to capture something of the cheer and excitement of those gatherings.
“Special occasion?” Crowley asked, smiling curiously at his angel.
“For the life of me, I can’t remember,” Aziraphale admitted, chuckling and shrugging. “But it’s not a terrible picture, so I thought I might as well keep it. Must have meant something to me at the time.”
“Must have,” Crowley agreed, kissing his cheek. “You always did like a good market day.”
“So did you as I recall. So much scope for temptation,” the angel teased.
He laughed at that, grinning at Aziraphale and kissing his cheek. “I always liked when humans did my job for me. So did you.”
“Well, yes,” he conceded. “Humans always surprise you, sometimes in good ways.”
Crowley made a soft noise of agreement, turning to the next page in the sketchbook. It was another portrait, of a young human Crowley didn’t recognize, and it showed how much Aziraphale’s skill had grown by that point. The young woman, a Moabite or Edomite from the look of her clothes, stared up from the page with large, shy eyes and an expression that wasn’t quite wary but that seemed unsure.
“Ruth,” Aziraphale supplied at Crowley’s questioning look.
“What, from the Bible?”
The angel nodded, glancing down at the page. “I liked her. She understood loyalty in a way most people never will.”
“Both of you were loyal to a fault?”
“Something like that,” Aziraphale conceded, shrugging. “Except she really loved Naomi and was loved by her, so her loyalty made sense. And it was good for her, too.”
Ah, the kind of loyalty that Aziraphale would have aspired to back then. A loyalty much more meaningful and beneficial than the kind he’d felt to Heaven. No wonder he’d felt drawn to Ruth. Crowley wondered if the young woman had questioned the reasons for Aziraphale’s interest, and whether he’d have noticed if she did. Ruth wouldn’t have been the only woman across history, after all, to be convinced that Aziraphale’s innocent interest… wasn’t.
“I never could get her to smile long enough for me to get a good sketch of it,” Aziraphale remarked idly, peering down at the page. “Which is a shame. Her smile could light up a room.”
“People with smiles like that can’t usually do them on demand,” Crowley told Aziraphale, shrugging.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” the angel agreed, nodding faintly. “Some smiles, you have to really feel.”
“Yup.” Crowley nodded and smiled. All Aziraphale’s best smiles were like that, smiles he really felt, deep inside.
He turned the page, blushing a little when he saw himself again. As in that first sketch, he was wearing robes, his long hair flowing in the wind. But, this time, instead of being alone, he was holding a small child in his lap. It was surprising in a way. Crowley had always gotten on well with children, and Aziraphale had always known that, but Crowley hadn’t realized that it was something that Aziraphale found noteworthy. Of course kids liked Crowley; he was always advocating for curiosity and rebellion. This wasn’t a picture about a mutual taste for mischief, though. If you looked close, you could just make out the fact that Crowley was healing the child’s scraped knee. There was no denying the tenderness in Crowley’s expression, or the affectionate trust in the human child’s. No wonder his sweet, soft angel had considered it a moment worth capturing.
Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, smiling and turning the page. There didn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason to the things Aziraphale had found worth documenting with his sketches, but Crowley had no doubt that every person and place had touched the angel’s heart in a deeply personal way. Which made Crowley’s heart swell every time he found another picture of himself among all the others. Pictures of Crowley were few and far between at first but, as the years passed, Aziraphale had taken to drawing Crowley more and more frequently. It was like seeing a timeline of the angel’s secret, growing affection for his best friend and eventual lover.
But, then, everything in this book was a glimpse into Aziraphale’s secret heart. Or, at least, into a heart that had been secret until last year.
Maryam and Yoseph appeared in two pictures, one where she was heavily pregnant and one where the pair were doting over a laughing baby. Weird, seeing the Son of Man as a chubby, happy infant. But it was no wonder Aziraphale had wanted to capture such a sweet, domestic moment between the girl and her older husband. Their unlikely friendship, which had blossomed into actual love over the course of several years, was the sort that had always appealed to Aziraphale tremendously. He’d always been very adamant that friendship was the best possible foundation for love, the sentimental, wonderful tit. He’d been right, too. They’d found that kind of love themselves, after all.
Smiling, Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s cheek again. “I love you, angel.”
“I love you, too, Crowley,” he murmured, smiling and nuzzling his face. “I’m glad I decided to share my sketchbook with you.”
“So am I. Every picture in it says something about you, doesn’t it?”
“Of course,” he answered, then laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You’ll see when you turn the page.”
Crowley frowned at that, but obediently turned the page. He let out a bark of laughter as he took in the sketch of an ancient library. It was such an Aziraphale thing to draw, just rows and rows of scrolls, each carefully labeled and tucked into a cubby hole. It was objectively a very good drawing, but its inclusion here was just funny.
“You drew a library?” he laughed, grinning at his angel.
“Well, they were a rather new invention at the time,” Aziraphale answered, smiling a little sheepishly. “Very clever, I thought.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Crowley agreed. “Was this when you got the idea? To start hoarding books?”
“I don’t hoard books,” he protested, shaking his head. “I… curate them.”
“Ah, my mistake. You’re not a hoarder, you’re a curator.”
“An important distinction,” Aziraphale told him with a mock-prim look.
“And you call me ridiculous?”
“You are ridiculous, fiend,” he answered, smiling at Crowley with so much warmth and tenderness that it made his chest ache pleasantly.
“And you love me in spite of it.”
“Some days, I think I love you because of it,” Aziraphale told him, reaching over and flipping quickly through several pages before stopping on the one he wanted. “Here you are with little Warlock,” he murmured.
Crowley smiled at that and blushed a little because he hadn’t realized that Aziraphale had ever seen Nanny let Warlock ride on her back while she made airplane noises and ran, doubled over, around the impeccably-manicured lawns at the Embassy. It had happened a lot, but it hadn’t been the sort of thing Crowley had been comfortable letting the world know about.
“He was a sweet kid most of the time,” Crowley noted, smiling down at the picture.
“He loved you very much,” the angel answered, kissing his temple.
“Probably because I spoiled him so shamelessly.”
“No. Everyone spoiled him, and he loved you better than all the rest of them combined.”
Crowley opened his mouth to protest against that characterization, then stopped, remembering who he was talking to. “You could feel that?”
“Yes.” The angel nodded, smiling at Crowley and then looking down at the picture again. “He knew he could rely on you.”
“That’s sad,” Crowley whispered, quickly turning the page, and then turning it again when the next picture was also of Nanny and Warlock. The next picture, of a gallery at the British Museum, also contained children, but at least he didn’t have to look at a likeness of that small, trusting face any more. “When the person in life you can most rely on is the demon whose job it is to groom you into the Antichrist…”
“It’s not sad, Crowley,” he answered, shaking his head.
“You think not?” he asked, frowning.
“I think very young children know instinctively when they’re truly loved, and when they feel that, they love back the way only children can love. No one else loved him the way you did.”
“I don’t think you’re giving Harriet enough credit.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t love him, but it was… an unhappy kind of love. She couldn’t look at him without knowing that he deserved a life his parents would never be able to provide him with. So she spoiled him, trying to gain his forgiveness for something he never thought of as being her fault, or anyone’s.”
“Okay, now that is sad.”
“Yes, it rather is,” he agreed, nodding. “But there’s hope for the two of them.”
“How do you know? Been keeping tabs on them?”
“Harriet and Francis sometimes correspond. She and Warlock recently moved back to London.”
“Really? Husband get another posting?”
“Yes, to Argentina.”
“Oooh,” Crowley answered, eyes widening. “She finally decided to leave him?”
“She became convinced that him moving to South America wouldn’t actually make any change in the amount of quality time he spent with either of them.”
Crowley blinked, then asked, “You mean Brother Francis convinced her?”
“He only asked whether it would or not. She didn’t need any actual convincing once she’d considered the matter for herself.”
“Not very angelic of you to incite a messy divorce, is it?”
“Oh, it wasn’t messy. He agreed to all her demands.”
Crowley laughed at that. “How much blackmail does she have on the man?”
“Quite a lot, it would seem. And I say good for her.”
“Good for her,” Crowley agreed. “Warlock taking it okay?”
“He seems to be, yes. A letter from Nanny might be welcome, though.”
“No, not if he’s finally got an opportunity to actually bond with his mother now that Thaddeus is out of the picture.”
Aziraphale considered his words for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. They’re past due to have some time by themselves, just to get to know each other.”
Crowley nodded, then glanced down at the museum picture again. “You draw a lot of kids, don’t you?”
“I like children,” he answered, shrugging. “They tend to be… uncomplicated.”
“Which very few adults will ever be?”
“We’ve had over 6,000 years to practice, and even we can’t manage to be uncomplicated,” Aziraphale pointed out, grinning at him.
Crowley snorted and smiled back at his ridiculous angel. “And, if we can’t do it, what hope do human adults have?” he laughed.
“Something like that, yes, love,” he murmured, nuzzling Crowley’s face.
He smiled at that, half-closing his eyes and just enjoying the intimacy for a moment. “You know, angel, if you want to spend more time interacting with kids, there’s always the children’s hospital. They always need volunteers for fundraising events and parties for the sprogs.”
“If I express an interest, you’re going to make me promise not to offer to do a magic show, aren’t you?” he asked, grinning.
“Won’t you think of the children?”
“Well, if you put it like that,” Aziraphale chuckled. “No magic shows. I’ll just have to stick to face-painting and the dunking booth, I suppose.”
Crowley laughed at the idea of Aziraphale in an old-fashioned dunking booth, grinning and shaking his head. “Your poor dignity…”
“I imagine my dignity would survive with only moderate bruising.”
“You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” he answered, nodding. “And, despite all your attention to your own air of dignity and coolness, so would you.”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted, smiling fondly at his angel. “But you don’t have to go around saying so.”
“Oh, if you insist, I suppose it can be our secret that you’re capable of being quite silly when it makes children happy.”
“My ego and I thank you.”
Aziraphale chuckled, giving Crowley a gentle squeeze. “Your ego is safe in my hands, love.”
“Every part of me is, angel,” he agreed, smiling. Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder, just enjoying for a moment.
“Drowsy?” the angel asked gently, kissing his hair.
He shook his head faintly, making a soft noise of protest.
“You sound a bit drowsy.”
“Just feeling very… peaceful.”
“Peaceful, hmm?” Aziraphale asked, sounding pleased.
“Mhmm. Usually do with you, angel.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” he answered, shifting slightly.
Crowley opened his eyes as he felt Aziraphale pick up the sketchbook, reaching out to stop him. “No, I want to see more.”
“Are you sure, love?” he chuckled. “I thought perhaps you wanted a nap.”
“No. I want to be awake and enjoy a morning in bed with you.”
“All right, love. If you’re sure.”
“Very. Show me another picture?”
“Of you, or of someone else?”
“Do you have any of you?”
“No. Of course, in a way, I’m present in all of them, since they’re from my perspective.”
Crowley snorted at that logic, even if he couldn’t entirely argue with it. “Show me one of London? You must have lots of those?”
“Yes, I have several, of course. Tudor Christmastide celebrations, scenes from the War years and celebrations afterwards, the Pride Marches in the 1970s, and… Oh, I know. I was once allowed to climb Big Ben. The view of the city from up there was stunning.”
“I’ll bet. When was this?”
“A few months before it was finished, so…” He paused, musing for a moment before telling Crowley, “It would have been late December of ‘58.”
“What, before they had walls on?” he asked, gaping.
“Yes. I would have invited you, but the winter was surprisingly nippy for how hot the summer had been,” he added, grimacing at the memory of that dreadful summer.
Crowley tried to remember, then made a face, too. “Pretty sure I napped through the second half of that year anyway. Blech!”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding. “But the view from the clocktower was charming the day I went up to have a look.”
“I’ll bet it was. Show me?”
Aziraphale smiled happily and flipped through the sketchbook. “Ah, here we are,” he pronounced finally, holding the book so Crowley could see.
The sketch was of London, covered in a light dusting of snow. Crowley had forgotten how short most of the buildings were back then, or what it had been like when smoke poured from every chimney. The drawing, of course, made it look like the slightest wisp from every home, but that had to have been artistic license. Anyone who had lived in London at the time would remember the real state of the air. But, from the top of Big Ben, one could afford to forget the soot and the acrid reek of burning everything and to highlight nothing more than the size and diversity of the world’s largest city. Aziraphale’s picture captured architectural details spanning centuries, and you could almost see the layers of growth and expansion, like the rings in a tree.
It wasn’t a picture of a perfect city, even if some might see it that way. What it really was was a picture of a city that was loved despite its clearly acknowledged flaws. Or maybe it was loved because of them, although that bit was much more subjective. It was a gorgeous picture either way, one that said a lot about both London and Aziraphale’s feelings towards the city. He should have told Aziraphale it was a beautiful picture, because it really was. But it was also a picture that planted a seed of worry in Crowley’s mind. Because, while Aziraphale had expressed enthusiasm for the idea of getting a place in the country, had quite liked several of the ones they’d looked at in the past weeks, London had been his home for centuries and centuries.
“You really going to be comfortable if we get a house outside of London, angel?” he asked gently, turning to face him. “You love this mad town so much,” he added, gesturing towards the sketch.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t love other places and situations, Crowley. If you’re there, if it’s a good place with good people, why wouldn’t I love it as much as I’ve come to love London?” he asked gently.
“It’s London, angel. You used to call it the Center Of The World.”
Aziraphale smiled at him, shaking his head faintly. “I don’t know if that phrase deserves the capital letters, love. Certainly, in its time, it has been a center for art and culture, and for some far less admirable things, and some even more impressive ones. But… those things held me here when nothing else could hold me. But now I have you to hold me, Crowley. I’ll never stop loving the things that make London amazing, but I don’t need them the way I probably once did.”
“No?” he whispered, staring at his angel with wide eyes.
“No, love. I’ll always love London, of course, but I’ll love any place we decide to make our home much more. Wherever we end up, it won’t be the place where we happened to keep running into each other because it was where our employers sent us there. London is still ours and it always will be, but our next home will be the one we choose.”
Crowley smiled, because what else could he do? Aziraphale’s words filled him with certainty, not just of their truth but of their rightness . “And it’s not like we’ll never spend time in London.”
“No. I’ll still have the shop and my flat, and you can get a new flat that’s less like a mausoleum if you want your own space. We can spend as much time in London as we want. And as much time elsewhere as we want. And the best part is that it’ll be what we want . Not our orders, not a habit we’ve fallen into, but a choice we’ve made.”
Crowley started for a minute, startled by the significance Aziraphale was assigning to the idea of getting a second home, but he found himself smiling once he’d actually considered his angel’s words.
“Free will suits you, angel,” he whispered, nuzzling his face.
“It suits us both,” Aziraphale answered. Smiling and kissing Crowley gently, he whispered against his lips, “Do you think we’ll hear from the estate agent today?”
“I told her we were busy all day, but we can call her later if you want, angel.”
“Let’s call her now?”
Crowley laughed at his obvious enthusiasm. “Angel, there’s no hurry. We have time now. If we don’t find an expensive-as-balls country house today, we can find one tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Next year, whenever. That’s what we’re supposed to be celebrating today, remember?”
He let out a little chuckle at that, smiling and nodding. “You’re right. We can go back to house-hunting tomorrow. Today is for celebrating that we have all the time in the world.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, kissing Aziraphale.
They kissed for what felt like a short eternity, tenderly and without passion, almost lazily. And that was a luxury Crowley had never imagined having: kissing Aziraphale without need, knowing that there was no hurry, no pressure, that everything he’d always wanted was already his. And that, on balance, made it a million times better than any kiss he’d ever shared with anyone other than his angel. The best part, of course, was that kisses like this had become everyday occurrences. Not commonplace or routine – they’d never be that – but something they shared and enjoyed frequently. Crowley made a happy noise against his angel’s lips at the thought, nuzzling his face as the kiss ended.
“I love you, angel.”
“I love you, too. I know I’ve said it before, but I’m so glad you climbed the Eastern Wall that day.”
“Me, too, Aziraphale.”
They fell into comfortable silence after that, quietly enjoying each other’s company as Crowley perused the sketchbook. There were so many humans in it, most long-dead but not forgotten by Aziraphale. There was, Crowley reflected, a kind of immortality in having found a place in the heart of an angel with an unfailing memory. That was Aziraphale’s gift to people, a kind of eternal life in his heart. His love was always a gift, whatever form it took, and Crowley didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling grateful for the love his angel shared so freely with him.
Sometimes, instead of people or places, the angel’s pencil had captured events instead. From the careful, loving detail, they had been events that Aziraphale had been closely involved in. There was a Suffragette rally from the turn of the 20th century, and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had been stopping people from throwing bricks or just making sure they only hit windows and not any people. During a scrap-metal drive that must have taken place during the Second World War, smiling women and children were carefully sorting and categorizing old odds and ends, and something told Crowley that only Aziraphale’s presence had prevented anyone from ending up with tetanus.
There was a sketch of a student march during the Bristol Bus Boycott, and he’d managed to perfectly capture the expressions of combined anger, fear, and determination on the faces of marchers who knew that the police might descend at any moment. The next page captured similar looks on the faces of men and women marching in what must have been one of London’s first Pride marches. Pride hadn’t been a celebration then, not yet. There were so many ways society could punish people for being different, and penalties were harsh; that had been the whole point of both marches – we’re here, we’re not going away, and you can’t arrest all of us. Those two weren’t the two most cheerful pictures in the book by a longshot. Crowley could usually look back and laugh over the sheer chaos the Suffragettes had sown during their fight, their confidence that they could change the world. It was harder to be amused by men and women marching solemnly for the right to equal employment, or the right to love who they loved, almost painful to see those marchers looking like they weren’t sure if their efforts would work or even help at all.
He wondered briefly what these pictures were doing in a book of sketches of things that made Aziraphale happy. Then he turned the page and there was the Notting Hill Carnival in all its exuberant, joyous, unpredictable glory. Crowley smiled, sure the next picture would be an actual Pride celebration, and leaned up to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek.
“This is amazing, angel. You really captured the carnival spirit.”
He smiled happily at that. “It’s good to celebrate who you are and what that means,” Aziraphale answered, smiling.
“Kind of what today is all about, too,” he added, turning the page to see, as anticipated, a raucous Pride parade depicted. “A voice in our own future, heritage, legacy, Pride, and us two being mad wankers.”
Aziraphale laughed at that characterization. “I think you’ve just summed up the spirit of this day perfectly.”
“Yeah, I have, haven’t I?”
“You really have, my love.”
Crowley smiled and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek again. They’d been going back and forth through the sketchbook almost at random, and there were probably dozens more pictures to see. And he wanted to see them all, as well as the ones that Aziraphale hadn’t considered good enough to stay in the book of happy memories. He hadn’t known that Aziraphale was such a good artist, and now he was eager to see all his work. But that fell squarely under the category of things they had all the time in the world for, so he smiled and kissed his angel’s cheek.
“One more picture, then let’s head to the park? We can look at the rest tonight.”
“Or tomorrow,” Aziraphale agreed. “Whenever you like. But you said you want to see one more before we go?”
“Mhmm. Show me your very favorite.”
Aziraphale colored a little, but smiled and nodded. “If you insist.”
“You know I don’t insist. Like I’ve said, you deserve as much privacy as you want. But I am curious.”
“Then I’ll be happy to share it with you,” Aziraphale assured him, leafing quickly through several more pages. “I’ll need to rebind this again soon. I’m running out of pages.”
“How many times have you had to redo the binding? Looks like it’s been a few.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could count. When I start to run out of pages, or want to add or remove drawings, or just when it starts to get a bit worn.”
“You sometimes add drawings?” Crowley asked, curious.
“Not often, but if I don’t have this book handy, or if I accidentally put it in the wrong sketchbook, or if my feelings on a subject change,” he explained. “Sometimes I draw a picture for someone as a gift and don’t add it to my sketchbook until they’ve died, like I did with the pictures of Maryam and Yoseph.”
Crowley nodded, since that all sounded very Aziraphale, but had to ask, “The wrong sketchbook? How many do you have?”
“Four. Three,” he corrected himself. “Three now. I burnt one last year.”
Crowley gaped and felt a bit of rage, half at the idea of anything important to Aziraphale being destroyed and half at whatever had made his poor angel think it was necessary.
“No, don’t be upset, love,” Aziraphale soothed, nuzzling his cheek and giving him a gentle squeeze. “There’s nothing to be upset about.”
“Isn’t there?” Crowley challenged, frowning. “Why’d you have to go and burn your art, then? What were you scared of?”
“I wasn’t afraid of anything. I chose to burn some of my sketches because it was time to. I used to have one sketchbook that was just pictures of times I was unspeakably sad or angry. I didn’t need it any more. I didn’t want it any more. I suppose you could call it an effigy that I took great pleasure in burning.”
“What, like trashing your ex’s stuff?”
“Well, not quite that vindictive, I hope. But it was still quite satisfying to disavow all the parts of being an angel that I’d never much liked and to do it so… decisively, with such finality.”
Crowley felt the tension and concern drain out of him as Aziraphale explained. His old habits of extreme caution and self-sacrifice had obviously not driven the decision to destroy some of the art. And, judging from what he could imagine were in some of the destroyed drawings, their burning hadn’t deprived the art world, or Aziraphale personally, of a damned thing. And even if they had been some kind of loss, his angel had the blessed right to symbolically cut ties with Heaven in any way he wanted.
“In that case, let me know next time, angel,” Crowley told him, smiling tenderly. “I’ll bring marshmallows.”
Aziraphale chuckled at that. “I’ll remember that, love. Thank you for understanding.”
“I might not always understand you, angel, but I’ll always do my best to be understanding.”
“I love you,” the angel answered, kissing him gently.
Crowley smiled against his lips, just enjoying for a little while before he whispered, “We’ll never make it out the door if we keep this up.”
“No, we won’t. And what will the ducks do without us to feed them?”
“Exactly. Someone’s got to think of the ducks. So, one more picture and then we’ll start the day?”
Aziraphale smiled, then hesitated. “Are you sure you want to see my favorite?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Crowley asked, frowning at him.
“Well… it’s a bit… close to being racy. Hardly the sort of thing media one ought to consume moments before leaving the house,” he explained, blushing and smiling shyly.
Crowley blinked, then grinned. “Angel, do you have a dirty picture of us in there?”
“Not dirty !” he protested, face going from pink to red. “I mean, certainly adult in content, but not indecent in any way,” he explained, fidgeting and still wearing that slightly-anxious, slightly-apologetic smile of his.
Crowley grinned and, because Aziraphale seemed more sheepish than uncomfortable, he teased, “Oh, it’s not porn, it’s erotica?”
Aziraphale chuckled at that, grinning at him and shyly admitting, “Something like that, yes.”
“And it’s of us?”
“Well, I’m not likely to draw erotica of anyone else, am I?” Aziraphale countered, still blushing but relaxing visibly. “You were so beautiful that night.”
It was Crowley’s turn to blush a little as he again remembered the first time he’d seen Aziraphale sketching away. Crowley hadn’t realized what he’d been doing then, and hadn’t pushed when Aziraphale had implied that the contents of the sketchbook were private, mistaking his shyness for actual discomfort. But that all felt like a long time ago, and they knew each other’s comfort-levels much better now.
“You drew a picture of us that night on the island?” Crowley whispered, smiling and still blushing. “While you were…”
“Giving you a… helping hand. Yes,” the angel answered, also whispering. “You looked so beautiful in the moonlight, and you were so happy.”
Crowley colored more deeply, and also found himself curious as to how Aziraphale could have managed to make a drawing of a handjob not-porny. “Will you show me, angel? That other picture of me naked was beautiful. I’m sure this one will be, too.”
“Not much of your body is actually visible,” Aziraphale told him.
Crowley colored at that, and had to turn off several nerves and blood-vessels to prevent his body from reacting as strongly as his mind and heart were. Aziraphale’s gorgeous wings had been out that night, cradling Crowley’s body as the angel’s hands had very effectively coaxed an orgasm out of him. The weight, warmth, and gorgeous scent of those wings had all done as much for Crowley as Aziraphale’s hands had. He’d been surrounded, gently caged by Aziraphale, and he’d never wanted it to end. He’d been wrapped in those strong wings many times since, not always sexually, but it had always taken effort for him to remind himself that the angel’s wings weren’t always there to excite his mate. He had a fetish for Aziraphale’s wings, not one that had started that night, but definitely one that had crystallized then.
He took a few deep breaths, willing his body to cooperate. “Sorry. I’m good now,” he told Aziraphale, who had waited patiently for him to school himself.
“You needn’t apologize, love. But are you sure you still want to see the picture now?” he asked gently. “We can save it for tonight, before bed…”
Mutinous nerve-endings tried to sit up and take notice, but Crowley ignored the blessed things. Things involving wings and feathers would definitely be happening tonight, and they’d both enjoy them, but Crowley had more self-control than to completely lose focus the second he saw an angelic remex. If Aziraphale promised that the picture wasn’t too much, then it wouldn’t be. Soon Crowley would encourage Aziraphale to try some properly erotic drawings of the two of them. For now, he was eager for a reminder of that first night where they’d been able to properly call themselves lovers in the physical sense. He wanted to see that night as his angel had seen it.
“Please, angel? Tonight… well, who knows, you may have a new sketch to show me in the morning. But, for now, I’d like to see this one.”
“If you’re sure,” he agreed, giving a little shy-eager smile at the mention of a new picture.
Crowley gasped at the picture as Aziraphale opened to that page, heart hammering for reasons that had very little to do with randiness. He looked so beautiful in the picture, bathed in a pale glow. Had it been moonlight, or had Aziraphale been glowing and neither had noticed? He didn’t look like a man who’d just had an amazing orgasm, either. His expression was certainly happy, and a little drowsy, but mostly he just looked like a man who had just experienced a major, glorious revelation, like the world finally made sense to him. Most of the page was dominated by large white feathers, but Crowley’s look of complete contentment and security, his obvious love, were what really drew the eye. He could see why Aziraphale had assumed that the picture might leave him hot and bothered, especially knowing the context, but it wasn’t that kind of picture. This was a picture about affection and togetherness, not one about sex. No wonder Aziraphale had been moved to draw it, if that’s how Crowley had been looking at him. There’d once been a time when Crowley wouldn’t have believed he was capable of openly showing as much love and trust as he was showing in that sketch.
Teary-eyed, he presses his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek, whispering, “Thank you.”
The angel smiled, kissing his cheek, then his forehead. “We can frame it somewhere, if you like.”
“Somewhere only we ever go. Wouldn’t want to risk a human seeing it,” Crowley pointed out.
“They’d probably just assume it was an experimental piece, or impressionist with religious overtones.”
He considered that, then smiled. “In the living room, then? Or the kitchen?”
“We’ll see it more often in the living room than in the kitchen,” Aziraphale pointed out.
“And you won’t mind having it there? I mean, with the… subject matter?”
“It’s hardly pornographic, Crowley. But we won’t hang it up if you’re not comfortable with the idea.”
“It’s a gorgeous drawing, angel. And I’m not uncomfortable with the idea of hanging it up. I just wasn’t sure how you would feel about it, you know, because it’s so…”
“Intimate,” Aziraphale supplied when he faltered. “It is intimate,” he agreed, smiling and kissing Crowley’s cheek. “That’s why I like it so much. No one else will understand its meaning, but every time we look at it, we will.”
“Then let’s get a frame for it.”
“We could do that today, before we go to the park?”
This time, Crowley didn’t argue that there would be time to do business tomorrow. The picture was such a celebration of the love between them that it seemed only right to pick a frame today. Smiling, he drew away from Aziraphale, kissing his cheek before sliding off the bed.
“We should probably get dressed before we drop by any shops, angel.”
“Well, if you insist, fiend,” Aziraphale chuckled, nodding and climbing to his feet. Smiling happily, he asked, “It’s going to be a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Nah, angel,” he answered, grinning back. “It already is one. Now let’s go shopping?”