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Crowley and Aziraphale have kissed dozens of times, perhaps a hundred, maybe even two. Initially, Crowley had tried to keep count, although he’d sooner walk on consecrated ground than admit it. Counting kisses, however, was becoming increasingly challenging. The variation of them – sometimes staccato, sometimes run-on – means that he often wonders whether it is best to try to count each individual press of lips, or to package them up into sessions. But then he’s unsure how long a break between presses of lips should differentiate one from two.
Sometimes, Aziraphale will kiss him, and wander off for only a few minutes – the kettle boiled or a phone ringing – then return and resume: how does he count that? Other times, Aziraphale will kiss him softly and then nuzzle into his neck and stay there for a long time, pick up a novel and read, and then come back up to his mouth and kiss him harder. One or two? More and more often, when they’re comfortable, and deep into a kiss, Aziraphale will pull back, almost imperceptibly, manipulating a millimetre between them and making Crowley chase his mouth and recapture his lips. It’s impossible to know how to count these occasions which means Crowley is losing count. That, in and of itself, carries a little twinge of sadness and an overwhelming, intimate thrill.
Today is a lazy day after several busy ones. Running a book shop that proactively discourages customers does not keep Crowley and Aziraphale particularly busy; plants and obscure book deals don’t really either, but drama in their corner of Soho, a threat from a developer to buy up and bulldoze their sanctuary, had been a call to arms. And for several days, that had kept them busy.
Crowley still disdained the fact that he was doing the work of the good guys, but he relished the chance to manipulate and poke and prod. Seeing humans that he was friendly towards smiling in relief when it was all over was also enjoyable enough. As was the opportunity to watch Aziraphale plotting.
Very early that morning, Crowley had strolled on into the bookshop, the very last of the loose ends tied up and confirmed by Aziraphale’s triumphant nod of approval. Crisis averted.
Since then, neither one of them has left the bookshop and not a single customer has managed to find their way inside. It’s most of the day later, the sun setting and shafts of soft golden light streaming through the windows, between where the curtains are half drawn, to sparkle the dust that swirls and spirals in the air.
Aziraphale had plopped down on the opposite end of the couch to Crowley almost an hour ago, foregoing his usual armchair and instead snuggling back into a soft pillow. He had his reading glasses hooked over his ears and within minutes they’d slipped to their place, perched at the end of his nose. He brought along a small hardback that Crowley couldn’t quite glean the title of.
He’d barely looked at Crowley when he settled, intent on reading, but at some point he’d absent-mindedly reached out, his hand going to the back of Crowley’s neck as Crowley shuffled closer, leaning into the touch. Aziraphale had pet and squeezed and started to rub in such a way – such a comfortable, easy way – that Crowley was inevitably coaxed closer and closer, until his face was pressed up against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and then nuzzling under his arm. Eventually Crowley’s head was in Aziraphale’s lap, facing inwards to Aziraphale’s body, cheek resting warm against his thigh, as his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed to an inhumanly relaxed rate.
Many minutes pass before Crowley blinks his eyes open to stop from succumbing to sleep. He hasn’t taken a nap in a long time. He’s afraid of missing out on something and now, as his pupils go from blown wide back to narrower slits, his cheek shifting back towards Aziraphale’s knee so he can see him better, Crowley focuses, he watches Aziraphale, to keep from missing out.
Aziraphale is able to turn the pages of his book with just his right hand. Crowley watches him do it, pointer and middle fingers holding up the spine of the book, thumb manipulating the pages to flick one over to be captured and held by his pinkie. Aziraphale’s other hand remains occupied, petting tenderly up the back of Crowley’s neck, into his hair, over and over again.
Crowley watches Aziraphale turn the pages until there aren’t any left. Aziraphale closes the book with a small, contented sigh, and places it carefully on the stack of books on the table beside them. Crowley wonders what the novel was about and contemplates asking Aziraphale to explain it to him.
But instead, he lets the quiet dominate, listens to Aziraphale breathing and the bustle occurring just outside the windows, the sounds of the streets dampened by the half-drawn curtains. It’s pleasant and warm as Aziraphale curls hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck around his fingers.
Eventually, Aziraphale speaks, “You know you’re allowed to lean on me sometimes.” He makes sure to give Crowley’s hair a gentle tug, to draw him back and his eyes up to meet his own, so that Crowley can see he’s being serious, but also calm.
Crowley isn’t sure what he means and burns through several seconds by fidgeting and eventually turning fully on his back, neck still against Aziraphale’s thigh, head cradled between them, as he clasps his hands over his stomach and lets his legs hang where they please. One’s hitched high and over the back of the couch, up against the books, and the other falls off the front. His brow furrows when Aziraphale offers nothing else. “What do you mean? I do, I’m literally leaning on you right now.”
Aziraphale chuckles and threads his fingers through Crowley’s hair again, this time brushing up from his temple. “No, I mean, you’re allowed to lean on me when you want to.” He says it as though that’s different to what he’d already said, and also different to what they are actually physically doing right now.
“I thought I did.” Crowley says dimly, quite lost in it all. Lost further by the distraction of Aziraphale warm under his neck and in the fingers in his hair. “I lean on you just as much as you lean on me, that’s why we work so well together,” Crowley mumbles.
Aziraphale shakes his head and smiles like he knows something Crowley doesn’t. “You only lean on me when you need to.”
Crowley doesn’t see what’s wrong with that. Or what leaning has to do with kissing, which is where he had hoped all these intimate touches were heading, now that the book was done with. But talking is good, good things can come from talking, and Aziraphale’s fingers carding again and again through his hair is almost as good as kissing.
Aziraphale continues, “Sometimes, I think it would be nice, if you leaned on me just because you wanted to.” He traces a finger around the shell of Crowley’s ear and then from the corner of his jaw to his chin. It takes several seconds and the entire time, he’s watching his finger closely. “I’d like that.”
Crowley doesn’t know what he means, isn’t sure what he’s hoping to hear, so he says again, “I do.”
Aziraphale huffs and his thigh flexes in a frustrated, obvious sort of way behind Crowley’s head but he still has no idea what it means.
“You don’t,” Aziraphale tells him, stern and just a little bit indignant. If his fingers weren’t bliss, Crowley would sit up. “I think you’re worried it will be too much for me, which it wouldn’t. You’re the least selfish anything I’ve ever known, and I don’t think that’s good for you, not if we’re going to be in a loving relationship, especially with kissing. I think… I think I want you to be a little bit more selfish.”
So, it is about kissing. At some point Crowley’s eyes have fluttered shut and Aziraphale’s resumed tracing the lines of his face in a soothing sort of way. Crowley’s brow furrows at Aziraphale’s words; he’s never thought of himself as being unselfish… altruism goes against everything he stands for, or used to stand for, at least. But, then, he guesses that isn’t really what it’s about with Aziraphale. Nothing he does with Aziraphale could ever be truly unselfish.
A strand of guilt slithers around his heart that he’s not been what Aziraphale wanted him to be in this relationship. That’s what makes him angrier than anything else. But he recognises that the anger and guilt are simply the manifestation of his fear. Talking also leads to loss, taking more than he needs to, certainly does. He promised himself that he would not fuck up this fragile, perfect, everything thing between him and Aziraphale and every day the danger of that has grown. If not because he gets closer to fucking it up, because this thing between them – already infinite and eternal – keeps growing.
He’s thought for too long and Aziraphale has more to say.
“You know, I’ve noticed you never initiate things between us.” Aziraphale’s voice is quiet as his hand stills, resting against Crowley’s cheek, strategically there to keep him from turning away even as Crowley refuses to open his eyes. Aziraphale sounds unsure and cautious, perhaps as though he’s scared as well, and it breaks Crowley’s heart, that he’s done something that might scare Aziraphale. Crowley screws his eyes more tightly closed as he tries to think his way out of this conversation.
Except, Crowley can’t deny Aziraphale’s accusation. He hadn’t thought it would matter that he always waited for Aziraphale to come to him, but at his point in their relationship it must be glaringly obvious. Crowley has never given in to the itch and scratched, he’s never needed to, with the one glaring exception being the time he kissed him to show Nina – and that hardly qualified as a success.
He’s never gone to Aziraphale, turned to him at any particular moment, or sought him out and grabbed a hold of him, just kissed him, not once, even though he’s obviously wanted to. No, instead, he always waits for Aziraphale to come to him, is always responsive and ready, but never initiates. It’s safer this way, of course. It stops him from pushing for too much or too fast, it means he can’t be the one that fucks this up.
Aziraphale asks, “Do you know why you do that?”
Crowley’s heart starts to hammer and his throat constricts, his eyes fall open because he forgets to hold them closed and Aziraphale’s just there, watching him, all kindness and calm understanding in his blue eyes and settled across his pleasant features. A year or two ago, Crowley would have fought Aziraphale at this point, said something biting and cruel and then if Aziraphale didn’t fight back, he would have stalked out of the bookshop, vowing never to return and staying gone for anywhere from twenty minutes to twenty years. He gets as far as the other end of the couch, sitting himself up and pushing back into its corner before he catches himself on Aziraphale’s gaze and his outstretched hand.
“We’re just talking,” Aziraphale says, watching over the tops of his spectacles. He gives Crowley’s hand a squeeze, “And if you don’t want to, we can stop.”
Crowley sets his lips in a line and Aziraphale pushes on, “I think you’re trying to protect me. That’s why you don’t come and kiss me when you want to. I think you’re trying to protect me from you. Which, when I say it out loud… do you hear how silly that sounds?” There’s no judgement or mocking in his voice, but Crowley doesn’t think it’s silly at all.
“I told you I don’t want to do anything that pushes you away,” Crowley says by way of explanation. “And I am quite okay with allowing you to set the pace.”
“And I told you I won’t let you push me away. It’s unfair that it’s always me coming to you… It could give an angel a complex. It could make me think maybe you don’t want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you.”
Crowley does not think Aziraphale is really that stupid, he couldn’t possibly be, and the smile about his lips supports Crowley in thinking this.
“Don’t be absurd,” Crowley drawls, gaining nothing but another hand squeeze. He relents, “But I can see how it might look that way. To an outsider.”
Crowley can feel that he’s calmed down even as he recognises that he’s being manipulated into some sort of verbal trap.
“So, sometimes you do want to kiss me?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley has to mumble some sort of agreement to that.
“And you stop yourself, because you’re worried I might not want to, and I might be somehow upset that you wanted to kiss me when I didn’t want to?”
Crowley huffs out a breath. “Well, yes when you say it like that, it does sound extremely juvenile.”
But also, it’s a lot more than that. It’s not just kissing Aziraphale at the wrong time, it’s kissing him in the wrong way, kissing him too much. It’s the way Crowley could so easily be ravenous, debauched, wicked with him, and that being wrong.
Aziraphale considers and starts stroking the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. “I mean, it’s not entirely outside of the realms of possibility. I might be on the second last page of an extraordinarily good book. Or… or the world might be about to end again and I need your help to right it.” Aziraphale really thinks, Crowley can see it in the creases around and between his eyes. “I can’t imagine what delicacy I’d rather eat than kiss you but perhaps there’s something out there.”
There’s a smile tugging at Crowley’s lips as he thinks on that. “Angel… I take your point.”
“Good. Next time you want to kiss me,” Aziraphale leans over, pausing an inch from his face before closing the gap to give him a quick peck. “Kiss me.”
Aziraphale scooches over so he’s sitting tight up against Crowley, pushing their thighs together and crowding Crowley into the opposite arm of the sofa. He’s still holding his hand when his other hand moves to Crowley’s face so that Aziraphale can kiss him properly. It’s tender and honest and sweet. Crowley’s heart slows down and he sighs something like relief across Aziraphale’s lips, prompting the shift to a kiss that’s deeper and more sumptuous.
Aziraphale licks into Crowley’s mouth, angling and pressing in all the best ways they’ve learned as Aziraphale’s hand shoves up into Crowley’s hair, twisting the strands between his fingers and just for a second, pulling, just for a second, lips pressing hard and rough, dragging a soft sound of surprise from Crowley before Aziraphale pulls all too quickly, all too far, back. He retreats all the way to the other end of the couch, catching his breath and his eyes bright as he takes a moment to remove his glasses and place them on top of his book on the table.
It’s not new, the tongues meeting, the slick of it, the taste, the harder and faster, finesse slipping in exchange for getting closer. But it’s still exciting, still on the edge of what they do, and it does things to Crowley that snowball into exactly all the reasons he doesn’t initiate kisses with Aziraphale.
“For now,” Aziraphale says, voice cracking a little bit high as Crowley tries to remember where the conversation was at. “For now, please just kiss me the way you want to kiss me.”
Crowley freezes because Aziraphale looks hungry for it, lips parted, wet, already kissed a pretty shade of pink, his eyes constantly dipping down to Crowley’s mouth and sometimes even further. But also, he can sense the fear behind Aziraphale’s eyes, that Crowley will want too much, will demand something depraved and destroying and dark. And of course, this was always there at the periphery – and sometimes, when they weren’t together, very much at the forefront – of Crowley’s mind. Of course, he wants to devour him, to destroy him, break him into a million delicious pieces with his mouth and his hands and revel in him coming apart. Of course, he wants that, he’s thought about all of it, he can’t help himself, but Aziraphale’s never indicated that he wanted anything more than kissing. Sometimes a little too hot, a little too wet, and now rough, little tweaks of pain and discomfort and sacrifice, just to get… more.
Maybe that’s not what he meant, but even if Aziraphale doesn’t know it, that’s what he’s asking for, pleading when he breathes out, “Please.” And perhaps if Crowley just gives him a glimpse, he’ll find out and they can talk and mend and negotiate a pleasant path back to something safe.
Crowley tilts his head and it’s a warning but Aziraphale is defiant, chin up and mouth opening around words he doesn’t quite allow to escape. He swallows, the motion sinful across his lips and down his throat, before he begs, “Crowley, please,” and finally breaks Crowley’s resolve.
Crowley lets himself give in, scrambles and falls across the couch to press himself as close as he can get to Aziraphale, to take as much as he can while he’s allowed to. Hands either side of Aziraphale’s face, dragging him down to meet in a desperate, panting open-mouthed kiss. Crowley can’t help but growl into it, pushing and tasting into Aziraphale’s lips all while Aziraphale’s arms wrap around him, holding him there, welcoming the assault.
It doesn’t taste of anything other than them today. They haven’t eaten or drunk anything for hours so it’s just saliva and sweat, saltier when Crowley pulls back just to catch at Aziraphale’s lips, one and then the other, sucking to drag a noise from Aziraphale’s throat, and then biting to see if his hips move. They’re not at all aligned the way Crowley wants them to be, he wants to crawl fully into Aziraphale’s lap, or straddle him, or yank him down over and on top of him, but instead Crowley’s half across his lap, legs still curled up in a half kneel next to him on the couch, and just hands on Aziraphale’s face and Aziraphale’s arms around his back holding him up. It’s more, better, than anything else, ever before.
Crowley kisses him harder, catches Aziraphale’s tongue between his teeth and swallows the delighted moan that draws. More, harder, rougher, and his hands set to exploring while still trying to hold on. Into Aziraphale’s soft curls, finding them lush as always, and the skin beneath sensitive to his little scratches. Any little twist or tug and Aziraphale moves in the direction Crowley wants, breathing in quickly and complying with the control so Crowley can kiss him more, exactly as he wants to. Fingers around the back of his ears, more little scratches and Aziraphale’s hips definitely tilt upwards for that.
Crowley’s hands move down, caressing, itching, down Aziraphale’s neck, across his shoulders, smoothing the fabric of his jacket before grabbing handfuls of it and scrunching, down his chest to do it again and try to drag him in even closer. He nips at Aziraphale’s bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be remembered, and moves his mouth to an ear, lets Aziraphale hear him pant, feel the warm wet breath and the slick of his tongue as he snakes it out to lick at the spot just behind the earlobe.
“Yes, there,” escapes Aziraphale’s lips and he has a hand around the back of Crowley’s head, holding him in place. “That feels so wonderful,” he says and it’s entirely for Crowley’s benefit. Aziraphale wants this. “Please,” and Aziraphale’s hand twists in his hair.
Teeth closing around Aziraphale’s earlobe, Crowley does his best not to bite, not to suck too hard, and lets the hand in his hair direct him, listens intently to the hitch in Aziraphale’s breath and the soft little patter of mewls that escape. He likes this.
Crowley releases the flesh from between his lips and kisses beneath Aziraphale’s jaw, content to lick and kiss and listen to the constant cascade of little happy noises escaping Aziraphale as he works. It is entirely too similar to the sounds he makes each time he pops some decadent canape between his lips and Crowley could listen to it on repeat for a very long time. But then he slips and presses his teeth into the soft flesh where he can feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat in his neck, tastes the skin and the skitter of Aziraphale’s blood rushing beneath and hears the angel breathe out, “Oh, gosh.”
Crowley pulls back quickly to gauge if that was a good ‘oh gosh’ or a bad one and immediately realizes it’s the former. Aziraphale’s lips are now red and slick and swollen, a bubble of spit caught in the corner of his mouth and sweat glistening on his brow and the apples of his cheeks. His skin’s flushed pink, ears positively burning and his hair has somehow ended up all pushed to the left side. His chest is heaving and all just from kissing.
The danger of pushing, of going too fast, of losing himself in it comes rushing back to Crowley; he could just take him apart right now, a minor miracle and they’d be naked in a big bed, and could do everything, and pushing for that would likely destroy everything. So, Crowley sucks in a shaky breath and talks himself down, hangs on to the knowledge that Aziraphale wanted this, that he enjoyed this, rough and messy kissing. That, based on the way Aziraphale’s looking at him, he’s going to let him do it all again, and there’s an unbelievable wave of relief that comes with knowing that.
Crowley blinks, slowly, petting more gently across Aziraphale’s chest and shoulders, smoothing him out and letting the tactile friction of the cloth under his hand sooth him in return. “You…” he starts but falters. “That was okay?” he asks because he still can’t quite believe it.
“Much, much more than okay,” Aziraphale tells him. “And much more will also be okay, and if it ever isn’t I will tell you, just like you can tell me and it won’t be the end of everything.”
Crowley believes him and lets out a breath he’s been holding his entire existence. “I really do love you,” he says, feeling it fiercely, twisting up inside him, burning behind his ribs, and prickling at his eyes.
“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale says as if it’s the simplest truth in the universe. “I know that dear, now come here.”
Rather than dragging him back in for another searing kiss, Aziraphale coaxes him down slowly, seemingly sensing the shift in Crowley’s heartbeat from desperate wanting to pure relief. Aziraphale guides Crowley with a hand around the back of his head, presses his cheek to his chest, tucking Crowley’s twisted up hair under his chin and smoothing his hands over his back and his face. Crowley’s arms wrap tightly around Aziraphale’s waist, and he squirms into the warmth and the softness beneath him. The relief is still coming in waves, his breathing still slowing incrementally as his heart does the same.
“You can relax,” Aziraphale says softly, into his hair, before he presses a kiss there. “You should relax.”
And Crowley does, breathes out and focuses in on the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand stroking down his back. He lets his muscles go limp and his mind go empty and he drifts, safe and content. He wonders for a moment what he’ll eventually do that will make Aziraphale tell him to stop, and then sinks into contemplating all the things he’ll be allowed to do before then.
He drifts and mumbles some sort of thank you, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s chest, and then he sleeps.
***
Consciousness takes a hold of him slowly, slipping into his skin and his mind, slowly dispelling the fog of a deep, restful sleep. Aziraphale’s still there underneath him, Crowley can’t feel the arm he has stuck between Aziraphale’s waist and the back of the couch, and there’s a stripe of his belly that’s chilly where his shirt his ridden up to expose it. His face is hot and his chest warm and Aziraphale’s still sitting there, beneath him, breathing steadily and petting his hair.
Crowley blearily blinks his eyes open to be met only with blackness that slowly gives way to enough deep blue-grey contrast to make out the bookshop around them. There’s no sound out on the street, not a single car or pedestrian passing them by.
Reluctantly, he pulls his arm free and haphazardly manoeuvres himself back to sitting upright besides Aziraphale on the couch. The brightness in Aziraphale’s eyes confirms that the angel hasn’t dozed off; he so very rarely chooses to. Voice heavy with sleep, Crowley asks, “What time is it?”
Aziraphale looks behind him, casting his eyes over to the grandfather clock that Crowley could just as easily have looked to. “Almost five,” he says, his own voice low and quiet.
Eyebrows raised, Crowley quickly does the math, approximating something like a ten-hour nap and recognising the patience and stillness that only an angel could have offered him, here on a couch of average comfort. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep on you like that for so long,” he grumbles, gripping his still deadened arm and trying to massage the feeling back into it.
“Why ever not?” Aziraphale asked, cracking his knuckles and stretching himself out a little.
Crowley gives him a pointed look. “Because it can’t have been comfortable or entertaining.” He wonders why Aziraphale didn’t at least seem to have grabbed a book to read, there are dozens within reach, both on the desk and the bookshelf behind them.
Aziraphale shrugs. “Well, no I guess not, but I wanted to,” and he puts extra emphasis on ‘want’.
Crowley doesn’t really have a retort for that and there is a settling weightlessness about him that makes him sure he’s going to want to sleep curled up with Aziraphale once more sometime soon. Actually, he can’t imagine sleeping alone ever again.
Aziraphale straightens his waistcoat as he stands up, shaking one leg and then the other. “You talk in your sleep, you know,” he remarks.
“I absolutely do not.” Demons do not dream, and they definitely do not talk in their sleep.
“Don’t worry, nothing salacious, just very lovely things, really,” Aziraphale teases.
Crowley glares at him and feels himself blush, then his lips curl up and contented hopefulness settles like warm honey in his stomach as he rocks up onto his feet, stretching his arms high above his head and wriggling his hips. “You must be starving?” he asks.
“Positively ravenous,” Aziraphale agrees, making sure Crowley sees him drop his gaze down to his lips and then back up again. Oh, that’s new.
“It’s almost breakfast time in Antwerp?” Crowley offers and it’s not quite the enticement he was tempted to make but he’s heard delectable things about the waffles from some trendy little shop written up in the weekend paper. It detailed dishes that he’s sure will excite Aziraphale, tickling his tastebuds. Crowley has already looked up the café's opening times and knows they’ll have soft seats, quiet corners, and waffles with fresh berries, ready to serve up at six am which is right about now.
Aziraphale links his arm through Crowley’s and gives a little shiver of delight. “Sounds scrumptious.”