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Crowley’s relationship with smoking was an ever-evolving one, being picked up and dropped again consistently throughout his time on earth, and while the nature of this relationship is cyclical, it couldn't be blamed on any addiction. Crowley thought this an excellent perk to being a demon. Wasn’t all negatives, being damned.
He had first picked it up in the seventeenth century (a rubbish one at that, Crowley thought), the tobacco crops were thriving in England and he thrived on deliciously destructive habits, so he found himself a pipe. A dark and elegantly carved briar pipe, even going as far as to seek out a Dutch vendor. The stem was long and thin, narrower closer to the bright ivory mouthpiece. The wood contrasted nicely being stained obsidian, and the artist had taken obvious days to sculpt the steady lines that moved up the body. Crowley preferred the churchwarden style, found he looked ‘classier’ like that.
Crowley’s other timeless relationship, which happened to be a lot more addictive, enjoyable, and subsequently destructive, was Aziraphale.
Since his time in The Garden, he had started to become more in close proximity with a certain Angel , and during that time, the tobacco industry changed drastically. (Humans apparently got tired of holding their nicotine with the full five fingers necessary for a pipe, and decided two was just right. This caused cigarettes to become much more popular in the early to mid 1900’s and Crowley absolutely loved the convenience of it.)
Now, Aziraphale didn’t mind the smell of dried tobacco in its natural form, He’d actually observed for years the humans in the fields, polishing their art of cultivation; and watched the early humans work in harmony with the harsh landscapes, creating something beautiful. Sometimes, he’d sneak into the drying houses and breathe in the velvet aroma of the herbs. He was even delighted when 21st-century humans began adding it to candles. However, Cigarettes were another story. Tarry, pollutive, and the smell was too clingy for Aziraphale’s preferences. So, Crowley gave them up.
Because he wanted to, of course.
Business in the bookshop was glacially slow, as it usually was, which provided the owner with a convenient excuse to reorganize the surrounding shelves that, because of this constant droll, were already sorted alphabetically. A large Gustave Flaubert novel fumbled to the floor by a knee-bent Aziraphale, who scrambled across the day room to reach the phone.
He cleared his throat before picking up the phone, “A.Z fell and Company, Aziraphalle fell speaking.” He had decided that an intensely neutral greeting with a pinch of disinterest should ward off any paying customers.
“How do you keep that place open, angel?” The voice drawled deep, shoving buckets full of memories down Aziraphale’s throat. Cheek.
“Crowley, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The room was suddenly brighter, in a way that only Aziraphales’ beaming smile could achieve. His heart thumped at his ribs.
“‘ts my birthday today,” the demon said.
In the midst of human-affair meddling, both Aziraphale and Crowley had noticed many intricacies specific to mankind that they thought enough of to enjoy themselves. One in particular, were birthdays. A humans’ day of birth was a special day, a day they would spend doing whatever they liked best. The pair quite enjoyed this, as following through on personal whims was what they liked best. Aziraphale had been the first to become enamored with the idea. They had taken it upon themselves to spend their respective days with one another, as from what they had seen, they were no fun on your own.
So, they had birthdays.
Aziraphale made a slight swivel of his body to face the calendar at the giant circle with twenty-five in bold letters, little notes and scribbles bracketing the date. He softened, remembering the last birthday they had spent together. It was lovely, really. June in Italy was something for a museum.
Divinity was how their skin drank up the warm sun whilst pressed together on a wooden park bench. Aziraphale had cherished the way the wind swept through that fiery red hair, and treasured the moment Crowley had grown tired of it, forcing the locks through a rubber-banded bun. They chatted about the local kids and their games, the birds in the trees. Anything but how incomparable it all was to the other. Conversation had taken them to a nearby restaurant with a capacity for six in a quaint little town just outside of Tuscany. The memory of fond amber eyes peering over a champagne flute developed in his retinas like film. He loved to close his eyes to see them stare back at him. How those dark shades didn’t bother to hide blown pupils spreading over gold; he’d all but taken them off by the end unbothered and coaxed with bubbly, he let himself be vulnerable this way. With him. Seemingly mundane, it had all made him feel so…special, and given the chance, he would love to reciprocate that feeling.
Suddenly he felt the phone in his hands and his aching cheeks. An old feeling was defrosting inside him, like something that was supposed to stay frozen was melting rapidly and uncontrollably. He felt warm. Digits fumbled with the phone receiver, which was now more clammy than it was before.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Oh erm yes, yes it is! Do you have anything planned for today? Maybe strike a nuisance in a house of worship, or perhaps a bit of unauthorized temptation?” It was uncertain why he was offering up all of these devious suggestions; must have something to do with Aziraphale’s innate need to make those with self-proclaimed reprehensibility happy on their special day. He was also unsure why he was acting none the wiser about this. The moment the grandfather clock claimed midnight the birthday countdown began. Tiny hands ticked away until the ringing of the telephone summoned him like a perfectly trained show dog. Oh, Lord how he was wrapped around that devilish finger.
Perhaps that's why he agreed to the following proposal.
“Sumn’ like that,” Crowley said with a splintery smile. “I was thinking, we drink an awful lot and I, er, for one enjoy it immensely...” his words were seemingly confident to anyone that wasn’t Aziraphale, who aced his studies in, ‘The art of deciphering the demon: Are Your Best Friend’s/Wanton Lovers Micro expressions Speaking Louder Than Words?’. They wobbled around the edges, just slightly tossing around the words between his tongue before speaking. Nervous.
He continued. “And you know that I smoke sometimes and I know you’re not keen, but I was thinking."
Aziraphales nonchalant tone was desperate. “Yes?”
“Well,” Crowley purred into the receiver, “I was thinking we could put down the wine glasses and pick up the pipe tonight.”
A blonde brow dropped in confusion and a sturdy shoulder had taken over where his hand used to be, much like a mother who was washing dishes and disciplining her children in tandem. There was an anxious rearranging of his desk, with a confused look remaining painted on his face.
“My dear you know very well how I feel about modern tobacco, you know what King James said, ‘loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmf-’' he chattered away.
An amused puff of air crackled on the line, cutting him off. "Who said anything about tobacco?"
The ruffling of loose papers and spineless books slowed to a halt, like a physical recreation of the chaos in his brain quieting with the other’s words. His hand which wasn't stalled like an empty car shifted the phone back into its rightful position in his palm. "Crowley." Aziraphale's voice lingered in warning territory, a faux uncertainty bouncing at the back of his teeth.
On the other end, lengthy features were draped over the arm of a plush leather chair, legs kicking absentmindedly. His arms hung dramatically like a tree viper would a branch. “Come on! It’ll be fun, It just been sitting in the greenhouse really, had no use for it befo-”
Could never get a full sentence in with either of them.
“Yes, I believe that should work.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure why the words fell out of his mouth before he could grasp them, but by the grace of God, (No he didn’t want to bring her into this) they were. The demon's sharp features mirrored what the other felt inside; absolute shock. Aziraphale at his own lack of restraint and Crowley at his seemingly spectacular ability to persuade. There was silence on the other end for 3 very long seconds.
“See you tonight.”
_____________
Sure enough, by the time the sun had returned to its horizon and night took over, the soft notes of the gramophone were overshadowed by a chorus of the large wood doors and overhead bell. In the doorway stood uncharacteristically jolly Crowley, with a sleek black box in tote.
The box had resided in the depths of his master closet - a remarkable feat in itself. The demon had taken it upon himself to craft the most luxurious wardrobe no human, occult, or ethereal beings had ever dreamed of. At the beginning of his time on earth, he had dressed simply because he had to cover himself, had to blend in; it wasn’t until Greece that he saw some ladies experimenting with branches as headbands and found it quite cunning fashion-wise. He had fallen in love with clothing almost as much and as hard as he had for Aziraphale.
No. Not that much.
If one were to try to grasp the concept of “self Crowley” it would be beneficial to take a meandering stroll through his closet, and if they did, they’d find themselves wondering how and why they got into a couture-obsessed goth kids' bedroom.
Where the built-in storage allowed for a clothing rack were textures and styles of every runway, subculture, fashion week, and vintage shop one earth could allow for. One big symphony of black fabric. He sure had the time to collect; admittedly, other than smoking he did harbor other destructive habits like shopping that he wouldn't care enough to get rid of, hence the extravagant hand-crafted tobacco tools and a closet that would make Anna Wintour crumble.
Crowley had the box tucked away in a dim corner of said closet, neatly hidden behind a scarf and shawl display - which he kept to himself as a secret pleasure at risk of being softened in the eyes of others - and its contents, albeit retired by more convenient concepts, still held a great spot in his heart. The outside was glossy, obsidian wood with newly polished gold hinges that were loose with wear. The interior contained wine-red silk pressed into shallow grooves made to mirror the shape of the pipe. Neatly slotted next to it was a hinge-top apothecary jar filled to the brim with green and purple flower. Underneath it, you could find a handful of pipe cleaners, polishing wax, wee cloth rags, and other miscellaneous items deemed useful for smoking.
The pipe itself was one of his favourite items he owned. He had bartered for it around the 17th century at a market after spending hours prowling different vendors, that was until he had spotted a dark and elegantly carved briar pipe. The stem was long and thin, narrower closer to the bright ivory mouthpiece. The wood contrasted nicely being stained with ash, and the artist had taken obvious days to sculpt the steady lines that moved up the body. Crowley preferred the churchwarden style and found he looked ‘classier’ like that.
Pleather-clad legs strode past an intensive Aziraphale who was nestled at his main desk, unsurprisingly swimming in books, his eyes bouncing from line to line.
"Whatcha got there?" Crowley asked, eyes also bouncing, although more in confusion than studiousness.
The book was still pulling Azirpahales’ gaze downward, intent on scanning every last letter. “I will admit, I am not the biggest fan of..” He tore his eyes away and stared up at Crowley finally and lowered his voice while craning his neck to look for potential eavesdroppers, “..drugs.” his eyes widened to emphasize the last word.
The demon only bobbed his head in silent, comedic agreement, collapsing into a chair that Aziraphale had obviously bought for looks rather than comfort.
“So, well I was researching the properties of cannabis, and I’ve found myself quite fond of its effects on humans. Did you know that it treats diseases? And there are so many ways to, well partake, you could put it in cake Crowley. How wonderful is that? They truly get so creative with all that they’re given.” Aziraphale loved learning, and it shone brightly in his eyes when he spoke. He believed it to be one of the greatest gifts of all humanity.
“Do angels take edibles?” Crowley said, smirking at the righteousness regarding the situation. Aziraphale turned his head to eye at the other through his spectacles, obviously unimpressed.
“Just because I’ve begun running around with your likes does not mean I still don’t have.. morals.” Aziraphale detested.
“Hey- Hey, you enjoy running around with ‘my likes’ or whatever, and youuu..” he was now flinging a flimsy, intrusive finger in Aziraphale’s direction, “..seemed awfully keen to do this with me so..” the accusatory finger was now drawn back into an open palm, accompanied by raised shoulders as to say, ‘hey, I'm just telling it like it is’.
This back and forth was truly just for show, at least to Aziraphale's knowledge. Truth be told, he had been vibrating with excitement ever since he placed the telephone receiver back in its spot, almost immediately toddling over to his apothecary section and skimming the shelves, whispering book titles as his eyes flickered over them.
“Whatcha got there?” he repeated with a hint of mimicry to his voice, a calm and curious finger pointed in the direction of the sleek black rectangle that now sat on slender thighs. Crowley smiled white and seemed to slip into character, looking around his shoulders in a way that closely resembled the angel earlier. “Drugs.”
Aziraphale shot him a half-hearted glare. “Not funny you fiend, I am only trying to be cautious.” He snatched the box from the other's lap and his fingers grazed over smooth pleather. Crowley just let him, listening to his appreciative chatterings, silently hoping his blush-stricken face wasn’t too noticeable. He heard Aziraphale say something louder, in a tone that sounded important then noticed Aziraphale was now completely facing him, gaping. Not helping the blush situation.
“Oh, Crowley you must think terribly of me, I had no sweets or even balloons for you!” Aziraphale gasped, clasping his hands together.
“You don’t have to, it's not even-” Crowley stumbled, wanting to explain that he had everything he desired in front of him in tartan-wrapped gift cloth.
“Nonsense Crowley, you always make my birthdays so special it's the least I can do.” In a second the chair of the desk scraped backward and he exited the room, leaving Crowley to greet the bookshop properly, settling into the beautifully domestic setting around him. He replayed the words in his head. You always make my birthday so special. A pink sense of pride bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t long before Aziraphale returned, only this time his hands were occupied with a beautiful potted plant and a black balloon, looking as proud as ever.
“Did you really think I could forget, my dear?” Aziraphale said warmly.
An immediate smile of joy and bewilderment danced across Crowley's face as he was given the items. He got you ananthurium. A bloody anthurium. Kiss him.
“I thought this little one might fit in well with the rest- oh and please be nice. Happy birthday, my dear.” Crowley marveled at the medium-sized plant with its plumes of tall green leaves and crimson flowers, each with a white pistil that matched the ceramic pot it was planted in. It was truly lovely. The gesture almost made Crowley worry his eyes might turn into cartoon hearts at any moment.
Aziraphale shall never know that in the tar-colored haven of Crowley’s closet, every “birthday” gift, flower arrangement (however dried and brittle they may be) and trinket Aziraphale had ever bestowed upon him rested easy in a worn shoe box. Sometimes in the hiatus between their meetings, he would sneak in, like it was not his own flat, and marvel at its contents. For hours he’d sit and hold up each item with equal reverence and replay visions of his angel.
Kiss him now. The internal voice growled. “They’re beautiful, it’ll be a nice spot of colour.” He opted for instead, tearing his eyes away from the plant to face Azirapahle properly, “Thank you, angel.” he said, finding himself stuck in the gaze with his breath catching quickly. ”Ahem. Erm- I'm not quite sure what to do with this though.” He teased, putting the gift on the ground and raising the balloon in an obvious attempt to muscle past the tension.
Aziraphale leaned forward to take it from him, “I’ll take care of it, you just show me what you brought, dear.”
Crowley smiled lopsidedly once more. “Deal.”
_____________
The two-man smoke circle took residence in the living room, each on their respective sides of the sofa with Crowley relaxed into the cushion, limbs askew. He enjoyed the feeling of home the bookshop provided, something not even his expensive brutalist downtown flat could. Of course, he’d never admit it, for how many times he’d teased Aziraphale on his gaudy vintage taste, but he loved each hand-embroidered sofa, every oriental rug that looked older than them both, and all the strategic messes of books that littered the shop. Another thing he wouldn’t love to admit: Every time he flung himself through that doorway, usually with snacks and alcohol alike, he was enveloped in the feeling of Aziraphale. Of stability and kindness and warmth that no sun could dream of. Crowley felt it seep into his bones and live there.
“Want a whiff?” Crowley asked, extending the bundle of nugs towards the underneath Aziraphale’s nose, which was promptly scrunched up in disgust.
“And why would I want to do that, my dear boy? Is it not supposed to smell like…a smelly animal? I mean I have never encountered a skank but I assume that if they are comparable it would mean something negative.” he added.
A burst of high-pitched laughter escaped the other's throat, “It’s a skunk for Satan's sa..” he trailed off into his hands, which were attempting to soothe each crevice in his forehead. “Would you just bear with me here?” The container was now on the ground in front of them, who were now mirrored in criss-cross applesauce positions.
“You know how with different types of wine they encourage you to smell the notes of …honey or fuckin lanolin or whatever before you drink, and it’s daft but you do it anyway?” The question had simmered off into a personal vendetta Crowley had with idiotic ‘fine dining rules’, but nevertheless provided an explanation Aziraphale could relate to personally. This produced a slow nod, the cogs in his brain clicking to a resolution.
“Right, okay.” He continued, plucking a nug and holding it to eye level. “That's exactly like this, except you can actually smell the blasted notes instead of making the whole thing up.”
Aziraphale shifted in his seat, intrigued. “Alright then, may I?” Crowley returned the flower to the jar and placed it in his hands with a clink of a gold pinky ring. He shot a wavering glance in Crowley's direction before bringing it closer to his nose. It didn’t take much proximity for the powerful odor to take over his senses, Aziraphale's features once again falling into a grimace.
Crowley knew that face, it was one he wore when a stinky cheese passed his lips or he saw a dog-eared page. “It, it smells better the more you smell, promise, and if you don't want to angel of course we can open a nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape, There's gotta be one around here somewhere...” he began to shuffle around himself and was just about to bloodhound his way around the bookshop when he heard a loud familiar groan of approval.
The culprit’s head was stretched back in contentment, eyes flitted shut. He brought the jar up to his nose and just barely hovered over the flower. A deep inhale and it was now..sweet. Sweet like sugar marmalade and… and citrus! The flowers themselves were soft to the touch, his fingertips discovered.
The question of whether or not Aziraphale was enjoying himself stirred in Crowley’s chest but was quelled with a third and fourth deep breath and an obscene exhalation. "That good, huh?" Crowley mused while studying his face, one he had seen him make plenty of times while moaning around a forked patisserie in some restaurant they’d found during a walk around. He loved that face. Those sounds of pleasure, and it wasn’t like it was purely sexual, - although he couldn’t deny the way those appreciative noises controlled every inch of his body like a puppet - Crowley himself simply received an extraordinary amount of his own pleasure from Aziraphale’s happiness. Whether it was food or literature or his ratty old waistcoat, he’d made sure to pay notice to every ounce of splendor the other didn’t feel like containing. There was no need to eat the food or read the book or god forbid wear the waistcoat to find a reason to care why these things made Aziraphale happy, they just did, and Crowley liked it when they did. Happiness looked good on him.
The other simply hummed with contentment, his two hands still gently clasping the sides of the jar. Aziraphale suddenly felt a whisper of slender fingers on his, chilly to his own warm embrace. The drowsy lashes
fluttered open as he watched his own hands open, surrendering to others.
“I heard,” said Crowley, “That there might be another purpose for this, you know, other than potpourri.” and without looking away, he began grappling for the bowl which was now lying on top of the coffee table, which had gone through a particularly intense round of elaborate praise from Aziraphale when the box first opened:
‘Truly Crowley, this is beautiful! How have I never seen you use this before? Oh, my goodness, isn't this carving gorgeous? Oh!’
‘Don’t like to smoke in front of you.’
‘That's Cigarettes, Crowley you know that. Oh, how it wraps around there....’
‘Eh. I know. Still.’
‘This mouthpiece is exquisite. Where- when did you even get this?’
‘Ahh…ngk. Not sure. 1700’s I think. Marketplace. Somewhere around where that Shrek museum is now.’
‘The what?’
_____________
Crowly was elated. At last, they had gotten through the technical portion of the ‘How To: Guide to Smoking Weed’ which lasted quite a while due to the utter fascination held by Aziraphale towards terpenes, crystals, and proper smoking etiquette. Always been a stickler for etiquette, that one. The time-worn orchestra swelled in the background, offering noise during the otherwise silent ordeal of Crowley thumbing the bud into the pipe bowl.
Everything was set. “Are you ready?” Crowley’s voice is soft, much softer than the rough zip of the lighter.
Aziraphale nodded softly in response, his heart thumping louder with each completed step.
An orange glow fluttered closer. “I'll hold it for you okay?” The grip was gentle on the bowl, his breath violently steady while slowly guiding the mouthpiece towards Aziraphale’s lips.
With a breath, they parted slightly and welcomed him. “I um…Ill, I'll just hold this..erm…hole right here and you just..christ- suck.” He ended the sentence with a very real cough that just barely covered the prepubescent way his vocal cords betrayed him.
Another wordless nod of understanding.
“Alright.” Click. “Breathe in Angel.”
Plan lips rested perfectly on the edge of the mouthpiece, a dainty hand guiding its place between them. Here we go, he thought, looking up at Crowley for any sign of success. Only, Crowley wasn’t looking at him. His now almost black eyes were somewhere off in a corner, or maybe a random piece of carpet that looked interesting at the moment. Anything but what was in front of him. Azirapahle's mouth was slightly agape against the ivory and his expression was so..trusting and expecting, a scene much rawer than Crowley had expected to see him in.
After several long draws of milky hot smoke, a sudden wave of panic washed over Aziraphale as the idea of what would happen next was completely lost on him.
Crowley too, for fear of what he would say next.
“Swallow it.” He choked out.
Crowley tracked the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He listened. Good. Drifting slowly up, he followed the hollows of his throat, chin, lips...eyes. Fuck those eyes. He’s still staring at me. Shit, I-
A frenzy of coughs exploded before him, a plume of white smoke now wandering the air in proximity. Crowley moved quickly in shifting the lighter and pipe in his hand, which was still leaking trails of exhaust. “Eghk shit, that was a bit much for hit number one. Are you alright? I can nick a water bottle from the kitchen - why didn’t I do that first..” he fumbled with items around him as he spoke, scrambling on skinny legs like a fawn.
The brackish coughs were silent now, the angel’s head bent downward with a singular fist guarding his mouth. Glasses clinked and the tap flipped on and off quickly, light footsteps following suit.
He sat parallel with Aziraphale and placed the cup gingerly at his side. "Here, ‘ziraphale, drink.” Just then, the silence was broken by something other than worried mumbles. The voice was soft, intelligible to Crowley.
"What?" he asked carefully, moving closer to hear better.
That's when Aziraphale’s head swung forward with zero conviction and a novel lack of coordination.
The scene was unlike any other he had watched take place in the shop, and Crowley couldn’t get his lungs to work for reasons other than smoke inhalation. The smell of the withered pages was replaced by a more rugged one - complex and pungent. Thin, white trails caught in the various dim lights twirled around them, much like one would imagine ethereal essence. Crowley could taste it in the air through his serpentine tongue; the markings Aziraphale had left on the smokes atoms, the dance between flower and lungs.
Aziraphale’s hooded eyes blinked up at him, his growing bloodshot eyes pairing nicely with his blushed nose and cheeks. Blonde lashes fluttered with pure ecstasy, rapture in a new experience with a shy grin to show for it. His chest bounced with laughter and his smile, dear god his smile. Crowley adored the way his nose wrinkled with joy, or how you could barely see those beautiful eyes when his cheeks pressed against them. He finally got a breath out. No coherent words, but thankfully some air.
Those muffled words were louder now. “I said…” A cackle broke through the bookshop, unable to be contained by a slightly high Aziraphale. “...I might take this up while reading!” His expression was somewhat bashful with a sweet blushed smile and matching eyes- an alarmingly attractive take on looking fucked up, Crowley noticed.
A hiss of the burning leaves was the only response Crowley could muster because what he wanted to say was far different than anything that could be said. He wanted to beg Aziraphale not to eye him like that, with that sultriness-laden expression Crowley wasn’t able to bear. He wanted to cry and scream and kick childishly at all the stagnant love he had but couldn’t show. He wanted to reach out and wander, curious fingertips grazing over those now cherry lips. Oh, how full he was of want.
All that came out though, was thick smoke and a lopsided smile.
Not too long after they had settled in for the night, Aziraphale pulled himself upright, with a delighted grin on his face.“Ooh! I got nibbles! I completely forgot.” He gasped, wiggling up from his embedded position on the couch, throwing his legs over the correct face. Seconds later, a gilded tray with varieties of wee pastries and cakes, puddings, and snaps all neat as a pin appeared in front of him.
He gazed at them for a second. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this peckish before.” Curious fingers danced above them ultimately deciding on a dark chocolate truffle dusted in cocoa powder, and although small enough to be consumed in one swallow, was eaten with delicacy, much like everything Aziraphale enjoyed.
A short hour had passed and it was a wonder they could see clearly when making conversation, as the continuous passing of the pipe and even more, non-stop reloading of bowls had caused the bookshop to grow quite opaque. The record that played during Crowley's grand entrance was still sounding, stuck on a loop due to marijuana-induced negligence -like they’d even noticed.
Aziraphale had chosen the couch for his new ‘cozy spot’ as he called it, whilst Crowley still resided on the floor, one knee tucked against his body flush, and the other bent, snaking behind it. The various reading desks about the shop were now adorned with a truly egregious amount of snack trays and the like. The hoarding of sweets began after Crowley had asked Aziraphale what he thought his favourite food was, to which he only answered a weak ‘sashimi?’ and then immediately recanted the statement and listed a dozen other things instead. This snowballed into a, 'what's one thing you’ve never tried but have been dying to do?’ conversation, which Crowley did not have time to get into.
Before they knew it, the two were waving and snapping everything from American Jell-O cups to roasted exotic dinners on any surface that would fit them. Thanks to those handy aforementioned miracles, the room's clarity was back at square one, cleared by Crowley under the guise that it was rather hot. In all honesty, besides his glasses, he couldn’t stand anything that hindered that clear line of sight he had of Azirapahle. Although the growing heat of the room had provided the two of them perfect opportunities to show elusive bits of forearm and collar bone when removing pleather jackets and beloved waistcoats respectively.
Gorgeous.
Stunning.
The conversation lulled for a second, mouths too busy with various snacks to form words. Crowley was now trudging to the designated tarte desk on his knees like an excited toddler, his glasses now pushed up into his shoulder-length curls acting almost as a headband.
Idle eyes pondered the options, the flavors; lemon, miscellaneous berry, rhubarb, chard and saffron, fig and plum. The list kept on. Seriously, one would be dumbfounded at how much surface area of the room was covered with pastry dough. Content with his gathering, he shimmied across the hardwood toward the sitting area, a jumble of pies in his arms and one in his mouth being chewed rapidly.
“Aga’ taohrs” Crowley offered, gesturing the pile to Aziraphale, whose searching hand paused in mid-air at the incoherent statement.
“Chew, Crowley” His face maintained the expression of entertainment/bewilderment, despite his hands understanding the gist of what was being said and plucking out a mascarpone tart from Crowley's fingers - the only one he was holding in his palm. The dry pastries crumbled beneath his teeth, the filling making its way above his lip atop late-night stubble. A deep, pleasurable noise vibrated through him, loud enough to make Crowley vibrate himself yet leave the room unshaken. Scarlet curls did an involuntary toss backward at the idea, the other contexts of that sound. How that sound would feel in his mouth, how that sweet mascarpone flavor would melt on his tongue. Shit.
In response, he opened his arms above the table and let the pastries tumble from a reasonable height, letting the noise speak for itself. Aziraphale was done with the tart now, eyes now open with a ceremonious expression. Along with the stray cream that still rested right above his upper lip. Crowley noticed when he swiveled his body from the table and immediately gestured towards his own lip as a testament to good faith.
Aziraphale fumbled over the surrounding spot with his fingers, unable to find what Crowley was telling him.
"Here, let me.” Crowley volunteered, closing the gap between him and the couch. He took Aziraphales' face into his palm, his thumb wiping swiftly over the spot where the filling had been and absentmindedly taking the filling into his mouth, eliminating any evidence of clumsy eating habits.
Aziraphale’s breath audibly hitched in his throat watching the sight - Crowley, on his knees between his legs licking frosting off his lips, It had been the intimacy that made him shift in his slacks. Well, that and the physical embodiment of temptation that draped himself over his legs. Lord…
Angels were sexless unless they tried, a well-known fact yes, but it was also a fact that there was now a delicious-looking demon staring up at him, and the only thing he was trying not to do was let the image of nimble fingers working the buttons of his pants flood his mind, or if he could still taste the mascarpone on his tongue after- OH goodness. This needs to stop. Honestly, It was bad enough that you entertained those thoughts while bored and alone in the bookshop, but now he is here. In front of you…still staring at you. Say something so he doesn’t realize how hot you've gotten.
“H-um- was it good?” Aziraphale swallowed hard, his cotton mouth worsening with a now dry throat. Crowley hadn’t realized the extent of his actions until they’d happened. The copious amounts of weed were clouding every reservation he had about acting on his feelings, forgetting why he couldn't just slide his hands up Aziraphale's body, toe to crown. This may be why there wasn’t a thought going through that skull as he nestled himself between Aziraphale’s solid thighs, and perhaps negative two thoughts when virtually licking cream off of his face. The flavors of sugar and Aziraphale swirled on his tongue still and he reveled in it. Crowley despised how gooey he felt inside, and not the cool tarry kind. How liquid gold honey in a perfect cup of tea is gooey. Goddamn, molten lava cake sort of gooey. You daft bastard.
“Scrummy.” was all he managed with a weak smile.
Any worries there had been about Aziraphale not enjoying himself were found fruitless. Crowley had been surprised at the amount of times he had to tear the bowl out of his hands because Aziraphale was puffing on ash, oblivious and chattering away, (he was going into explicit detail about the instruments he heard on the gramophone - you know, the one that had been playing for hours?) constantly tapping Crowley’s shoulder in awe. Minutes passed and there was now a brief lull in the conversation.
“Do you want to know something silly?”
Crowley only jerked his chin upwards in response, a large puff consuming his mouth. “Whenever you phoned about this, us erm… erm..” he gestured vaguely around them, the marijuana clearly showing face. “Well I ran to read up but since marijuana is a new industry..sort of, I didn’t have any books on it - only medicinal properties and such…” Smooth exhale.
“Mmhmm” slower brain and an even slower nod.
“I had to use the internet...." A snort.
Oh no. “Since when do you surf the web?” Crowley asked dramatically, bringing his arms outwards into what appeared to be a surfing pose.
Aziraphale shifted in his position. The two had jumped around the small area of the living room for the past couple of hours during bouts of pacing, snack grabbing, and entertaining various what-if situations. This means that tartan-wrapped limbs were propped up almost vertically at the end of his beloved Chesterfield, knees hanging over the edge, baby blue-covered feet dangling distractedly. Meanwhile, his upper body was flat on the cushion, looking rather…ravished if Crowley could say so himself. Already disobedient curls were outright insubordinate atop his head and the outer layer of his ensemble had been draped across some other chair…its owner unbothered to know at the moment. Somehow, during all the efforts to get comfortable, the top two buttons of his waistcoat were now open, the fabric opening like outstretched arms. Lord, when did he find barely askew three-piece suits so tantalizing?
“Since you’ve turned me, innocent ol’ me,” He had one hand on his forehead to impersonate a troubled maiden, “ to a life of paraphernalia,” a laugh filtered through his sentence while he said it, earning a snort from the floor. “Anywho…I stumbled upon some very interesting things, to say the least.” Aziraphale carried on during professional hits of the pipe
and soft giggles.
There was a tradeoff of the pipe again, signaling Crowley to respond. “Angel, the internet is no place..” inhaled, “for someone like you, now that I know,” he concluded with a trick, pulling the smoke from his mouth up into his nostrils with ease.
Aziraphale reached out next in rotation, still distracted by momentary conversation, “And what, pray tell, does that mean?” he nestled his head sideways on the cushion, watching Crowley with those droopy eyes. Those videos he saw worked their way to the front of his brain while watching the smoke leak from his lips.
Hours into his research, Aziraphale had somehow found himself on a short-length film website titled, “Youtube”. After innocently typing ‘smoking marijuana’ into the search bar and hitting enter, he had opened himself up to a whole new world. Suddenly there was a deep dive into tutorials, story times and even something called a 'mukbang' that he may or may not have written down the name of for further inquiry; but there was only one that stopped him dead in his tracks. It was a video thumbnail of what looked like two people kissing with a trail of smoke fluctuating between them. At that moment something mischievous detonated in him that was too large to ignore. Unthawing became sharp cracks in the dam, fresh spring water that fell a thousand years ago spilled into his fingertips and cheeks and flooded his nerves.
His skin prickled in the memory.
A couplet of taps of the bowl on the ashtray pulled him to the present, where Crowley was still finishing his explanation. “...and I know the gaggle of demons that are behind it all - they work in the media department, sheesh I mean, I remember when we had a couple of infernal interns working on that hack job MySpace, and then some geezer came out with an Apple and poof! Did all our work for us, really.” A sprinkle of green fell into the bowl and they were off again.
“That was you?" Aziraphale gaped, leaning off the couch for Crowley to light the bowl. This was something that began as soon as they began smoking, and it simply never stopped. Aziraphale loved the gentleness of it all - how Crowley immediately passed him a newly prepared bowl without thinking, waiting for that slight nod of keenness before sparking, or the innocent upward look that was cast upon him that he felt guilty for imagining in another scenario. Did the marijuana make him like this? Absurdly..ahem, interested in anything the other seemed to do?
Crowley obliged, burning half of it in doing so. He chuckled, “Satan no, that is.. beyond my level of evil. They got the real heinous bastards on that job.”
Aziraphale paused when bringing the pipes to his lips, seemingly deep in thought. There was an expression on his face that Crowley couldn’t quite make out - nervousness and something else that was completely lost on him.
“What's up?” Crowley asked, propping one elbow on the coffee table to support his chin.
Aziraphale stayed put, forgetting to answer, instead having an intensive debate with the rational side of his brain on whether or not he should say anything, thus leading to vivid daydreams about the man in front of him aka long-term best friend/expected enemy and confidant, Anthony J. Crowley. I should probably say something. And he did.
“Oh, just something I saw earlier on the computer when I was researching. I thought you might know.” He hurriedly added in something about ‘shotgunning’ that seemed to carry Crowley's interest even further, a shining white grin appearing. It was a slightly knowing grin that something was being kept from him, however blissfully unaware of the context. “Well, anything you’ve seen on there is infinitely times worse than whatever demonic activities I’ve buggered you into, but what's up.” Aziraphale grew nervous at the situation he’d got himself into, and that the demon he was avoiding eye contact with was not one to let it go until he got an explanation.
There was a soft disagreement on Aziraphale's part before deciding to try his luck anyway and attempted to conclude the conversation by taking another hit, however, he found the effort futile- Crowley's interest was piqued now and he had to watch this train slide off the tracks and into horrible, tempting, bloody chaos.
“Come on, you can't just sum’ ominous like that' and then abort the mission.” he teased, taking the abandoned pipe into his mouth.
Aziraphale debated for what seemed like hours in his head, however, the hands of the clocks were conservative in their clicks. There was no way out of this, really. Crowley could sense the difference in the air when Aziraphale lied, and Angels weren’t supposed to lie anyway. Or fall in love with demons but that was trivial, really
You don’t know it could end badly.
His eyelids shut tightly this time with intent. Intent on being clear with his words and readying himself for what he was about to say. “Well…It's erm. So - it's funny really-” a string of aborted sentences fell out of his mouth, attempting to impersonate a response. This only caused Crowley to show more confusion, tilting his head as he did so. So much for being clear with his words.
Second try. “So it's....you simply…Okay, so I would take some smoke into my mouth right?” His eyes flickered down to where Crowley’s teeth held the bit solidly in place. His ginger head simply nodded along with the description, much like Aziraphale had when he had taught him earlier. He was still propped up on his elbows on the couch, looking dumbly at the worn decorative pillow.
“And I would...pass it to you,” he said finally, praying that it would clear everything up.
Crowley was even more confused now. “Well yeah, that’s how you smoke with two people. You pass the pipe ‘round.”
Azirpahale let out a weak laugh and looked back to meet his eyes, “No darling, I mean…I’d pass the smoke to you.” His face was in danger of catching fire.
The beginning of a sentence formed in Crowley’s mind but faltered away at the genius realization of what was being said to him. Passing smoke. Between lips, presumably. Immediately he knew what it would feel like to take that bottom lip unto his own, feeling the mild hazy air slither between cracks of skin. Already knowing the tenderness in which they’d kiss, how he wouldn’t stop himself from indulging shamelessly, slowly. How weak he was. All the desire, all that want bubbled to the surface in just a couple of words. But the sober, rational part of his brain told him he really couldn’t come right out and assume what he..thought he was…inferring. Ugh. There was an effort on his part to
be as nonchalant as possible but these sentences - even in context - were hard to get past.
“H-oh. Like blowing it in my face or whatever?" smooth, naive route. Idiot.
Aziraphale felt feverish. The blush that had set up camp on his neck was quickly taking over apple cheeks and that familiar button nose and showed no signs of relenting. Two eyes simply stared at the two others, visible gears clicking and grinding desperately in both brains. Was he going to make him say it? His stomach caught up with his face, butterfly-induced nausea blooming at the prospect. Fingers found the familiar gold ring on the pinky and loosely fumbled with it. Then he had an idea; a foggy, lousy marijuana-induced idea that thrilled him half to discorporation.
Why say anything?
Crowley was still watching him tentatively, somewhat nervous his suggestion might have been rejected, and the other was just trying to figure out how to let him down. Their eyes were still interlocked.
The dip in the couch leveled as Aziraphale relieved himself of his position above Crowley, shifting to wobbly knees to lower himself on the ground, dropping his gaze as he did so. The tangling of awkward limbs made it so there was little room between the couch and the coffee table, causing Crowley to shift his position from holding his knee as a comfort item to sitting on one hip, feet tucked nicely behind him. One hand scaffolded his weight and the other played nervously with the hem of his pants, waiting for a response. Aziraphale steadied himself against the sofa and stared at the pipe still in his hand, deciding to gesture lazily over it, white ash now green. Placing the pipe between his lips, he signaled Crowley again to light it for him with heavy-lidded eyes that had just a glint of hunger shining in them. Not even bothering to look for the lighter, Crowley produced one finger with a gentle orange flame and drew it to the bowl without breaking his gaze.
He saw the way Aziraphale coaxed the smoke into his mouth and kept it there; He felt the way Aziraphale’s pupils burned into his lips with their steadfastness, only to return moments later at Crowley's dark eyes almost most to ask: ‘Can we do this? Is this okay?’ And then there had been no asking, just doing. A silent communication that had been maintained since the dawn of their relationship.
A minute shift in a gaze and suddenly anything outside the two of them was rendered completely meaningless. They moved slowly, cautiously as the steady tide of smoke flowed from one mouth to the other. Their lips hovered over each other respectfully, both parting slightly in anticipation. They grazed softly, a couple of times, each touch electrifying. It was Aziraphale who sunk into the kiss first, taking Crowley’s bottom lip between his own, abandoning the pipe to cup his sharp cheekbone.
Crowley tried not to think about how fast his heart was being and if that was normal for humans when something like this was happening. The kiss was warm and sweet and caused an ache deep in his chest that reminded him of tattered wings and sulfur, undeserving, unforgivable. Almost as if to heal the other's unknowable wound, Aziraphale placed one hand over his thumping heart making tears spring from Crowley's tightly shut eyes.
They broke apart for as long as it took to suck in a breath before returning to a deeper kiss, one shaking and needy. The nimble fingers that rested on Aziraphale's cheek now cradled his neck in a desperate pursuit to stabilize himself. The exploration was new, and of course, he had imagined the cashmere feel of Aziraphale blonde tufts or the starchiness of his collar, but this was something neither could imagine. The feeling of the heat bouncing between their rosied cheeks Crowley would store in his memories forever like the trinkets in his closet. This was something incomparable; to heaven, to earth - to the carnal pleasures of the skin or the hungry desire of feast - it was love and glory reborn.
The hope stirred in him and he imagined a blissful scene of what could be their future. He could hear his lips chanting prayers in the ear of his own loving god. There were no muttered words of forgiveness. He imagined there was nothing to forgive.
_______________
It was almost a quarter to 4 a.m. and the west end was quieting down, apart from the occasional hum of a cab or drunk straggler. The sky above was a void but the streets stayed bright by closed business signs and empty without traffic. Save for the gentle and relentless classical music, inside the shop it was even quieter. The steady knocks of the clock were a reminder that time moves fast on the earth. Or was it slow? Aziraphale couldn’t tell with Crowley’s breath hot on his lips. Time ceased to exist entirely.
Crowley moved Aziraphale's head back slightly from where their foreheads were joined and placed a melting kiss above his brow before opening his eyes again. Even past the smoke and hazed vision Crowley could still see the minute expressions playing on Aziraphales features; so many, each more complicated than the last. His blue eyes shone with hot love and thick tears and a sob climbed out of his mouth from his feet.
It was Crowley’s arms that draped him entirely.
It was Crowley’s ribs he gasped for breath from and Crowley’s eyes he marveled into once he came up for air.
Aziraphales arms gripped him back, harder, clung to his hips like a man on a rope over fire. His voice was muffled and broken. “I….I don’t want- it’s not.” He broke again into a wet cry. “It is not the- it is not because I am intoxicated that I kissed you, Crowley. Well..you see we have known each other for a long time a-and for a long while now.. I have loved you Crowley-and it might be the smoking that permitted it…and I cannot…I will n..I would sooner fade off into the stars, where at least I could gaze into your likeness, than to be on this earth without you- you...” he shoved his face back into him.
Crowley’s own throat was raw from jagged sobs and he was soft when he spoke, “shh…” he said, “I-Aziraphale…come here, come sit with me.” pulled him to his breast. Crowley patted his hair gingerly, kissed his ear, and stared straight ahead. Aziraphale’s words were starting a fire in his head and his lips gaped dumbly.
Their hands found one another, letting their tears stream freely; they gazed at each other in new familiarity. “I..think She made me for you.. and you for me. Us for each other, I mean. I…I love you too Aziraphale.” Crowley trembled, gently lacing their fingers together.
Aziraphale marveled at the words. There was no way to know for sure what Her plans were, but it seemed closer to the truth than anything he’d known before.
And after years of arguing with Crowley about speculation of the Great Plan, he finally let himself join in. “Yes, my dear,” he responded, barely a whisper. “You are quite right.”
In this timelessness there were two men-shaped beings on the floor in a cluttered bookshop, clutching each other's jaws in complete earnest. Like It was the first and last time they’d ever hold one another, letting the weight of their words hang with the smoke in the air, allowing their bodies to melt into one another -to relax from the thousands of years of hiding. And the beauty is, if they chose, they could do this for thousands of years as well, and what a wonderful birthday gift that was.