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New York, 1925
“Crowley. Crowley!”
Crowley looked towards the insistent tug on his suit jacket, surprised. “Hallo, Aziraphale. What’re you doing here? Aren’t I supposed to be doing this job for you? Blessing that… politician man?”
“You are. But that’s not why I’m here.” Aziraphale looked around quickly with a harassed sort of expression, then grabbed Crowley’s hand and pulled. “I’m here to keep you out of trouble. I warned you about the dangers of this, and I was entirely correct.”
Crowley looked around the speakeasy. “Of blessing people? Not that Hell would be thrilled if they found out, but I really don’t think they pay much attention—”
“Not Hell! Humans! Police!” Aziraphale hauled more insistently on his hand, and this time Crowley yielded. “I don’t know what the Hell you thought you were doing, getting involved in bootlegging. I warned you. I really did.”
“They wanna arrest me?” Crowley asked, looking around curiously for the police. “Gosh. It’s not even like I’m famous or anything, I just drive a car—”
“Yes, well, you can drive a car somewhere that’s not going to get you shot or something.” Aziraphale wrenched a cupboard open. “They’ll be here any minute. Quick, hide in here.”
He propelled Crowley into the cupboard with alarming ease. It was kind of hot, honestly, although Crowley would never admit it out loud. He grabbed Aziraphale’s sleeve. “Okay. Okay. But you’d better hide too, right? They’ll probably raid the whole place, right?”
“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned deeply, studying the cupboard. “Well, there’s not really room for me, dear chap, and you’re the one in trouble. I’ll just—”
Someone banged on the door of the speakeasy, like they were trying to break it down. Crowley hauled Aziraphale into the cupboard and slammed the door behind him.
There really wasn’t enough room for both of them. They ended up crammed chest to chest, clutching at each other, neither of them remembering to breathe.
Crashing and banging and shouting echoed outside the cupboard. Aziraphale shifted a little, and he bumped into glasses that clinked together. Crowley hissed at him, and he stopped moving.
They remained still, holding onto each other in the dark. Crowley tried to listen to the chaos outside, to figure out when they could risk leaving.
But there was one, slight problem with the two of them alone in the dark. He couldn’t stop thinking about just how close he and Aziraphale were. How good Aziraphale smelled. How incredibly, mindblowingly soft he was.
Aziraphale’s hand rested on the side of his neck. Crowley leaned into the warm touch, and Aziraphale’s thumb drifted lightly across his skin. A tender stroke, one that left Crowley immediately and dizzy. He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling the need for air.
Which was ridiculous. He shouldn’t need air. Why was he being this affected?
One of his own hands rested on Aziraphale’s chest, right over the angel’s racing heart. His other remained tangled in the coat sleeve.
Crowley released the fabric now, shifting to simply hold onto Aziraphale’s arm. He squeezed gently, and Aziraphale sucked in a quick breath. “Crowley.”
“Hmm?” Crowley asked, doing it again. Touching Aziraphale made him as lightheaded as being touched, which was fascinating.
“I…” Aziraphale swallowed hard, the gulp audible even in the dark. “What precisely do you think you’re doing, you old serpent?”
“Holding your arm.” And nearly passing out from how amazingly good it felt when Aziraphale’s hand slid up, trailing across his cheek. “Why? Do you want me to stop?”
Aziraphale let out a quiet, strangled sort of whine. “No. I suppose not. Do you want me to stop?”
Plump fingers explored Crowley’s face, light caresses. He blinked away a few tears, overwhelmed. “Nonono. No. No. Don’t stop.”
For a bit, they just stood pressed together, fingers tentatively drifting. As Crowley risked brushing his fingers through soft hair, he wrestled with confusion. He’d known that he liked Aziraphale—probably even loved Aziraphale—but this was totally different. Overwhelming.
They were already crammed pretty close, but he wanted to cram himself even closer. And Aziraphale’s lips were so, so close, so close that he barely had to lean down to—
“This is a bit odd, isn’t it?” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley paused. Outside, the sounds of shouting continued getting closer. “You know, Crowley, I always thought touch was nice. But this is… I don’t know. It’s different.”
“Don’t exactly have that big of a sample size, do we? S’ not like we get to touch all that often.”
“I am perfectly aware that we don’t get to touch all that often. But it’s always just been nice before. It feels better than nice now.”
Crowley considered that. “Maybe it feels extra nice because we don’t get to touch all that—”
The voices outside neared the cabinet, and Aziraphale kissed him.
Every single thought process in Crowley’s mind ground to a screeching halt, then crumbled to dust. He melted into the kiss, pressing even closer to Aziraphale. Arms encircled him, squeezing between his back and the cupboard to hold him tight.
Crowley couldn’t wrap his own arms around Aziraphale—there wasn’t enough space—but he rested his hands on the soft curves of Aziraphale’s sides. Everything in him was now screaming to get even closer, as close as possible. Preferably without any clothes between them. In bed.
The first long, passionate press of lips yielded to something softer, slower. As the voices rose and fell outside the cupboard, Crowley and Aziraphale kissed in the dark. Exploring each other, delighting in each other.
When the voices moved away, Aziraphale gently separated the kiss. He sniffled a little, hand sliding up to massage the back of Crowley’s neck. He didn’t speak.
“Whooo-eee,” Crowley breathed. “Gosh. I. I. I don’t even know what to—”
“You shouldn’t say anything,” Aziraphale whispered, not managing to sound very stern. “They’re still out there, you know.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Crowley contemplated it as he listened to the footsteps, the conversation. “Wanna kiss more?”
“Certainly not.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered in nervous agitation, buffeting Crowley’s hair. “I was merely— I had to— I had to stop you from talking, that was all. You were going to get caught.”
He was absolutely just bullshitting—plausible deniability and all that—but genuine concern for Crowley’s safety ran through his voice. That protectiveness was really, unfairly hot.
“Wanna stop me from talking again?” Crowley asked hopefully.
Aziraphale did.
They kissed for much longer than was probably necessary, waiting in the closet until well after all the footsteps retreated and all voices vanished. Then, holding hands, they climbed out of the cupboard together.
Crowley grinned, and kept grinning. He grinned even more when Aziraphale gave him an embarrassed look, cheeks red.
Crowley squeezed his hand. “So. We’ll do that again sometime, shall we?”
“We most certainly shall not,” Aziraphale said primly, trying to straighten his clothes without letting go of Crowley’s hand. “Really, my dear. Shameful of you to… to tempt me into a situation in which I had no choice but to kiss you!”
It was hard, but Crowley resisted the urge to laugh. He nodded gravely and gestured, miracling a bottle of whisky from a hiding spot behind the bar. “Yup, you know me. Tempting.”
He grinned at Aziraphale’s increasing flush as the drinks poured themselves. Aziraphale tutted, then began to fuss over Crowley’s rumpled clothes. “There, let’s get you presentable. Otherwise, people will assume that shenanigans took place in the cupboard.”
This time, Crowley failed to suppress the laugh, but it was worth the glare he got in response. And all of this was worth the clarity and understanding that glided through him like a duck across a pond.
He was in love with Aziraphale, yes. Even better, Aziraphale was in love with him, too. And from now on, he suspected both of them would be on the lookout for cupboards to get trapped in together.