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Chapter Text

Aziraphale Fell is an artist.

A pretty good artist, though not nearly as good as everyone else in this exhibition, he thinks moodily.

There’s Gabriel, whose portraits always look immaculate, capturing expression and features perfectly, and Michael’s landscapes that are almost photorealistic.

Aziraphale tries to do it like them, he really does. The opportunity of working and exhibiting side by side with such famous painters had felt like a one-in-a-lifetime chance but as he walks through the exhibition now, he can't help but compare each one of his pieces to theirs. On this one his perspective doesn’t line up perfectly, on that one he didn’t get the eyes quite right…

He doesn’t belong here, next to these masterpieces, he knows that. Gabriel has made sure of it. At the time, it had upset him but now, he can’t help but agree.

Aziraphale is feeling quite miserable by the time he gets to the last room of the gallery. 

He steps inside. Best to get it over with so he can go home and hide away with a good book for a while.

The last room is darkened and mostly empty except for a big canvas on an easel in the middle of the room which stands out starkly in the dim light.

Aziraphale steps closer, intrigued.

The painting, if you can call it that, is big, at least two metres wide and one and a half metres high.

There is paint on it, sure, big bold strokes and splatters in every colour. Aziraphale can make out acrylic paint, oil paint, gouache and something very textured he thinks must be self made, since he’s never seen anything like it. There are markers, coloured pencils, spray paint and then there are things that you wouldn’t find in any art store.

Cut newspaper pieces, rags of fabric, various small household objects and even sequins are glued, pinned or taped to the canvas. The piece is cluttered in the middle and then spreads outwards, some pieces even extending over the edge of the canvas. It evokes the impression of an explosion.

On top of that, there’s a projector hanging from the ceiling, seemingly broken, because all it does is project flittering specks of light onto the piece and the surrounding walls. 

Strange noises, low humming, static-like buzzing and high bell-like sounds, fill the room, giving it an eerie atmosphere, mostly because Aziraphale can’t quite make out where they’re coming from. They seem to just exist in the air somehow.

He stands in front of the piece for a long while, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be and coming up empty.

‘Creation’, the card reads, ‘mixed media on canvas; Crowley’

Aziraphale shakes his head, bewildered, and turns to leave, when he suddenly hears a voice beside him.

“D’you like it?”

Aziraphale turns to see a man standing next to him, with a pleased look on his face. He hadn’t even noticed him, so absorbed had he been in trying to figure out the… thing before him.

The man has long, wavy red hair, put up in a half bun. He is dressed casually, entirely in black, and wearing expensive looking sunglasses, which really seems a bit ridiculous given the dimness of the room.

“Well…”, he answers, a little too late, “well, I mean, it’s not-“ Aziraphale stumbles over his words, trying to somehow phrase this politely. “I’m not sure- you see, I'm not sure exactly… what it’s supposed to be?”

The man laughs.

“Creation”, he says simply, as if that explains anything.

“Yes, I saw that, but- what is it?”

The man smiles proudly at the piece and then turns to Aziraphale.

“Well, it’s supposed to be the birth of a galaxy. Matter, colours and light all coming into existence in this explosive, beautiful moment. I mean, that’s what art is about, right? That moment, that feeling of creation- and what it does to you. You know, that feeling, when you have so many ideas a canvas can’t hold them all.” 

Aziraphale is fascinated.

“You made this?”, he asks.

The man, Crowley apparently, shoots him a grin.

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot to introduce myself.” He holds out a hand. “Crowley. My pleasure.”

Aziraphale shakes it. “Aziraphale Fell. I have some pictures in the exhibition as well.”

Crowley nods. “Yeah, I saw them. They’re nice.” 

Somehow, he doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. Aziraphale frowns. He knows he isn’t as good as the other artists exhibiting here, but it still hurts a bit to hear it from someone else.

“What’s the noise?” Aziraphale asks, changing the topic. “And, uhm- where’s it coming from?”

Crowley’s face lights up again, at least the part of it that Aziraphale can see. It makes Aziraphale smile despite himself.

“The effect is good, isn’t it?” Crowley answers, “It’s the sounds that planets make. There are a bunch of speakers hidden in the piece and in the room. It’s supposed to invoke this sort of all-encompassing feeling, you know? So you’re not sure where the piece ends, ‘cause it’s everywhere.”

“Ah”, Aziraphale says, as though he’s understood any part of that. “And the lights are the stars?”

“Something like that. It’s really not about what it is, though, is it.”

“Of course”, Aziraphale agrees, having not the slightest idea what Crowley is talking about.

“Right”, Crowley says, “I should get going. Was nice meeting you.”

He smiles at Aziraphale, a crooked grin, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile back.

“Nice meeting you too”, he says sincerely. “I do hope we get a chance to talk again.”

Aziraphale stands there for a long while after Crowley has gone, absorbed in the artwork. It really does feel like the piece is endless somehow. Like he’s standing inside of it, almost as if he’s a part of it and it of him. Aziraphale can’t quite put his finger on the feeling. 

Creation.

It really is beautiful.

——

Aziraphale makes himself a cup of hot cocoa and then puts on some music on his old gramophone. He settles into his armchair, ready to reread one of his favourite books and forget about the disappointing day for a while.

It's only when he reads the same sentence for the fourth time in a row that he realises it’s been half an hour and he hasn’t gotten further than three or four pages because he keeps getting distracted.

Aziraphale can’t stop thinking about ‘Creation’. Or Crowley.

Unusual not to use his full name. He wonders what his first name is. Or maybe it’s a pseudonym.

This kind of art is really not his scene, usually. People like Gabriel and Michael are and just like them, he’s often shaken his head about these so-called ‘abstract artists’. All they seem to do is paint a piece of paper blue and call it a masterpiece. He’s never quite understood what he’s supposed to be impressed by there, let alone what the creators are apparently trying to tell him. 

So why is he so fascinated by Crowley’s piece? It’s really not much more than a bunch of random materials and colours on a canvas and recorded sounds to go with it, so why does it feel so… Aziraphale can’t seem to put it into words.

With a sigh, he gives up and puts away his book, then sits down in front of the computer that his sister had insisted he needs. He hadn’t agreed, but she had said that an online presence might help with his so far limited success and he had caved pretty quickly to avoid a tedious argument. Uriel was always so practical, and there was no room for discussion once she had made up her mind.

Crowley has a website, of course. 

It’s as colourful as his art and every bit as confusing.

He clicks on ‘Portfolio’ and a slideshow of Crowley’s recent works pops up.

There’s ‘Creation’, his newest piece, and then there are other installations and art pieces, including a three metre high metal sculpture in the middle of a garden somewhere. 

All of them are bursting with colour and different materials and none of them seem to depict anything specific, at least nothing Aziraphale can make out. They have strange forms and stand out starkly from their surroundings, calling attention to themselves almost as if alive.

They all, too, have similarly cryptic names that don’t seem to have any connection to the piece itself. ‘Empty’, ‘Light’, ‘Memory’, ‘Space’ are some, then there are untitled ones and others described simply with a few nonsensical letters or numbers.

For a few minutes, Aziraphale scrolls through the picture gallery and tries to puzzle some of them out. He doesn’t get very far.

Aziraphale shakes his head, confounded, and clicks on ‘About the Artist’ next.

At the top of the page, there’s a photograph of Crowley himself. In it, he’s leaning casually onto a spray-painted concrete wall and looking away from the camera and into the distance with an unreadable expression. At least, Aziraphale assumes he’s looking away, it’s difficult to tell with the dark glasses he’s wearing. Besides that, he’s wearing a black leather jacket, tight-fitting black jeans and a shirt that seems to be missing a few buttons. His hair is long and wavy and almost flaming red in colour and falls loosely over his shoulders. Next to his ear, there is a small tattoo that Aziraphale can’t quite make out.

In the dim light of the gallery he hadn’t had the chance to observe Crowley properly, but now it’s impossible not to notice how handsome he is. It might just take Aziraphale a few seconds too long to scroll past the picture and onto the text beneath but then again it’s only natural to be curious, he supposes.

‘Crowley’, the short text says, ‘is a twenty-seven year old queer London-based conceptual artist. Bold, creative and not afraid to stand out and explore new definitions of everything art can be, his style is characterised by the combination of traditional mediums and individual ideas, creating striking abstract pieces that fascinate and produce lasting impressions.’

That really doesn’t help Aziraphale at all. Is it the intention of these modern artists that nobody understands what they’re actually doing? He wouldn’t put it past them.

There’s another option though, ‘Upcoming Exhibitions’. Aziraphale clicks on it.

The next date for an opening event highlighted on the pop-up calendar is in only a week’s time. Aziraphale knows the name of the gallery. It’s a fifteen minute drive, at most.

He really shouldn’t go.

He can’t go, actually, because he has another session with Michael that day and after the humbling experience today he really should focus on learning as much as he can from the two experts before the collaboration is over. Aziraphale feels something in him already wincing at the thought of another lesson with the perpetually annoyed painter who clearly regrets agreeing to the partnership but he really needs the help, he reminds himself. It doesn’t make him feel better. 

Aziraphale sighs and closes the web browser.

It would have been nice to get to know Crowley more.

Maybe when this collaboration is over.

Or not, Crowley probably won’t even remember him by then. The perfectly average artist whose perfectly average pictures he glanced at for a few minutes and who he politely chatted with for a few more.

No. Not a chance. 

Aziraphale sighs, feeling as miserable as he had at the beginning of the day and lays out his materials. His time is probably better spent improving his skills than moping over a fascinating stranger he will in all likelihood never see again.

——

In his big, barely-furnished flat, Crowley lies on his couch and broods. 

The exhibition had gone well. He’d been exceptionally pleased with the atmosphere his piece had created. Everyone had talked in hushed voices and most visitors had stayed in the room for quite some time, studying his artwork with undisguised interest. Exactly how he had imagined it.

He’d had some pretty interesting conversations with a few guests as well, who he could tell had appreciated his contribution as a contrast to the rather stuffy traditional paintings filling up the other rooms.

‘But what is it?’

Crowley chuckles, remembering the curly-haired and very confused little man he'd talked to at the very end.

Aziraphale Fell, what a weird name. Maybe it’s an allusion to some classical bloke or other, like that Michael A. person who had named herself after Michelangelo of all people. What a pretentious bunch of conservatives.

Sure, they can draw and paint well but there is nothing in their pieces. Crowley had finished with the exhibition in less than twenty minutes. He might just as well have spent them on his phone, searching ‘landscape’ and staring at the first forty pictures Google provided. But if that means that his piece stands out more, then, well, he’s not going to complain.

The next exhibition is on Saturday and for once, everything is ready. It had been a smaller scale project but he is proud of it regardless.

He wonders what Mr Fell would think of it. He’d probably just furrow his eyebrows in that adorable way again and pretend to understand so as not to seem impolite. Crowley almost hopes he’ll come just so he can talk to him again and find out what he makes of his newest piece.

‘Idiot’, he reprimands himself. The fact that he is apparently interested in some curly-haired soft little cherub-man he talked to for less than five minutes is really not agreeing with his pride.

And besides, Aziraphale won’t come. He’s probably laughing with Gabriel and his group about the ‘weird guy who thinks what he’s doing is art’ or something right now. 

Crowley sighs and gets up, suddenly rather more annoyed than he’d felt a few minutes ago.

Bunch of fucking conservatives.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale goes to the exhibition. 

It takes him four days of debating and reasoning with himself. When he wakes up on the fifth day and finds he has actually dreamed of colours, stars and planet noises, he calls Michael, who doesn’t seem all that upset by the news that their Saturday session is cancelled.

After ending the call Aziraphale feels lighter than he has in a long time.

He arrives at the small gallery a little too early and unaccountably nervous. For a while, he stands around awkwardly in the entrance hall, wringing his hands together and trying his best to blend into the wall.

Eventually the young employee waiting at the door takes pity on him.

“Hello!” she greets him, smiling brightly.

“Ah, hello, uhm…” Aziraphale looks at her nametag.

‘M. Reed’, it says, ‘art handler, they/them’ He mentally corrects himself.

“Muriel!”, they say, beaming, “wonderful to meet you!” They hold out their hand enthusiastically and Aziraphale shakes it.

“Nice to meet you too, Muriel.” Their excitement is contagious and he can’t help but smile back at them. “Aziraphale Fell. Are you an intern here?”

“Oh no, it’s a part-time job. I usually just help hang up the paintings and so on, but we’re short on staff, so I get to show people around today!” They grin at Aziraphale. “I’m an art student”, they add.

“Ah”, Aziraphale says, approvingly, “I’m an artist too. I actually exhibited here, what, four years ago?”

“Oh! That’s fun. I haven’t heard of you. I didn’t work here then”, they explain matter-of-factly. Aziraphale has to suppress an amused smile. 

“Do you know an artist who calls himself Crowley, by any chance?” he asks.

“Of course! You’re lucky! He exhibits here today actually”, Muriel answers.

Aziraphale suppresses another smile. He already likes them more than any of the artists he’s worked with so far. Not that that says much.

“Yes, I know that, dear. That’s why I came. I just wondered if you knew anything about him.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. Of course.” They chuckle, embarrassed, then straighten up and grow very serious. “Well, yes, obviously. I’m a gallery attendant, after all. Crowley is twenty-seven now, he’s been exhibiting since he was eighteen and he’s been pretty well known in his scene for about five years now. He’s loosely associated with this sort of punk, anarchist street art and conceptual art collective, ‘The Fallen’, but he isn’t really a part of any group. He’s just kind of doing his own thing. He uses a lot of different materials and colours, that’s mostly what sets him apart from ‘The Fallen’. There’s not much else known about him, he’s a pretty mysterious figure actually. No one knows what his actual name is or where he came from.”

That sounds exactly like the kind of biography Aziraphale had expected.

“Thank you, that’s very interesting”, he says. “You’re very well informed.”

Muriel beams. “You think so? I mean- yes, of course.” They clear their throat awkwardly.

“Do you like his art?” Aziraphale asks them.

“Oh, I think it’s brilliant! It’s so fun! So much stuff I’d never have thought of. Do you like it? Oh, stupid question, sorry, you said you came here for him, right?”

“Not a stupid question at all, my dear. I saw his last piece at the Gallerie Rossignol and I was- well, intrigued. I wanted to see another one.” ‘And I wanted to see him again’ is what Aziraphale doesn’t add.

Muriel takes a look at the art deco clock on the wall.

“Oh! It’s starting!” they exclaim. “I have to get back to my post! Bye-bye, Mr Fell! Have fun!” Aziraphale waves at them as they rush back to the door.

The guests start to come pretty quickly after that and Aziraphale lets himself get swept up in the crowd. He wanders around the gallery for a while, dutifully looking at all of the artworks and pretending he isn’t itching to just skip straight to Crowley’s piece.

Aziraphale walks into the next room and is immediately drawn to an arrangement of sculptures in the middle of the room. Finally. This must be it.

The sculptures are about a metre high each, strangely shaped and made of different materials. One consists of metal sheets and mechanical parts nailed together, looking quite spiky and dangerous and partially spray-painted with bright red. Another one is made of various plastic pieces and objects, bottles, bags and wrappings all glued together, painted a sick shade of yellowish white with what looks like oil paint. The third is composed of wood, old furniture parts, boards and tree branches and the fourth of broken glass bottles, test tubes and shards of glass. The fifth sculpture stands in the middle and is made of clay.

Aziraphale probably shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. He understands the piece about as much as the others on Crowley’s website, which is to say, he has not the slightest idea what he’s looking at. If only…

“It’s you again.”

Aziraphale’s heart jumps at the familiar voice.

“C- I mean, Mr Crowley! What a pleasure to meet you again!”

——

Crowley is fashionably late to his exhibition.

He parks his car, a black vintage Bentley, outside the gallery and hurries inside, brushing off the brightly smiling attendant with a short greeting. Quickly, he walks past the other artworks towards his room. As he passes through the doorway, he suddenly freezes.

Looking very intently at his sculptures, there’s a man with white-blonde curls and a fussy beige suit.

Oh, come on.

“It’s you again”, he says as he saunters up to him and hates that his voice sounds pleased.

The man turns in surprise and smiles at him brightly.

“C- I mean, Mr Crowley! What a pleasure to meet you again!”

Aziraphale is apparently genuinely trying to act astonished at encountering him in his room of the gallery in front of his art piece of all places. Crowley despises himself for finding it charming.

“It’s just Crowley, actually”, he explains, “It’s my first name.”

“Oh. Sorry”, Aziraphale apologises, and then adds, carefully, “That’s an… interesting first name.”

“You’re one to talk”, Crowley retorts and Aziraphale chuckles.

“Point taken. My parents are rather… old-fashioned. Very catholic. We’re all named after biblical angels.”

Crowley sputters. “Jesus Christ. Conservative much?”

“I’m afraid so”, Aziraphale answers, his smile noticeably dimmed.

“I chose it”, Crowley says after a beat. He isn’t sure why he’s telling Aziraphale this.

“Excuse me?”

“My name. Thought it sounded cool, unlike the one I was given.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is silent for long enough that it begins to make Crowley a bit uncomfortable. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“So, what do you think of this one?”

Aziraphale’s gaze snaps back to him. “It’s… interesting. I think- well, it’s-” He furrows his brow again and Crowley immediately curses himself for finding it cute.

“The one in the middle is a human. Right?”

Crowley’s mouth falls open in surprise.

“Yes! How did you know that?”

Aziraphale lights up. “Really? It was just a guess. I suppose it reminded me of Adam and Eve, being built up out of clay and all that.”

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d think of that. You’re right. And the others?”

Aziraphale looks, hard, for a few more moments, then sighs and gives up.

“I have no idea. What are they?”

“You should know them. There’s four of them. Look at the title.”

He leads Aziraphale around the arrangement to a little metal sign.

“‘Revelation’”, Aziraphale reads, “Apocalypse and all that… Four… four- the four horsemen?”

Crowley nods, impressed. It seems he’s underestimated Aziraphale.

Aziraphale beams at him. “Which one is which? No, wait, let me guess… War is… the metal one, I think.”

“Right again. That one’s obvious.”

“The glass one… That might be Famine? All the empty bottles.”

Crowley whistles appreciatively.

“I’ve no idea about the other two, though”, Aziraphale admits apologetically.

“Pestilence is the plastic one”, Crowley explains. “I interpreted it more in an ‘environment and pollution’ sort of way, since disease isn’t really the thing most likely to end the world right now.

“Death is the wooden one. ‘Cause it’s dead. I mean, it was alive once, the tree I mean, but it’s been killed to make the sculpture. They’re all dead, but that one’s the only one that has actually died.”

Aziraphale is silent for a while, reflecting. Crowley gives him a moment.

“You are remarkable”, Aziraphale says then, “I’d never have thought of that.”

Crowley can feel his face heating up and quickly looks away. “‘S’ nothing”, he says, aiming for cool and unbothered and landing somewhere between sheepish and bashful. Stupid. All of this is stupid.

“But it is! I’ll be thinking about y- about this for the whole week, I bet.” Aziraphale blushes. Crowley wants to slap himself for finding it cute.

“Do you… do you maybe want to get coffee after this?” he hears himself ask.

Aziraphale's smile is like the sun, just as bright and just as blinding, and Crowley can feel himself metaphorically stumbling.

He is not going to fall, damn it.

——

They buy coffee and a cinnamon roll for Aziraphale at a nearby café and sit down at one of the outside tables. The weather is beautiful, warm but not too hot, with a pleasant breeze, and the little town square is quiet for the time of day and looks almost picturesque.

It’s nice.

Crowley had spent the rest of his time at the gallery regretting the invitation, alternating between wanting to tell Aziraphale that he actually has a previous engagement he forgot and worrying about what to say or do if he does decide to go with him.

But, now, he has to admit, it’s nice. It’s easy.

It’s easy to talk to Aziraphale. Easy to make him laugh. Easy to laugh with him.

There’s a bubbly and warm feeling slowly but surely spreading in Crowley’s stomach that he staunchly refuses to acknowledge.

Aziraphale laughs, bright and joyful, and as Crowley watches him sit there, his curls fairly glowing in the sunlight, he can’t help but think that Aziraphale’s name might actually be more than appropriate.

Angel, indeed.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale feels lighter and happier than he has in a long time when he finally drives home. His cheeks almost hurt from smiling so much the entire time and, even now, he can’t quite seem to stop.

He’s still thinking about Crowley, when he arrives at his flat.

Aziraphale likes the name more and more. Somehow it seems very fitting. What had Crowley said?

‘I chose it. Thought it sounded cool, unlike the one I was given.’

Aziraphale had thought he recognised something in the way Crowley had said it, a note of barely hidden hurt and bitterness, a hint of a history Aziraphale knows all too well himself.

So he had said nothing. He wishes he had, now, it’s obvious he’d made Crowley uncomfortable with his silence but he can’t think of anything meaningful he could have added.

Some things just can’t be fixed by talking. Sometimes things are just the way they are and there is nothing one can do about it.

As if to prove his point, Aziraphale‘s landline phone rings.

Initially, he’d liked it more than his mobile phone but Uriel had told him that ‘no one has a landline anymore’ and besides, he’s out of the house quite often anyways.

Now, there’s only one person left who still calls his landline phone.

“Hello, mother.“

The voice on the other end of the line is sharp and annoyed. “I have been trying to reach you all day, young man! Where were you?“

Aziraphale resists the urge to tell her that he’s almost thirty. Better to keep the conversation as short as possible.

“I was at an art exhibition, mother, and then I went to a café with a fellow artist who I met there.“

“Don’t you have work to do? Weren’t you getting lessons from that lady?“

Aziraphale sighs.

“They’re not lessons, it’s a collaboration. And no, I cancelled today‘s session.“

“Cancelled? To go sit in a café with another one of your type? No wonder. You’ll never make it to anything like that.“

Aziraphale tenses. He can sense where that argument is going.

“Don’t you think it’s time to stop with this ‘artist‘ nonsense?“

There it is.

“I mean, it’s not like you’re getting anywhere, is it. And, well, it’s hardly a real job, is it.“

Aziraphale groans in frustration, inwardly of course. So much for keeping the conversation short.

On the other end, his mother drones on and on but he’s hardly listening anymore. He’s heard it all before. Every time she calls it’s only to criticise him, no matter if it’s his choice of profession or company, or what he ate for lunch or the way his voice sounds. He doesn’t remember ever having a pleasant conversation with his mother. Uriel, Saraqael and his father aren’t much better but, in their favour, they’re at least content to ignore his existence most of the time and leave him to ignore theirs. 

Aziraphale‘s mother takes a breath and he quickly takes advantage of the pause.

“What is it you wanted to talk about, mother?“

“Hm? Oh, right. I need you to take care of my houseplants for the next four weeks. Your father and I are going to Venice.“ 

“Sure, I can do that“, Aziraphale sighs, hoping against hope that that means the conversation is over.

“Good. Make sure you water the yucca plant enough. And don’t forget the garden.“

“I won’t, mother. Anything else?“

“Think about what I said. It would do you good to consider my advice for once. Maybe your situation would be different if you had listened to me when I told you…“

“Yes, yes“, Aziraphale quickly interrupts before she can get started again, “I‘ll think about it. Goodbye, mother. Give my greetings to father.“

“Goodbye, Aziraphale“, she answers. Every time she says his name he can vividly picture her shaking her head in disappointment. 

Aziraphale hangs up the phone and buries his face in his hands.

Why does she always have to be so… so difficult? Why can’t she ever be happy for him? Today had been so fun and he had been so happy to see Crowley again and when Crowley had asked to spend more time with him... 

Aziraphale thinks of all the things he didn’t tell her.

The things he could never tell her.

Like how he had met Crowley once and had immediately cancelled all his plans for the chance to see him again. How, when he had talked to Crowley and laughed with him, everything in the world had been alright for a while. How just thinking of Crowley makes his heart beat a little faster and his head fill with a fuzzy warm feeling that makes him want to do stupid things, like call Crowley immediately on the number he’s given Aziraphale upon their parting.

But he knows she’d never accept the real reason why she will never have the daughter-in-law she’s always asking about.

So he doesn’t.

Sometimes things are just the way they are and there is nothing one can do about it.

——

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Bee’s voice sounds irritated, which doesn’t really say a lot because they almost always sound that way.

“Nothing, nothing”, Crowley sighs and puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Nothing, ssure, is that why you’ve been staring at your phone every five minutess for the last hour?”

They have a funny accent, Crowley has never been sure what kind, that becomes stronger when they’re genuinely annoyed.

“I haven’t been staring at my phone every five minutes!” he defends himself.

“Yess, you have!” There are murmurs of agreement from the group.

“No, I haven’t!” Crowley repeats, voice slightly raised, “Mind your own fucking business!”

“Touchy, much?” Bee remarks dryly and the whole group snickers.

“No, I’m n- ah, whatever, you’re not gonna let this go, are you.” Crowley sighs. “There’s this guy I gave my number to, met him at the exhibition today. That enough?”

Bee scoffs. The rest of the group echoes them.

“What, and now you’re waiting for him to text you like a lovesick puppy? Fucking embarrassing.”

Bee’s name isn’t actually Bee. It’s Beelzebub. Legally. Crowley had called them Bee as a joke once and they had gotten so furious that he hasn’t stopped doing it since.

They’re the leader of ‘The Fallen’, an art collective exclusively made up of very punk, relatively anarchist and at least a little bit genderqueer artists who like to spray-paint walls and trains with political slogans, put up art installations in high traffic areas and make a general nuisance of themselves everywhere they go.

Crowley isn’t part of it but he’s known Bee for quite a long time and apparently his artstyle is chaotic enough to earn him at least a little respect from the self-proclaimed rebels assembled here. That, combined with his queerness and his general air of sarcasm, had made him fit right in when Bee had introduced him to their friends.

It isn’t that he likes them, really. Excluding Bee, they’re really not the most intelligent of people, which at least makes hanging out with them slightly funny, but really, it’s mostly that he just doesn’t have anyone else to talk to.

“Jusst fucking text him.”

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“What part of ‘not your fucking business’ do you not understand, Bee?“

Bee grabs his collar and yanks him towards them. “Do. Not. Fucking. Call me that!” they hiss.

Crowley grins. “Call you what?”

Bee groans in annoyance and lets go of him.

The truth is, Crowley wants very much to text Aziraphale. Ever since saying goodbye to him earlier, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him, about that stupid angelic smile or those ridiculously beautiful curls or the way Aziraphale laughs or how easy he is to talk to. The way he makes him want to talk.

He’d been surprised and not a little irritated at himself when he had told Aziraphale about his name, just like that. There is something about him that makes Crowley want to bare himself to his light, to lower all his carefully built walls and let himself spill out into his arms.

It’s unnerving. It’s dangerous.

So Crowley is reluctant to text him.

Or, rather, he’s trying his hardest not to text him. It really isn’t working as well as he would like it to.

——

Aziraphale’s phone dings.

He puts down his paintbrush and eagerly unlocks it. His heart does a complicated little flutter at finally seeing the name he’s been waiting for on the screen and he opens the message quickly.

‘Hi’, it says, ‘it’s Crowley. Was nice talking to you today’. There’s a little smiley at the end.

Aziraphale texts back immediately.

‘Hello Crowley! I had a lot of fun today! It was delightful to talk to you! How are you? I was just painting when you texted. -Aziraphale’

The answer comes quickly.

‘I’m good’ (a thumbs up emoji) ‘what are you painting?’

‘Just a commission. Someone’s little daughter. She’s quite adorable! -Aziraphale’

‘You don’t need to sign your name, I know it’s you. This isn’t email’

‘I’m afraid I’m not very adept at technology. I’m a little old-fashioned, you see.’

‘Are you? I would never have guessed’

‘I know you’re teasing me. Do you have any projects right now? What are you doing? -Aziraphale’

‘Nothing much right now. But there is something I’m planning for an event next month…’

——

Back in his flat, Crowley is grinning at his phone like an idiot.

Of course Aziraphale signs his name at the end of text messages. Of course he writes with perfect grammar and punctuation. Of course he’s ‘not very adept at technology’ despite not even being thirty.

It’s all so ridiculous and so Aziraphale and Crowley can’t stop smiling.

They write for almost two hours before Aziraphale finally says ‘Good Night’. Crowley texts back and then puts his phone away.

For a while he just sits there. He feels light and happy and he realises with a sense of unease that he can’t remember the last time he’s felt like this. When he finally goes to bed, he sleeps better than he has in a long time.

Chapter Text

The unread message staring at him from his lockscreen feels like an accusation.

‘Hello, Crowley!’, it reads, ‘I am planning to visit the newly opened neoclassical art museum tomorrow. I was just wondering if you’d like to join me? I’m aware that it isn’t really your scene but I think it might be interesting nonetheless. -Aziraphale’

Crowley buries his face in his hands for what feels like the hundredth time this morning and tries to concentrate on his concept sketch.

He’s planning an installation for an outside exhibition and, as always, he’s already behind schedule. The damn thing needs to be built and the materials need to be ordered and the deadline is in less than a month but he just can’t seem to think of anything interesting to do with his idea and his mind keeps wandering, making it impossible to focus.

He wants to join Aziraphale, of course he does. The museum sounds interesting anyways but even if it didn’t, Aziraphale’s company would be more than enough to make up for it.

It’s not that simple, though.

Crowley crumples up the barely started drawing and throws it to the floor with the others. He starts sketching a new composition. Maybe something more spread out, with less of a central piece…

The realisation he had had a few nights ago had unsettled him. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed it before, no, he’s self-aware enough for that. Of course he had known.

Crowley knows he isn’t generally a very happy person. He knows it has to do with his past and his family. He knows that shutting himself off from the world is probably a trauma response and not a healthy coping mechanism.

Distantly, he realises his hand has stopped and he’s been staring at the paper for at least a minute.

Art is usually his refuge. The act of creating, the feeling when a piece turns out just right, that’s what makes his life worthwhile. He feels powerful then, like what he does matters, like he actually has something to say. But, deep down, he knows that that isn’t enough.

He knows he needs friends, real friends, not like Bee and the others. Someone he can actually talk to. Someone like Aziraphale.

Crowley crosses out most of his draft and shoots an accusatory glance at his phone. The unread message blinks at him innocently. He groans and frustratedly throws down his pencil.

“You’re not gonna let me get anything done until I’ve dealt with you, are you?”

The message doesn’t respond.

Crowley sighs and gets up to go to the kitchen. Maybe coffee will help.

Until a few nights ago he hadn’t quite realised how bad it’s become. He’s gotten used to it, he supposes, to the underlying feeling of emptiness and to the darkness and the loneliness. He’s gotten used to pretending it’s alright. Just the way things are. He’s still alive, isn’t he, and isn’t that proof enough that he can deal with it?

It’s like that business with the frog in boiling water. Turn the heat up slowly and it won’t ever notice until it’s dead.

Crowley’s coffee machine makes a ‘click’ sound and he takes a big sip out of the cup.

Now, there’s Aziraphale. Aziraphale who wants to be his friend, Aziraphale who makes him want to talk, Aziraphale who’d listen to him out of pure kindness. The thought makes Crowley’s stomach turn.

The thing is, Aziraphale likes him. And Crowley, for some godforsaken reason, likes Aziraphale. Likes him quite a bit more than he cares to admit to himself.

It isn’t like him but, god forbid, he cares what Aziraphale thinks about him. He couldn’t bear for Aziraphale to find out about all the things he hides behind his walls. He couldn’t bear for him to see Crowley as the broken, fucked up person he is when he’s alone. He couldn’t bear to watch his light dim and the brilliant smile slowly leave his face only to be replaced with pity, of all things.

Aziraphale would try to help him, whether he’d want it or not. Then he’d blame himself when he’d realise there is nothing he can do. Crowley couldn’t bear to burden him with it.

Coffee doesn’t help at all. Crowley drains the cup anyways.

There’s a reason he has walls. They’re there to keep the bad stuff inside and away from good people like Aziraphale. Simple. Effective.

So why does it feel like those walls are crumbling a little more every time he sees Aziraphale?

Crowley puts his cup in the dishwasher and goes back to his desk. He clears away his crumpled drafts and gets out a fresh sheet of paper and a charcoal pencil. Maybe a change of medium will do something about his art block.

Carelessly, Crowley begins sketching. A square. A cube. A house.

He thinks for a moment before adding another, bigger, square around the house. Massive, thick, made of stone, or metal. He notes down the idea in the corner of the paper.

Sceptically, Crowley looks at his sketch.

A castle. A castle with a wall, huge and charcoal black, obscuring almost the entire building it’s protecting.

Only, it doesn’t look like something kept safe. It looks like a prison.

Crowley stares at his drawing, suddenly feeling a bit lost. Distantly, he’s aware he’s made a decision.

Crowley gets some white-out out of a drawer and paints a window. Then another one. Then a little gate.

‘Sure! I’m gonna come. When and where?’

——

They decide to just meet up at the museum entrance.

Aziraphale, as always, is early. He sits down on a stone bench in the sun and watches the cars drive by, wondering which one is Crowley’s. Probably one of those sleek, modern ones with a big screen instead of dials and a helpful computer voice. 

He does a double take when a classic black Bentley pulls into the parking lot. He almost doesn’t believe his eyes when a familiar red-haired figure gets out of it.

Crowley saunters over to him, hands casually in his pockets and a lazy grin on his face.

“Hey”, he says, half raising his hand in greeting, “been waiting long?”

“Is that your car?” Aziraphale blurts out.

Crowley’s grin widens. “Yeah. Isn’t she beautiful?” He looks behind him and sighs wistfully.

“It is”, Aziraphale agreed, finding the way Crowley looks at the car like it’s a beloved pet indescribably charming, “I wouldn’t have expected to ever see a car like that driving around London, let alone by you. No offence, dear. How did you get it?”

“Just took it”, Crowley says casually, then laughs at Aziraphale’s confused expression. “Don’t worry. So far no one’s complained about it.” 

His tone is light but something about his smile suddenly feels a bit forced. Aziraphale decides to let the matter go.

“Well then, shall we?”

A few hours later they sit down on a bench in St. James park, balancing a few pastries and two coffees between them, absorbed in conversation.

“Whales are, like, so smart, I’m telling you, and we’re killing all of them, just cause we don’t care enough.” Crowley gestures wildly while he talks. “Or look at those two feeding the ducks over there! Ducks shouldn’t eat bread. Everyone knows that.” 

“I didn’t know that”, Aziraphale answers. “What do you give them then?”

Crowley brandishes a finger theatrically. “Frozen peas. Good for them and they like it, too.”

“I’ll think of that next time.” A thought comes to him. “Really, now, what was so funny about that statue earlier?”

Crowley almost chokes on his laughter. “You really didn’t see that?”

“No, I didn’t. Why won’t you tell me?”, Aziraphale asks, still confused.

Crowley grins at him, still looking thoroughly amused, and Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s at him or at the sculpture. Either way, he finds he doesn’t mind at all.

“Of course you wouldn’t see it like that, angel”, Crowley drawls, “pretty sure you wouldn’t come across that in a Jane Austen novel.” 

He says something else but Aziraphale isn’t really listening anymore.

“What did you call me?”, he asks, stunned. 

Crowley pauses. “Oh. Sorry. Just ‘cause, the name and your…” He gestures to the whole of Aziraphale, then drops his hands and looks away. “Ngk. Forget it, I’m sorry. Dumb joke.”

Aziraphale feels a smile creeping into the corners of his mouth.

“No, I didn’t mean-”, he hears himself say. “I like it.” He feels his face heat up in embarrassment and quickly looks down. What the heaven did you say that for?

“Oh. Well.” Crowley sounds surprised but not put off. Aziraphale looks up at him cautiously, just as Crowley is doing the same. Their eyes meet and they both quickly look away again.

Aziraphale suddenly can’t help but laugh out loud. This is ridiculous and Crowley frankly looks adorable with flushed cheeks, all flustered and off his guard. What Aziraphale would give to be able to see his eyes.

He takes a sip of his coffee, trying to stifle his giggles.

“For the record, I think you have a terrible sense of humour.”

“Oh, really? Is that why you’re constantly laughing at my jokes?”

Aziraphale looks over at him and their eyes meet again. This time neither of them looks away.

Crowley’s mouth is crinkled at the corners with amusement. The sunlight gives his tousled hair an almost fiery glow. He looks happy, Aziraphale thinks. 

He thinks of the glimpses he’s gotten of Crowley’s past, of the way his smile falters and his eyes become distant sometimes and marvels at the vibrant, energetic creature beside him.

How does he do it, he wonders, in awe and not a little bit of envy. How does he manage to be so confident, so free, so enthusiastic, when there are clearly so many bad memories lingering just under the surface? 

“You think I’m hilarious. You’re not fooling me, angel.”

There’s a warm feeling radiating from Aziraphale’s chest over his whole body. It feels like the golden rays of the afternoon sun or like Crowley's blazing firelight hair. It feels bold and new and easy and it feels a little bit like freedom.

Chapter Text

The performance art show he’d wanted to visit has been cancelled at the last minute and Crowley is bored. He doesn’t feel up to working on his installation, even though he really should, and Bee and their friends are busy, probably defacing traffic signs or something.

That’s the only reason he texts Aziraphale. Because he has nothing else to do. Definitely.

Oh, who is he kidding anymore?

He winces a little at his unimaginative ‘what are you doing?’ but sends it anyway. His phone pings less than a minute later and he immediately feels better. 

‘I’m painting. A portrait, for the collaboration I told you about. Gabriel was quite insistent I study faces more. -Aziraphale’

Crowley pulls a face at the mention of Gabriel. Aziraphale hasn’t said much about him but from the little he’s heard his opinion of that self-important jerk is sceptical at best.

‘Sounds boring. Who are you painting?’

‘I don’t know, actually. No one specific, an older man. He looks very serious. Gabriel gave me ten references of different people and said to paint them. It’s just for practice, after all, to improve my accuracy and precision. -Aziraphale’

Who is he kidding, he’s not sceptical in the least. That guy‘s definitely an asshole. And unimaginative, a much bigger crime in Crowley’s eyes.

‘Sorry but that sounds boring as hell, angel’

‘It rather is, I’m afraid. But I need to finish the ten studies by tomorrow evening and this is only the ninth, so I really need to get on with it. -Aziraphale’

Crowley sighs. There goes his last hope of anything entertaining happening today.

‘Shouldn’t hold you up texting then probably’

‘Sadly, that would be for the best, I think. Believe me, I’d much rather talk to you than work on this portrait. -Aziraphale’

Crowley puts his phone away. He should probably do the same and force himself to work on his own artwork at least a little today.

Suddenly, an idea comes to him, half-formed. Half a second later the message is already sent. Impulse control is another thing he should probably work on.

‘You could do both’

Aziraphale’s answer comes swiftly.

‘I believe painting and texting simultaneously will prove rather difficult, dear. But thank you for the offer. -Aziraphale’

Crowley can fairly see Aziraphale’s amused smile and something in him blooms with warmth at the image.

This is probably a stupid idea.

‘I meant I could come over and keep you company’

Yep, definitely a stupid idea. Inviting himself over to someone he’s known for two weeks and at whose place he’s never been before. Who does that? He buries his face in his hands and groans.

His phone dings. He almost doesn’t want to look at it. Almost.

‘I’d love that! That’s a very good idea and very kind of you, dear, thank you. -Aziraphale’ There’s an actual smiley face behind the message and Aziraphale’s address is added swiftly in the next one.

Well, now he can’t not go. How terrible.

By the time he’s locking the door behind him, Crowley is already grinning widely.

——

Aziraphale’s flat isn’t far. After only a few minutes Crowley pulls up in front of a picturesque old-timey facade in the middle of Soho. He parks the Bentley in the no parking zone that is conveniently free and right in front of the house. Somehow he is always miraculously lucky in avoiding parking tickets. These little acts of anarchy are what secures his standing among ‘The Fallen‘.

He rings the bell that says ‘Aziraphale Fell‘ in elegant, swooping handwriting and, after a moment, the door opens. Aziraphale beams at him.

His hair is a mess and he’s wearing a paint-splattered old smock, but, even now, Crowley can see a beige waistcoat and a neat light blue shirt underneath. It’s entirely impractical and unfairly endearing.

“Hello, Crowley!“ Aziraphale says. “I’m so glad you're here.“

Crowley shrugs. “Was just bored. Nothing to do“, he lies.

“Well, then we can keep each other company. Come in, come in.“ Aziraphale ushers Crowley inside and leads him past a big ornate door and up a tiny wooden spiral staircase.

Crowley looks back curiously. “What’s-“ in there?, he wants to ask but the living room coming into view at the top of the stairs temporarily steals the words off his tongue. He looks around incredulously and then laughs quietly.

“What is it?“ Aziraphale asks with a hint of alarm in his voice.

Crowley stifles a chuckle. “I honestly don’t know what I expected.“

The room's furnishing is old-fashioned to say the least. There doesn’t seem to be a piece of furniture less than a century old, except, of course, the landline phone and a computer that looks like it belongs in a museum and not on an ornate wooden desk that balks under its weight. Besides the desk, there are a sofa and an armchair, a few side tables and a round dinner table, complete with a white tablecloth and four heavy-looking wooden chairs. 

Most of these additional surfaces Crowley only notices at the second glance because they are, like the floor, covered with stacks upon stacks of books, down to the last centimetre. The walls are lined with bookshelves, similarly bursting at the seams. In the corner, next to the window, is Aziraphale’s easel with a half-finished portrait of an admittedly very grumpy looking old man.

“Don’t you like it?“ Aziraphale sounds actually concerned now.

Crowley thinks of his sleek, barely furnished flat at home and is suddenly overcome with a strange feeling.

Aziraphale’s flat looks… nice. ‘Nice’ doesn’t do it justice, actually. It’s everything Aziraphale himself is, cosy and old-fashioned and comfortable. It looks loved and it looks lived in. It looks like a home.

Crowley feels safe here. The intensity of the impression almost makes him stumble and he feels inexplicable tears pricking at his eyes. 

“I love it, angel”, he says, quiet and sincere. “It’s so you.“

Aziraphale opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Thank you“, he says softly.

There’s a profound silence.

Crowley blinks the tears away and clears his throat. What the hell is up with him today?

“Well, I should get on.” Aziraphale claps his hands awkwardly. “You make yourself comfortable.“ He looks around, considering. “I’ll just clear the sofa“, he decides and chuckles awkwardly. “I don’t often have guests.”

He quickly picks up the books lying on the embroidered cushions and stacks them on the floor beside the sofa.

“Would you like some tea? Coffee? Or a bite to eat maybe? I have biscuits and tea cakes and I made some delicious angel‘s food cake yesterday.“

“Thanks, I’m good.“ Crowley waves away the offer in favour of looking around a bit more while Aziraphale settles back onto the stool in front of the easel and starts mixing his paints.

“So, you like books, huh?“

Aziraphale grins and begins painting. “I suppose you could say that.“

“You don’t even own a TV, do you?“, Crowley mumbles and shakes his head in disbelief. Aziraphale only smiles.

Finally, Crowley sits down on the sofa, or at least assumes a position that could be described as ‘sitting’ by a very generous observer. 

“What else is in this building?” he asks. “On the ground floor, I mean, the door next to the stairs.“

Aziraphale lights up.

“That’s the shop. This building belonged to my grandfather once. He was a bookseller. The shop has been in the family since 1800. My mother didn’t want to take over and it closed down when he died, but we still own the building.“

Aziraphale frowns a little before going on.

“She wants to sell it, prime bit of real estate, she says. All the antique books too. All in all it’d make a tidy sum of money.“

“But you’d never let them go.“

Aziraphale’s mouth sets in a hard line. “Never. The bookshop is… important to me, I suppose. I spent a lot of my childhood here.“ 

He sighs wistfully, the smile returning to his face. “You know, sometimes I dream of opening the shop up again. Selling rare books and antiques, maybe my artworks, talking to the customers and making it a cosy, safe place again. It might bring comfort to some other little boy like I was.“

Crowley suddenly feels ridiculously fond. It sounds like the perfect profession for Aziraphale.

“Why don’t you?“

Aziraphale‘s face becomes grim again.

“My mother wouldn’t agree. Technically she owns the building. She isn’t going to sell it while I’m still living here but she has made it very clear that she is expecting me to find someplace else soon, so she can finally be rid of the old thing.“

Crowley scoffs, to express his sympathy and because he doesn’t know what else to say. Jokingly offering to kill, or torture, or at least mildly inconvenience other people’s terrible parents isn’t always an appropriate reaction, he’s learned from experience.

“Mind if I look around a bit?“ he asks instead.

Aziraphale smiles at him. “No, of course not, dear. Just be careful with the books, especially the old ones. They tend to… well, fall apart.“

Crowley holds up his hand in a signal of innocence. “Won’t even touch them.“

It’s quite interesting, looking at the shelves and tables and picking up all kinds of little knick-knacks Aziraphale has lying around. Sometimes he asks about one and Aziraphale looks over to see what he’s holding, then laughs and tells him an impossible story about how he had acquired the thing in question. The stories turn into tangents about the cities they’re set in, the tangents remind Crowley of stories of his own and soon, the conversation is flowing easily.

Crowley doesn’t even notice the time passing, until Aziraphale puts down his paintbrush and steps back to look at the finished portrait. Crowley walks over to join him.

“Well done”, he remarks, “Really captured his joie de vivre.“

Aziraphale giggles and tilts his head a little to get a different look at the picture. “He does look quite unhappy, doesn’t he.“

Crowley shrugs. “True to life.“

“Yes, I suppose so.“ Somehow Aziraphale doesn’t sound entirely convinced but he seems to shrug it off quickly. “Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? Onto the last one then. Look, it’s a child. At least they’re smiling.“ 

He shows Crowley the photo, but Crowley doesn’t look.

“You don’t like it.“

Aziraphale looks surprised. “The painting? I wouldn’t say that. I think I captured his expression quite well.“

“You did“, Crowley agrees. “Really well. And yet you don’t like it. Why?“

Aziraphale is taken aback momentarily. “Well, I suppose, it just doesn’t look very nice, does it. No one would hang it up. You wouldn’t want that face staring down at you every day. It kind of makes one feel uneasy.“ 

Crowley nods encouragingly. “And yet it’s an almost perfect reproduction of the photo. It shows skill and mastery of the craft.“ He indicates the painting and turns to Aziraphale with the expression of a lawyer delivering his final, irrefutable argument. “If you saw this picture exhibited, would you like it?“ 

Aziraphale considers. “I might have respect for the artist’s skill, like you said. But I’d wonder what made them choose such a reference. I’d wonder why they would use their talent to paint such a… well, such an unsightly picture.“

“Exactly!“ Crowley brandishes his finger in front of Aziraphale’s face triumphantly. “You see? It’s not about what it is or how well you do it, it’s about how it makes you feel! And why you made it. It’s about the idea of the thing. That’s my point.“

He crosses his arms and leans back against the window, satisfied to see Aziraphale turning over his words in his mind while he sets up a new canvas for the last portrait.

“I understand what you mean”, he says finally. “But you can’t think that skill is of no importance in art.“

Crowley waves his hand dismissively. “Of course skill has its worth. The more experience you have making art, the easier it becomes to realise your ideas. But for the artwork itself, skill is completely irrelevant.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I really can’t agree with you there. Now, would you mind stepping out of the light, dear, I need it.”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders and settles down on the sofa again. For a while, neither of them feel the need to talk. The faint scraping of Aziraphale’s paintbrush on the canvas and the birds chirping outside are the only sounds breaking the silence. 

It's nice. Peaceful.

Crowley leans back onto the cushions and lets himself just watch Aziraphale for a bit.

Aziraphale is absorbed in his process, glancing back and forth between the photo and the canvas and adding strokes of paint with careful precision. His lips are slightly parted and his expression is one of intense concentration. The bright sunlight streaming through the window casts his profile in shadow and gives his white-blonde curls an almost ethereal glow, like an actual goddamn halo on his head. It’s a scene worthy of a painting in itself, Crowley thinks and swallows around something suddenly lodged in his throat.

Chapter Text

“By the way, d’you wanna come to that film event I told you about?“ Crowley asks in between spoonfuls of strawberry ice cream. “It’s on Thursday, from ten to six, I think.”

They’re sitting outside a theatre on a park bench, because Crowley had said he’d never seen or even read Shakespeare and Aziraphale had been horrified and had immediately booked them tickets for the next performance he could find. Crowley had rolled his eyes when he’d found out but now, it’s plain to see that he’s enjoyed himself immensely.

“Sure, I’d love to!“ Aziraphale answers immediately. Then he frowns. “Thursday… oh, wait, I can’t, not the whole time at least. I promised my mother I’d take care of her plants while she’s away. It’s a half hour drive and it’ll take at least an hour so I suppose I could be there at-”

“I could help you?” Crowley offers.

Aziraphale looks surprised and a little sceptical. “You want to help me water houseplants?”

Crowley shrugs. “We’d be done faster together. And I’m actually quite good with plants.”

Aziraphale considers the idea. He doesn’t really need Crowley’s help and something about inviting him into his childhood home feels a bit too personal, a bit too soon. But then again, it’s not like they’re going to be staying and looking around. They’re just going to water the plants and then leave. Crowley is right, it’d take much less time with an additional pair of hands.

Aziraphale smiles at him. “Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you.”

Crowley scoffs. “Not kind. Just wanna get to the event as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale silently decides not to mention the possibility of Crowley simply waiting for him at the event and eats a spoonful of vanilla ice cream to hide his grin.

——

Crowley had mentioned being good with plants. What he hadn’t mentioned is that he would turn up with a shopping bag full of bottles and sprays in various shades of green and even a pair of oversized gardening scissors.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. Crowley only shrugs his shoulders.

“Just brought some stuff for the plants. Bet your mother doesn’t take care of them properly. No offence. Almost no one does.”

“‘Some stuff’”, Aziraphale repeats, a mix between doubtful and amused. “Well, come on then, get in.”

“How long are your parents away?” Crowley asks after a while, mainly to fill the silence that has settled in the car.

“Four weeks“, Aziraphale answers, then adds, “Venice.” He doesn’t quite succeed in keeping the hint of bitterness out of his voice.

“Been there. ‘S nice.” 

Crowley pauses. Then he adds, carefully, “Nice of you to go to all that trouble for them.” He peers at Aziraphale as if trying to gauge his expression.

Aziraphale stays quiet.

“It’s complicated”, he says finally.

Crowley nods and leans back again. “Isn’t it always.”

Aziraphale glances at him and, though he can’t really see his expression behind the dark glasses, he feels that Crowley has understood him quite well. The weight on his chest, which always accompanies his visits to this house, lifts a little.

“By the way, did you look at the event programme I sent you?” Crowley asks.

“Oh, yes, I did”, Aziraphale answers, grateful for the change of topic. “I’m afraid I don’t recognise many of the titles.”

Crowley chuckles. “Didn’t really expect you too. Don’t worry, I can tell you something about most of them.”

He does just that throughout the rest of the drive and Aziraphale listens attentively. Crowley’s voice is calming and he can feel the uneasiness slowly melting away the longer he listens. The descriptions are, as always, underlined with expressive hand gestures and theatrical voice acting and Crowley keeps going off on tangents about actors and production companies and filming locations. He sounds cheerful and at ease and his clear enthusiasm does wonders to soothe Aziraphale’s soul. Not for the first time he thinks that Crowley must be some kind of angel with the effect he has on him.

“Here we are”, Aziraphale says when they arrive, after all too short a time.

Aziraphale’s parents live in a big suburban house. With big double-winged windows, a white facade, a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ doormat and a silver cross over the front door, it’s the essence of what Crowley would deem ‘fucking conservative’. 

If he does, Crowley doesn’t comment on it though, just grabs his utensils and follows Aziraphale into the house.

The inside looks exactly like one would expect the inside of such a house to look. Expensive, simplistic furniture, white walls, a light-brown wooden floor and everything held in a white-beige colour scheme. It’s almost obsessively tidy and its inhabitants are obviously entirely unfamiliar with the concept of clutter. The walls are decorated with a few bland, abstract deco prints, mostly in shades of white and light grey and there’s a silver or golden cross of some kind in almost every room. It looks like something out of a magazine, built up and staged just for the photo and never once lived in.

Aziraphale hates it. The endless white has always made him feel small and alone and whenever he’s here, the scared little boy in him wants nothing more than to run back to the cluttered old bookstore and hide away there.

But today, he looks to the side and there’s Crowley, his black outfit a stark contrast against the harsh white, his hair a burning flame against the lifeless background and suddenly, it doesn’t feel quite so oppressive anymore.

Crowley lets out a breath.

“Nice house?” he says, doubtfully.

Aziraphale sighs. “It really isn’t.”

“No”, Crowley agrees, “Jeez, are they allergic to colour? Or, you know, any kind of contrast?”

“I’m inclined to believe they are.” He takes a breath. “Let’s get to work, I suppose. The sooner we’re done… Be careful with- well, with everything, basically. It’s all very expensive and white and if my mother finds the slightest stain on anything, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Crowley nods. “Got it. Where are the plants?”

Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen. “Here and in the bedrooms, the living room and the garden, obviously. I’ll go fill the watering can.”

When he comes back after less than a minute, he finds Crowley already closely inspecting the yucca plant in the corner and making all kinds of noises, ranging from dissatisfied to outraged.

“This one’s an absolute disaster!” he exclaims as soon as he hears Aziraphale open the door. “It’s got spots all over and look at the leaves! That pot is way too small for it!”

“I don’t think my mother cares about its well-being as much as about the pot fitting into her design scheme, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale shrugs his shoulders sadly, feeling a kind of kinship with the plant, and goes to water it. Crowley stops him.

“I care! Those are terrible conditions for a plant to live in! It’s suffocating! Don’t you have a bigger pot somewhere?”

“I’m sure we do but you don’t really want to-“

“Of course I do. We can’t leave it like that. The poor thing!” He sounds positively furious and Aziraphale can’t help but concede.

Crowley’s judgement on the other houseplants is similarly severe and when they get to the garden, Crowley throws his hands up in horror at the uniform lawn that covers about ninety percent of it. (“Do you have any idea how bad lawns are for the environment? Huge waste of water and energy, not to mention all the species going extinct because rich assholes want their gardens to look perfectly bland and lifeless and-”)

Under Crowley’s instruction they get to work replacing soil, repotting plants, clipping leaves and watering. It’s exhausting and Aziraphale is sweating all over but somehow, he has to admit, it’s pleasant, working with his hands and being able to detach his mind for a while. 

Sometimes, when he has nothing to do, he watches Crowley work. For all his sarcastic comments and his at least half-genuine outrage, it’s clear to see how much he is enjoying himself. He’s pulled his long hair back into a small practical bun but a few escaped strands are hanging into his face. He is humming a melody and his expression is relaxed, content. I should paint him like this, Aziraphale thinks distantly, not for the first time.

The faint echo of church bells announcing the time in the distance breaks him out of his reverie.

“Crowley?” he calls. He wouldn’t mind missing the film event but Crowley probably would. “It’s already past twelve. What about the event?”

Crowley hums distractedly. “‘M not done. Film’s gonna have to wait.”

His hair is flaming in the sunlight and his hands are careful as he pats down the fresh earth over the roots of a small tree. He is still wearing the sunglasses but Aziraphale is sure that, if he could see his eyes, he’d find the same look of focus and gentleness there. He is beautiful and something in Aziraphale aches at the sight of him and he feels like there should be a thought here but he can’t quite get hold of it so he tears his eyes away and gets up.

“I’m making us a cup of tea. Or would you rather have coffee?”

“Coffee”, mumbles Crowley, “Thanks.”

After almost three hours Aziraphale finally manages to persuade Crowley to take a break. Aziraphale asks him if he wants to go back to the event but Crowley just shakes his head, finishes his coffee and gets back to work.

After four and a half hours Crowley finally decides there is nothing more for them to do here. He sinks into one of the garden chairs and nods gratefully when Aziraphale offers to walk to the little bakery at the street corner and get them something to eat. Aziraphale buys pastries and sandwiches and some cake and they sit on the porch and eat in silence. The afternoon sun bathes everything in a faint golden glow and in all the time he’s lived here, Aziraphale has never felt more at home. 

Chapter Text

Crowley doesn’t know when exactly it happened. Or how. Or why, of all people, it’s Aziraphale.

Aziraphale who is barely thirty and already looks every bit like a fussy old English professor and who likes old books and tartan and theatre and suits at least half a century out of style and who doesn’t understand movies or phones or abstract art.

Aziraphale with the white-blond curls that look like a very messy halo around his head and the brilliant smile that lights up his whole being from the inside.

Aziraphale who makes him want to talk, for hours, about everything, Aziraphale who listens and laughs and calls him ’my dear’ and makes him feel like he’s someone worth listening to.

Aziraphale who can chase away the darkness with a smile, Aziraphale who makes him feel light and happy and free, Aziraphale who makes him laugh and roll his eyes and forget about everything awful in life for a while.

Crowley doesn’t know when it happened or how it happened or why it happened so fast.

They meet almost every other day and text even more often. They go to museums and art galleries and parks and cafés and they talk about everything and nothing and Aziraphale laughs, bright and happy, and Crowley falls in love with him. 

Aziraphale still signs his name on text messages and Crowley has to show him how to copy a link from his browser and Aziraphale starts sending him terrible YouTube videos of cats and birds and Crowley falls in love with him.

Aziraphale talks endlessly about books and classic paintings and magic tricks and Crowley feels like he’s known him for millennia and loved him for just as long.

There isn’t a moment of realisation, no sudden lighting bolt that strikes him dead in the heart with the certainty of it.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale and knows.

I love him, he thinks and can’t remember if it’s the first time he’s had the thought. It feels old and familiar, like coming home, as natural as gravity and as inevitable.

He doesn’t even worry about it at first.

——

It’s already dark outside when they exit the movie theatre. Crowley had only found a single one still showing the really old 007 films and ten in the evening had been the only time available. After the numerous Shakespeare plays Aziraphale had dragged him to, he had insisted it was only fair that he show Aziraphale some true culture for once and Aziraphale hadn’t been able to argue, though he had remained sceptical.

“Now this is art, angel”, he insists now and laughs when he sees Aziraphale’s equal parts confused and disapproving expression.

“Really now, I don’t understand what you people see in this. How exactly does this fit your definition of art? Where’s the deeper meaning of everyone getting shot?”

Crowley hums appreciatively and raises a finger. “Everyone but James Bond. The good guys survive.”

“They don’t, though. Only our tough, manly protagonist. Seems a little unfair to me.”

Crowley grins and shrugs his shoulders. “Besides, it’s just fun to watch. Car chases and martial arts and death trap escapes and everything. Don’t you ever make art just because it’s fun?”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “I used to, I guess, before it became my career. Nowadays I have to paint so many commissions and pieces for purchase, I barely even draw in my free time anymore. I suppose you’re right, I should probably try to do that more often.”

They come to a halt in front of Crowley’s car and Crowley is suddenly at a loss. Get in, angel, he should say but he doesn’t want the evening to end yet. 

What else is there to say, though? Let’s not go home yet, I’d rather just stay here on the sidewalk with you forever. Don’t go yet because I’ll miss you as soon as you’re gone. Don’t leave me alone please, I feel so empty when you’re not around.

The decision is taken from him when Aziraphale puts his hand on the car door, looking at him expectantly, and he is forced to mumble an apology and unlock it.

The conversation on the drive back to Aziraphale’s place is quiet and sparse but Crowley still aches when it’s cut short by their arrival. He parks the car in the no parking zone and unlocks the doors but Aziraphale makes no move to get out, instead twisting his hands together as if nervous. He’s about to ask if everything is alright, when Aziraphale suddenly turns to him with a hesitant smile.

“Would you… like to come up for a bit? I’m sure I have a bottle of good wine somewhere.”

His eyes are wide and hopeful and very, very blue and, for a moment, Crowley forgets to breathe. He suddenly has the distinct impression of standing at the edge of a precipice. The cliff is staggeringly high and the way down impossible to make out. 

Crowley barely hesitates.

“I’d love to.”

“Why d’you know so much about plants, anyway?”

Aziraphale is sitting on the small sofa in his living room, wine glass in hand, while Crowley is perched on the floor next to him and leaning his back onto it. His glass is on the table, next to an almost empty bottle of 1976 Chateau-something.

Crowley shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno. I like ‘em. Why d’you have so many books?“ He gestures vaguely to the rest of the dim room where every available surface is still stacked dangerously high with the bloody things.

“Fucking liba- librara-“, he makes some more unintelligible noises before giving up, “fucking bookshop in here.”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “I love books. Always loved them. When I was a boy I spent all the time I could in the shop. I didn’t really have many friends. And the books were always better company than at home.”

Crowley scoffs. “Bet.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Aziraphale leans forward and reaches for the wine bottle. While he fills his glass he mumbles something under his breath.

“Hm?” Crowley perks up.

Aziraphale sighs. “Nothing. Just wondering who in their right mind even gets the idea to name their child ‘Aziraphale’. Been asking myself that for twenty-nine years.”

Crowley takes a sip out of his own glass. “Don’t you like it?”

“I used to hate it. All the other kids made fun of me. And it’s- oh, I don’t know.” He crosses his arms and leans back on the sofa sullenly.

Crowley cranes his head to look up at him curiously. “It’s what?”

“Always a reminder of them. Of what they want me to be.”

The silence this time is heavier, and longer.

Then Crowley pipes up, careful and soft.

“I like it.”

Aziraphale brightens. “I like the way you say it.”

“And I like your name, dear”, he adds after a moment. “It fits you very well.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Suppose it must. When I first met you, you said you chose it yourself, didn’t you?”

Crowley nods. “Yeah. Was eighteen. My parents didn’t like it so I took the Bentley and left.” His tone is light as if he’s made a joke but inwardly he curses himself for admitting these things so easily in front of Aziraphale. Must be the bloody alcohol.

“Why’d you change it?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley is immensely grateful that he doesn’t pursue the more sinister implications of his answer.

“The old one just… wasn’t me, I guess.” He hesitates for all but three seconds before going on. “‘M trans, you know? Genderfluid.”

Crowley drains the rest of his wine glass. He hates this feeling, the waiting for someone to approve who he is as if they have any jurisdiction on the matter, as if he gives a shit about their opinion.

But Aziraphale just hums understandingly and the moment of unease is gone as quickly as it had come. “I’ve thought about that myself once or twice.”

Crowley grins, equal parts relieved and giddy. “Gender is fake anyways.” He turns around and clumsily clinks his empty glass against Aziraphale’s in a toast, who laughs.

Crowley puts down his glass somewhere on the carpet and lets his head fall back against the cushions. He suddenly feels extremely tired. He closes his eyes and, at first, barely notices the hand beginning to gently stroke his hair. When he does, his sleep-muddled mind can only muster up enough energy to smile weakly at Aziraphale. It’s probably a good thing he’s too tired to react, he thinks distantly.

“I’m glad you’re my friend”, Aziraphale says quietly after a few minutes.

Crowley opens his eyes a little.

“I don’t have that many friends”, Aziraphale continues. “Always been alright by myself. With all these books you’re never really alone. But you… You’re so- free. Happy. Kind. You have so much energy. I always wonder how you do it.”

Crowley can feel his stomach sinking. The room suddenly feels very small, as if there isn’t enough oxygen.

“Angel”, he whispers, a little desperately. Don’t say that, please, don’t say you believe that.

Aziraphale chuckles softly. 

“You know, you shouldn’t call me that. I’m nothing of the kind. You’re like an angel, not me.”

Crowley doesn’t notice himself get up. Suddenly he is on his feet, wide awake, stumbling backwards to bring some distance between them. Waves of panic are washing over him and making it hard to breathe. 

Not now, not yet, please. Just a little more time.  

His head is ringing, so much that it’s almost painful, his hands are shaking and he can hear his heartbeat echo in his ears. 

Aziraphale is looking up at him, shocked and worried, and Crowley wishes he had never met him. Wishes, desperately, he hadn’t made the mistake of falling in love with him. 

“I’m about as far from a fucking angel as you can get”, he hisses, barely able to hear his own words over the roaring in his ears. 

Then, because he’s a coward, he runs.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s phone blinks with seven missed calls and at least 40 unopened messages. He turns it off.

He should work on his sculpture. The deadline is in just two weeks and the materials have only arrived this morning. It’s not like he has anything else to do anyways.

Crowley surveys the open packages and crates strewn around his garage. Metal plates, chain link fence, rope. The pile of leftover clay left from his last piece. Two shopping bags full of glass bottles and jars he has collected. He consults his sketch and the measurements the gallery owners have given him. He’s going to need every last centimetre.

In the corner his phone vibrates. Crowley can feel something blocking his throat.

He throws his sketch to the floor. Nothing like a good creative process to distract him. The metal plates come first. He gets out his toolbox and begins nailing them together one by one. Each one is at a slight angle to the next one so that they will eventually form a closed shape.

Even over the clang of the metal he feels as if he can still hear the messages coming in. It's becoming difficult to breathe.

Why won’t Aziraphale just leave him alone? Why can things never just be easy?

His phone vibrates again and Crowley strikes his hammer against the metal to drown out the noise. It leaves a visible dent.

It’s better this way. Why can’t Aziraphale see that? Why does he have to be so bloody insistent and caring and forgiving? 

The garage feels airtight, like there isn’t enough oxygen.

No, of course Aziraphale doesn’t see it. That’s the whole bloody problem.

He attaches the first and last metal plate together and fights the urge to cry.

It’s not like he hadn’t known this would happen. Oh, he’d known. In fact, he’d predicted this exact scenario. He had known and he had chosen to text Aziraphale anyways. Hadn’t been able to resist the magnetic force that seemed to draw him to Aziraphale like gravity. Hadn’t been able to resist the conversation and the laughter and the beautiful novel feeling of everything being alright. 

Crowley closes the shape off with a few metal plates that form a misshapen roof.

That’s over now. Those days never really belonged to him anyways. They belonged to the Crowley who was happy and energetic and whole. They belonged to the Crowley who laughed and made jokes and was passionate about everything. He can see why Aziraphale liked him. He’d like himself, if he was like that.

They didn’t belong to him, terrified and broken and at this moment barely able to keep from breaking out in tears for reasons he can’t even fully understand himself.

Crowley’s eyes are burning. He hits his hammer against the unevenly shaped metal box with a curse. It clatters and leaves a dent even deeper than the first one.

You knew this would happen. You knew and you didn’t do a bloody thing about it.

He hits the box again.

Why are you like this? Why can’t you just be normal?

Crowley feels a tear falling on his cheek.

Why do you always ruin everything?

He makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a cry. The hammer drops out of his hands.

His face hurts.

His vision is blurred.

There’s a high-pitched ringing filling his head.

The walls of the garage are closing in, threatening to crush him.

For an instant, Crowley’s eyes catch on the open toolbox and the glass bottles and shards lying around on the floor. 

He stands frozen there for a second, staring, before terror overtakes him and he runs.

Inside his flat, Crowley slams the door shut and sinks to the floor. His hands are shaking and the tears won’t stop flowing down his face.

Fuck. Not this again, please.

He tries to take a deep breath but his throat is still closed up and unwilling to cooperate. A wave of panic threatens to drown him. He pushes it down and tries to count to ten.

Calm down. Breathe, just breathe.

The block in his throat loosens a little and he takes a gasping breath. Then another one. And another.

Crowley doesn’t know how long he sits there. Maybe five minutes. Maybe an hour.

When he finally feels like he‘s able to get up without immediately keeling over again, he slowly pushes to his feet and wipes away the tears with the back of his hand. His throat feels parched from crying.

Crowley stumbles into the kitchen and downs a whole glass of water in one go. He immediately fills another one. Then he splashes his face with water and dries it with a towel. It makes him feel a little better. He still feels exhausted though, so he collapses into a chair and closes his eyes.

His head feels clearer now, maybe the clearest it’s felt in the last twelve hours and it immediately fills with thoughts of Aziraphale.

What the hell is he going to do?

He can’t continue this friendship. Aziraphale likes and cares about a person that isn’t him. A person he is too messed up to be. This is only proof.

He should have left earlier. He shouldn’t have ever started spending this much time with Aziraphale. He should have never let himself fall in love.

Maybe then, this would hurt less.

But he didn’t and he did, even though he’d known how this would turn out, just like all his other relationships had eventually turned out, with him forgetting to keep his distance and then running away when the consequences inevitably caught up to him and now he’s just going to have to deal with it again.

He can’t keep lying to Aziraphale. Aziraphale deserves better than that. 

He can’t tell Aziraphale the truth. Aziraphale might deserve it, but Crowley knows he’s far too much of a coward to do it. If he has to leave, he’d rather Aziraphale remember him as that other Crowley.

Some people are just too broken to be in relationships, of any kind. He can’t change that. Sometimes things are just the way they are, and there’s nothing one can do about it.

Crowley looks around the room, a little forlornly.

The thought of going back to the garage with all the glass and the sharp objects turns his stomach. His phone is down there too and he doesn’t feel ready to come within even a ten metre radius of all those messages yet.

Maybe he should just go to sleep.

God, what did he even do before Aziraphale?

——

The next day, there are 32 new messages on his phone. Crowley deletes the notifications without looking at them.

A day after that, Aziraphale calls again. Twice. Crowley turns off his phone.

After three days, he feels ready to work on his installation again. He finishes it in less than three hours and then gets the hell out of there. The uncomfortable sinking feeling in his chest is still there whenever he looks at the shards of glass.

A week later, Aziraphale is still texting him. There’s even an email to his work address. Crowley deletes all of them and is thankful he never gave Aziraphale his home address.

After nine days, there are only about half as many notifications.

Two days after that, one.

On the thirteenth day the phone stays quiet. Crowley is relieved and something that had still been whole inside him feels irreparably broken.

Chapter Text

Crowley is fashionably late to his own exhibition. He parks his car in the no parking zone outside the gallery, brushes off the attendant with a nod and walks straight through without so much as looking at the other artworks.

He should’ve been here almost thirty minutes ago and he really doesn’t want to get in a fight with the owner. Hopefully there aren’t that many people who have made it to his room yet. Hopefully no one has asked Nina about his whereabouts. Hopefully she hasn’t even noticed yet. Hopefully…

Crowley freezes.

The room is indeed almost empty. Almost.

In front of his installation, there’s a man with white-blonde curls, a fussy beige suit and an immensely relieved expression.

Fuck.

Crowley almost turns around and walks out again, Nina and her carefully thought out programme be damned. 

Almost.

If only he wasn’t frozen up like a deer in the metaphorical headlights of the revelation that Aziraphale hasn’t given up on him.

Did you really believe he would?  

The question appears suddenly in his head, just as quickly followed by the answer.

Yes. Yes, he did.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, expression equal parts hopeful and worried, waiting patiently for him to come over, and a wave of guilt washes over him, leaving him a little nauseous.

It made sense, a voice inside him protests and Crowley can’t find it in himself to argue with it. 

It had made sense. Everyone leaves. Why should Aziraphale be any different? It had felt obvious, predestined. It had been so easy to believe.

And yet, he thinks, Aziraphale had been different and some part of him, somewhere deep inside, had known it. That’s probably also why it had hurt so much more than all the other times.

Now, Crowley stands there, unable to move either forward or away.

A part of him wants nothing more than to just give up. Give up and collapse into Aziraphale’s arms and let everything go to hell. For the first time in two weeks, Crowley is suddenly aware of how exhausted he feels.

But there’s another part of him, still, that says you can’t. You know you can’t. It’s louder, much louder than the first, screaming and shouting and ringing alarm bells to drown out the other. Crowley’s head hurts from the cacophony.

Why not, he asks the voice wearily.

You know why not, it answers. For the same reason you didn’t take his calls or answer his texts. For the same reason you left.

Crowley knows there was a reason. He knows there was one, something vital and crucially important, but, right now, he can’t remember for the life of him.

He is so, so tired.

Give me one reason. Give me one good reason not to go.

The voice stays silent.

There’s nothing it could have said anyways, Crowley thinks as he walks over to Aziraphale, the pressure on his chest lightening with each step he takes. He was always going to end up back here, drawn like a moth to Aziraphale’s light, uncaring if it burns him.

Crowley stands to Aziraphale’s left, hands thrust into his pockets. He keeps a little distance between them, just to be safe.

“Hey”, he manages. His voice is scratchy after two weeks of almost complete disuse. Aziraphale opens his mouth but then closes it again. For a few minutes, neither of them seems to know what to say.

“D’you like it?” Crowley asks finally because Aziraphale’s worried eyes on him are slowly driving him crazy. Aziraphale’s gaze switches to the artwork in front of them, studying it obediently, and Crowley relaxes minutely.

The sculpture is big, an unevenly shaped box made of dented and damaged metal plates roughly nailed together. It’s around three by three metres and around one and a half metres high, filling the space which is marked off for it with elegant grey tape on the floor almost completely. There are holes in it, different sizes and roughly cut with frayed edges, that make it possible to see inside it when viewed from the right angle. It lacks all the colours Crowley‘s art is usually renowned for, made only of the plain darkish metal. There had been more than a few raised eyebrows when he had delivered it.

“What is it?”

Crowley almost laughs.

Almost. The reminder of the day he’d first met Aziraphale and the sudden pang of longing that comes with it is so sharp he winces instead.

“It’s so unlike your usual pieces“, Aziraphale adds when Crowley doesn’t answer.

There’s another silence and Crowley realises he has no answer but the truth.

“It’s real.” There’s something like shame in his voice and Crowley feels the irrational desire to hide. “Not covered in bright coloured paint for once.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer.

“Don’t you like it?” The question comes out sharper than intended.

Aziraphale flinches. In vain, he searches for Crowley’s eyes behind the glasses. There’s something desperate, pleading in his expression and Crowley suspects that he knows they’re not just talking about the sculpture.

“I liked the colourful ones better“, Aziraphale answers carefully.

Crowley nods.

Right. He knew that.

Silently, he wonders why it still feels as if he’s been punched in the gut.

Aziraphale had come for him. Aziraphale hadn’t given up, even after the show he’d pulled off for the last two weeks. Maybe, foolishly, he’d allowed himself a tiny bit of hope. Hope that he’d been wrong about all of it. 

He shouldn’t have.

“Do you like it?”

The question catches Crowley off guard. He takes a long look at the ugly, dented thing in the middle of the room and feels as if he’s seeing it clearly for the first time.

“No”, he answers and shakes his head. “No. I hate it.”

“Then why did you make it?” 

Aziraphale’s voice is soft and so, so gentle and Crowley feels tears stinging in his eyes.

“Because it’s more than-“, he gestures to the whole of the gallery, “this. I know it isn’t pretty. I know it isn’t good art. It’s just… real.”

Crowley pauses. When he goes on, his voice is matter-of-factly, carefully regulated.

“This is me. This is who I am. No fun, happy colours, no paint or crystals or sequins, just- this. There’s nothing more to me.

“Nothing to keep you here.” The last bit is barely audible and not intended for Aziraphale’s ears but Aziraphale’s gaze snaps to him anyways.

“What?”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders and looks away.

“Nothing. That’s it. You can leave.”

Aziraphale’s expression turns confused, incredulous and then outraged in quick succession.

“Are you out of your mind?” His voice cuts sharply through the hushed silence of the gallery and several heads turn to look at them. Aziraphale quickly lowers his voice but it retains its edge.

“I tried to call you almost every day for the last two weeks. I’ve sent you too many messages to even count. I tried everything and when nothing worked, I came here on the off chance that you hadn’t thought of that and would show up.” 

Crowley doesn’t think he has ever seen Aziraphale so furious. It’s terrifying.

“I‘ve waited here for hours, just in case. And you think, after all of that, I’m just going to leave? Because- because you have problems? I got that, Crowley. If nothing else, the last two weeks have made it clear enough.”

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… weary. All I wanted was one word that you were okay.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” 

It comes out harsher than intended and Crowley looks away ashamedly when Aziraphale flinches.

“Then you could’ve told me that! I could’ve helped. I would’ve been there.”

“No”, Crowley cuts him off. “No. That’s exactly my point. It’s enough that I’m stuck like this. I can’t be responsible for dragging someone else down with me.”

“That’s what friends are for”, Aziraphale says quietly.

“I don’t have friends.”

His voice cuts cruelly through the silence of the gallery. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face fall and knows this is it.

He’s done it. He’s hurt Aziraphale enough to make him leave.

Everything is as it should be. Crowley is alone again and everything is back the way it’s always been. The universe is in order and can bloody well leave him alone with its cruel jokes, like hope or love. 

“What’s inside?”

Crowley looks up, startled.

“What?”

“The sculpture. What’s inside it? Is it empty?”

Crowley shakes his head, still confused, and points to a spot to Aziraphale’s right from where he can better look through one of the bigger holes. “See for yourself.”

Aziraphale cranes his head.

“Glass.”

“Broken glass“, Crowley corrects him. “Dangerous. Do not touch.“

“No.”

Aziraphale’s voice is even and serious and Crowley’s head turns to him automatically.

“No”, Aziraphale repeats. “You’re wrong. Glass. Precious. Fragile. Handle with care.”

He meets Crowley’s eyes resolutely. It’s an unmistakable challenge.

“It’s broken”, Crowley argues. It doesn’t sound nearly as firm as he would like it to.

“It can be fixed”, Aziraphale answers.

“Not really, though. It will never be the same again.”

“No, it won’t. Does it matter?”

Despite the dark glasses Crowley suddenly feels naked. It’s as if Aziraphale is looking right through them directly into his eyes and seeing straight through to his soul.

Crowley can’t look away.

Aziraphale’s eyes are hopeful and tender and so very blue and Crowley feels like he’s drowning, like he’s being pulled under by the currents with no hope of ever seeing the surface again.

“You’ll cut yourself”, he tries, desperately.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful.”

Aziraphale smiles then, just a little, and, somehow, it doesn’t feel like losing. It feels like coming home.

——

Aziraphale is making tea.

Tea is soothing. Tea is comforting. Tea, he finds, usually makes conversations easier. Mostly though, tea gives him a brief escape from the stifling atmosphere in the living room, where Crowley is sitting stiffly on the couch and stubbornly looking at everything but him.

His hands are trembling a little as he fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. He closes his eyes and tries to still them. 

It feels a bit ridiculous that he has no idea what to say. No idea where to even begin this conversation. No idea what it actually is that he wants to tell Crowley. As if he hasn’t spent the last two weeks desperate for Crowley to listen to even a single word.

For one thing, Aziraphale needs to know what happened. What he had said that had made Crowley run like that. What he needs to do so that this never happens again.

It had terrified him. The fear that had gripped him by the throat as he’d watched Crowley flee out of the room, hurry to his car and drive away, only away, away from him, is still fresh in his memory. If he’s honest, Aziraphale can’t remember ever being this scared before. 

He had calmed down somewhat, after some time, but hadn’t been able to completely drown out the persistent thoughts of he’s never coming back and I’ll never be able to talk to him again and it’s all my fault, somehow.

The fear had come back like a wave, threatening to suffocate him, every time Crowley hadn’t answered the phone, every time he hadn’t texted back.

He’s gone. I’ve lost him. And it’s all my fault.

Aziraphale isn’t sure which part of it had frightened him more. The time when the extent and intensity of the emotion had still felt absolutely incomprehensible, or the moment he had finally understood it.

He can’t imagine a life without Crowley in it anymore.

Aziraphale doesn’t know how long this has been true for. He isn’t sure he wants to know. 

The undeniable truth of it scares him. For some reason he can’t quite seem to grasp, he needs Crowley. Needs him more than he’d ever thought he would anyone. Certainly much more than he’d care to admit to himself or, God forbid, Crowley. Maybe even more than anything else.

He doesn‘t understand it, doesn‘t understand anything about the feeling at all, the how and why and why him, and that scares him even more.

Aziraphale can feel himself starting to spiral again and, with an effort, drags his thoughts away from his own feelings. 

Crowley is what’s important now.

Crowley is sitting alone in the next room and he’s overwhelmed and terrified and something is very, very wrong. That much is obvious.

It’s also obvious that Crowley can’t deal with it alone and Aziraphale is determined to be there for him, whether Crowley wants it or not. He isn’t sure that Crowley really has any other options.

Aziraphale is going to help. He is going to do everything he can and Crowley is going to be okay again and he’s going to laugh and joke again and everything is going to be fine. 

Help. That’s the one thing he can do. The one thing he’s good for.

The kettle boils with a shrill noise and startles Aziraphale out of his contemplation. He takes a deep breath to unsuccessfully try and calm his nerves, then fills two cups and carries them into the living room.

“Thanks”, Crowley mumbles as he takes one of them out of Aziraphale’s hands. Both his voice and his posture remind Aziraphale of a child trying to make themself as small as possible. He sits down next to him, carefully, as if afraid to break Crowley, and there are a few minutes of silence. 

Finally, Crowley takes a sip of his tea, firmly puts the teacup down on the coffee table and clasps his hands in his lap.

“I’m sorry”, he says, without looking at Aziraphale. “For not calling. I’m sorry you were worried.”

Aziraphale breathes out. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

After a moment of hesitation he sets down his untouched teacup next to Crowley’s and asks.

“What happened?”

Crowley rubs a hand over his face and sighs. 

“God. I don’t even know. It’s… complicated.”

He begins fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, looking so uncomfortable and lost that Aziraphale is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to hug him. To hold him and to press him close and to whisper into his gorgeous red hair that it’s alright, whatever it is, just stay, please, stay. He forces himself to look away. Focus.

“Was it something I said?” he begins carefully, even though he already knows the answer.

“No!” Crowley says quickly. “Not really. It was- It wasn’t your fault.”

Aziraphale waits but Crowley doesn’t say anything else.

He sighs. This isn’t going anywhere. He hadn’t expected this conversation to be easy but he had hoped it would at least flow a little more smoothly once they had managed to start talking.

“If you don’t feel up to it at the moment, dear, we can talk about it another time”, he offers and firmly pushes down the familiar feeling of terror that rises up inside him at the very real possibility that Crowley might leave and not come back.

Crowley ducks his head and makes a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know. I- I don’t even know what’s going on with me, Aziraphale. I-“ He breaks off and looks further away.

“I’m just so tired”, he finishes quietly.

Aziraphale looks at him. He can see the exhaustion written into every line on his face, his expression, his posture, certainly his eyes too, though Aziraphale can’t see them. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days and Aziraphale wonders if there might just be some truth in that.

“You should sleep, then”, he hears himself say even though everything inside him is revolting at the thought of letting Crowley leave. He pushes the feeling down firmly. This isn’t about me.

“Probably”, Crowley answers and makes no move to get up.

“Finish your tea?” Aziraphale offers hopefully. Two more minutes.

“Yeah”, Crowley answers and takes another sip.

Neither of them can think of anything else to say after that. They sit in silence until Crowley finishes his cup.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and steels himself, then carries the empty cup into the kitchen to give Crowley an opening. When he comes back, Crowley’s position on the couch is unchanged.

Almost looks as if he doesn’t want to leave, a voice in the back of Aziraphale’s mind remarks triumphantly and he can’t suppress the surge of hope that bubbles up inside him at the thought before he pushes it down.

He has no choice. He needs to sleep. He has to leave, Aziraphale reprimands himself. 

No, he doesn’t, the voice answers boldly and Aziraphale tries to ignore it, he really does, but the fear is already welling up inside him again, constricting his throat and he can’t let Crowley leave, he just can’t .

So he sits back down next to Crowley and asks him to stay. He hopes that he isn’t just imagining the relief in Crowley’s expression. Either way, Crowley nods and the churning waves of emotion inside Aziraphale subside again, for the moment.

“Come on, then, I’ll show you the way”, he says and Crowley gets up wordlessly and follows him.

He only finds his voice again when Aziraphale opens the bedroom door to let him in.

“I can’t sleep here”, he says, taken aback. “Where will you sleep?”

“Downstairs, on the couch”, Aziraphale answers and shrugs his shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that”, Crowley protests. “I can sleep downstairs.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s no problem. I think you need a good night's sleep way more than me at the moment.”

Crowley begins to argue again but Aziraphale cuts him off with a gesture. “No buts. Besides, it isn’t even six yet and I have work to do downstairs”, he lies.

“Now”, he continues firmly before Crowley can interject, “the bathroom is to the left, you can close the blinds, open the window, whatever you like. I’ll go downstairs and let you sleep.”

He is glad when Crowley doesn’t argue anymore but only makes a small noise of assent.

It’s strange in Aziraphale’s bedroom, Crowley thinks.

It’s strange because it doesn’t feel strange at all.

The room is cluttered with knickknacks and, who would have thought, heaps upon heaps of books. The overhead lamp gives off a soft warm glow. There’s an antique-looking wooden dresser, a bookshelf and a small armchair. The bedframe is wooden too and engraved with swirling patterns, flowers and small birds. A tartan comforter is thrown over the bed. This is what it must look like inside Aziraphale’s mind, Crowley thinks.

It doesn’t feel strange to be here at all. The whole room feels exactly like Aziraphale: Soft, warm, comfortable. Safe. 

Crowley carefully folds up the comforter, deposits it on the armchair and puts his sunglasses on the bedside table.

The bedsheets are cream coloured and soft and they smell like Aziraphale. The sensation is almost overwhelming. Crowley pulls them up to his chin and turns off the light. He falls asleep almost immediately and, for the first time in years, he dreams of nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale has already laid out breakfast when Crowley comes down the stairs the next morning.

“Good morning!” Aziraphale looks over at him, smiling and then stops short. There’s something different about his expression and it takes Aziraphale a few seconds to realise what it is.

Crowley isn’t wearing his glasses.

Aziraphale’s lips open a little in surprise but he doesn’t dare say anything. Instead he busies himself with putting on the kettle and trying his best not to stare.

“Feeling better?”

Crowley nods and smiles back at him. His eyes crinkle a little around the edges when he smiles. 

“Thanks”, he says a little sheepishly. “For- Well, for everything.”

“It’s no problem at all, dear”, Aziraphale answers lightly. “Breakfast?”

They eat mostly in silence but this time it doesn’t feel oppressive. Moreover, it allows Aziraphale to finally get a good look at Crowley.

His eyes are a very light brown with a few darker specks around the middle. They look much more calm and well rested now than Aziraphale had imagined them the day before. All of him seems to be more at ease today, his posture is more relaxed and his expression lighter. The morning sunlight streaming in through the window gives his face a soft glow. Aziraphale’s heart aches at how beautiful it looks. Like a painting.

“Everything alright, angel?” Crowley asks and looks up at him. The sunlight reflects in his eyes, making them look almost golden, and Aziraphale is  lost, lost so deep inside them that he doesn't think he’ll ever find his way out again .

“I’d like to paint you someday.”

Crowley looks surprised but Aziraphale doesn’t have time to regret what he said before Crowley nods. “Sure.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asks a little incredulously.

Crowley shrugs his shoulders. “Sure, why not. Whenever you like. Today, for all I care.”

“Really?”, Aziraphale says again and blushes at Crowley’s amused expression.

And there’s the Crowley he knows again, an ironic eyebrow raised, a faintly mocking smile, sarcastic and playful, his whole face alive with expression, even more so without the sunglasses.

Except it’s not quite him. His eyes, though golden with sunlight and crinkled with laughter, are still unsure and frightened and somewhere inside them, as clear as day, there’s a deep exhaustion that runs a lot deeper than just the last two weeks.

As much as Aziraphale would like to continue as if those weeks never happened, they can’t ignore this. 

With a heavy heart, he shakes his head.

“I think we need to talk.”

Crowley’s smile vanishes but he nods.

“Probably.” He stays quiet for a few moments.

“I could still sit for you, if you want”, he offers then and shrugs his shoulders a little sheepishly. “Maybe it’ll… I don’t know, give us both something else to focus on?“ 

Aziraphale nods emphatically. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Crowley trails after Aziraphale with his hands in his pockets while Aziraphale sets up the easel and canvas.

“Where do you want me to sit?“ he asks. “Should I, I don’t know, do a pose?”

“Just in front of the window, dear, thank you“, Aziraphale answers. “Do whatever you like. Just make yourself comfortable.”

Crowley sits down on the windowsill, leaning his back against the wall, and looks up at Aziraphale questioningly.

“Maybe turn your head a little to the left… Perfect, thank you.” 

Aziraphale considers his subject for a moment. The light hits one half of Crowley’s face perfectly, shadows and reflections highlighting his angular features. One side of his hair is fiery with sunlight while the half that is in shadow is a deep red. The gold in Crowley‘s eyes is glinting in the sun. Perfect.

Suddenly, there‘s that feeling again. It crashes over him like a wave and nearly leaves him breathless. 

It’s the same feeling that invariably accompanies the fear and anxiety and that had accompanied the terrifying realisation he’d had last week. The feeling that’s been there ever since he‘d met Crowley, a steady, quiet background noise slowly gaining in volume that he’s just now starting to notice. The feeling that perfectly encompasses all of the things he doesn’t understand, all the questions, the confusion and hurt of the last two weeks and all the emotions he can’t put a word on. 

Aziraphale knows that this is it. Whatever it is, this is the key. If he‘d only understand this, he’d understand all of it.

With considerable effort, Aziraphale closes his eyes and drags his thoughts away. He waits a little longer while he mixes his colours, then takes a deep breath.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Crowley nods and then sighs. “Where do I even begin?”

He closes his eyes, considering, or maybe steeling himself. It’s a few minutes before he speaks.

“Do you remember when you asked me where I got the Bentley?”

“You said you stole it”, Aziraphale says, a little amusedly, and wonders where this is going.

Crowley nods.

“Well, I did. Kinda. It belonged to my parents. One day I just… took it and left. I guess I thought if I took the Bentley then they’d have to come find me.”

Aziraphale’s smile fades. “And they didn’t?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Never heard from them again. Guess they really meant it.”

He goes silent and Aziraphale looks up from the canvas. 

“What?”

“The day before I left.” Crowley’s voice is carefully neutral. “I came out to them. They… weren’t thrilled to say the least.” 

The ironic smile that accompanies the last part doesn’t look very convincing.

“They said… Well, they said a lot of things.” He shrugs his shoulders. “All the classic bullshit. That there was something wrong with me, that I wasn’t welcome there anymore, that they wouldn’t care if I just… left.”

There’s a strange pause before the last word and Aziraphale looks up and narrows his eyes. Crowley catches it and grins ironically.

“You’re right, it wasn’t ‘left’. More like ‘died’. Or ‘killed myself’.”

Aziraphale’s lips open in shock. Somehow, the careless way in which Crowley delivers the information turns his stomach even more than the story itself. Distractedly, he puts his paintbrush down on the side table.

“Crowley, that’s horrible.”

Crowley grins, no humour whatsoever visible in his eyes. “I know.” He pauses. “Do you know, I’ve never told anyone that before today.”

Aziraphale stares at him. He isn’t sure what to say to that. 

Instead he walks over and impulsively hugs Crowley. 

Crowley holds himself a little awkwardly at first but, after a moment, relaxes and hugs him back, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry”, Aziraphale whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.” He is glad when Crowley doesn’t make a joke and just nods.

When they separate after a few moments, Crowley looks away immediately. His face without the glasses is more open and vulnerable than Aziraphale has ever seen it and Aziraphale can’t help himself.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, he raises his hand to Crowley’s face and strokes his thumb gently across his cheek. Crowley’s eyes fall shut almost automatically and Aziraphale pushes down hard on all the feelings that well up inside him at the sight.

“We need to get you a therapist”, he says instead and Crowley chuckles.

“Probably a good idea.”

There’s a few moments of silence.

“Thank you for telling me”, Aziraphale says then, quiet and sincere. “I’m… glad you felt safe enough to do that.” ‘Glad’ doesn’t begin to encompass the multitude of emotions Aziraphale has about the fact but he doubts that any other word could, so ‘glad’ will have to do.

Crowley smiles at him a little wonderingly. “It’s funny. I’ve been here, what, three times, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt as safe anywhere else.”

He takes Aziraphale’s breath away.

Then stay, he wants to say. Stay here, with me, forever. If it was up to me, you’d never have to leave again.

“Anyways.” Crowley clears his throat and leans back so that Aziraphale’s hand falls away from his face. “You wanted to know what happened.”

Aziraphale snaps back to the present. “Yes, right.”

He returns to the easel and mixes a few new colours on his palette while Crowley arranges himself into his previous pose and continues.

“After I left my parents, I drove around and worked odd jobs to keep myself alive for a while. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. The only thing that really made me happy was making art. 

“Then, at some point, I met Bee at some indie art fair and they introduced me to their friends. Bee and the others… They sort of saved my life. I could sleep on one of their couches when I didn’t have a place to live and they knew people. People who had jobs for me and people who were interested in young artists. I sold my first piece because of them. But the most important thing was that, whatever you think of their style, they were artists. And they had gone through the same shit that I had. They were like me.“

Crowley pauses.

“I wouldn’t say we were friends, really. We were all too fucked up trying to keep ourselves alive and dealing with our own issues for any kind of meaningful connection. But there was finally someone to talk to. Someone who understood. I think that’s all that mattered to us at the time.”

Aziraphale’s paintbrush moves over the canvas almost by itself as he listens, entirely focused on Crowley’s voice.

“After a while, my art kind of took off. Suddenly actual galleries wanted to exhibit my work and I got paid properly for the first time. I got commissions and invitations and it was more than enough to cover my cost of living. I bought supplies and business cards and a website and all that stuff. I became a proper professional.“

“What about Bee?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shrugs. “They didn’t. They… well, they have their own views about what art should be. For one thing, they don’t like that it’s become a business. To them, art is something you do when you have something to say, never for money. I think, in a way, they’re proud of their situation because it keeps them ‘real’ artists. I think they see me as a sort of traitor to their ideals.”

Crowley sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

“Can’t say I disagree with them, really. But I had to keep myself alive and I couldn’t live like that anymore. Running from the police, earning your dinner the afternoon of the same day, sleeping who knows where when you can’t find a place to crash, … If I hadn’t gotten out of there when I did, I‘m not sure I’d have survived it.”

There’s a longer, heavier pause as Crowley stares into the distance, his expression a mixture of relief and regret.

“Are they… okay?“ Aziraphale asks carefully after a moment. “Bee and their friends, I mean. Are they… ‘surviving’?”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t think they’re okay. But they‘ll survive. They’re resilient. And much more convinced of their ideals than I was.”

“Go on”, Aziraphale prompts after a long moment of silence.

Crowley sighs.

“Not much more to say. I lived alone in my flat, didn’t make many new friends. Guess I didn’t feel like it was worth the effort, ‘cause I‘d gotten by without them before. I was making art, business was going well and I felt like, for the first time, my life was good.”

There’s another pause. When Crowley continues, his voice is quieter.

“I used to wonder when the day would come where I would finally be happy. Proud of everything I’d achieved. So I waited and waited and worked my ass off because someday, someday it had to happen.” 

Crowley swallows.

“It took me a while but then at some point, I finally just accepted that it never would.”

He looks down at his hands.

“And then I met you.”

His voice is very, very quiet. Aziraphale puts down his paintbrush to concentrate on it.

“There was something… different about you. I don’t know. You were…”

Crowley takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 

“You were wonderful”, he continues, his voice soft but steady. “I don’t know what exactly it was about you, but you were easy to talk to and you laughed a lot and I felt like you actually wanted to talk to me.”

Aziraphale can’t help but smile at the understatement. You have no idea.

“I’d never had a… well, a real friend before. And I thought, if someone like you could like me and want to spend time with me, then maybe… maybe there was some hope for me.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure what Crowley means by ‘someone like him’ but it makes his heart beat a little faster nonetheless.

Still, none of this makes sense. 

“Then why…”, Aziraphale asks, surprised by the way his own voice sounds, rough and unsteady. …did you leave me? The rest of the sentence goes unsaid but the meaning is clear enough.

“Because I realised none of it was true.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opens in protest but Crowley stops him with a gesture.

“You called me an angel.” The way he says the word makes it sound like an insult. “You said you didn’t understand how I could be so… so happy and carefree and I- I just knew.”

“Knew what?” Aziraphale asks, bewildered.

“That you didn’t actually like me. That you couldn’t because you didn’t actually know me. That you had some… strange, fantastical picture of me that couldn’t be further from the truth and… it just confirmed what I’d known all along.”

Crowley’s expression hardens. 

“Good things like you don’t happen to people like me.”

There’s silence. Aziraphale is too stunned to speak.

“Crowley-“, he begins then but Crowley cuts him off.

“No, let me finish.” He sighs. “I don’t blame you. I suppose I did act differently around you. I suppose it is my fault for not telling you things. But now that I knew… I just couldn’t keep it up anymore.”

There are a million things that Aziraphale wants to say. 

“But why didn’t you say anything?” is the first thing that makes it over his lips.

Crowley sighs. “I don’t know. I didn’t know what to do. What to say. So I just didn’t call.” He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “I guess I hoped if I waited long enough, you’d just stop and forget me and I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

There’s silence. There you have it, it seems to say. What now?

Aziraphale is at a loss for words. 

He has no idea how to explain this. No idea how to explain everything that Crowley is and everything he is to him. No idea how to tell him of the feeling, the terrifying enormity of it, or of the fear that grips his heart at the mere thought of losing Crowley, again. No idea how to say that he‘s never quite not thinking of Crowley these days or how he sometimes thinks he’d be content for the rest of his life just listening to Crowley talk or that Crowley is nothing less than the single most fascinating and incredible person Aziraphale has ever met. No idea how to talk about the way he needs Crowley, more, he’s starting to suspect, than anything else, or the way that need scares him.

How is he supposed to explain when he doesn’t understand any of it himself?

The picture is almost finished. Aziraphale picks up his paintbrush and adds a few last details, then steps back to look at his work. 

It’s done. Or, at least, as done as it’s going to get in the 45 minutes he’s had for painting it. It still looks mostly like one of the sketches he usually makes for his more detailed portraits but it is recognisable and accurate nonetheless.

Aziraphale looks at the picture for a long moment and frowns.

Something is wrong. Something is missing. He looks to Crowley, then back to the canvas, then back to Crowley. 

It’s all wrong. The figure in the portrait looks exactly like Crowley but they might as well be a different person.

The ironic smirk is missing, the faintly-mocking attitude, the affectionate grin when he calls Aziraphale angel. The emphatic gestures that underline his every word, the way he walks and moves and sits on chairs in every position except the way they are intended. The eyes that Aziraphale now knows are always darting around, curious, attentive, alive.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and sees all of it as clear as day. It makes Crowley glow, like a flame from the inside, like the sunlight in his hair, bleeding out into the air around him in hundreds of colours, like in one of his artworks.

If Crowley could see it like he does, Aziraphale thinks, he might understand. If only he could show him. Capture it in a painting. Maybe, if he was able to do that, he’d understand it a little better himself. 

But when Aziraphale looks at the painting before him, he sees only a body, much like those wax statues they have in museums, hyper-realistic with a deceptively alive expression yet always subtly creepy in their lifelessness.

“Wait a moment. I have an idea.”

It takes Aziraphale a few tries to locate the drawer with his old art supplies from school, crayons, paper cutouts and finger paint, dried out after over a decade of neglect. He fishes out an unopened tube of glittering gold paint, takes one last look at Crowley and gets to work.

To the part of Crowley’s hair that’s illuminated by the sunlight he adds golden strands with a fine brush. With a soft brush he gives the highlighted parts of his face a subtle golden hue. Then he reworks the background, darkening it and painting a subtle gold shine around the outline of Crowley’s figure. After a moment of consideration he begins adding small delicate shapes, fine lines and tiny splatters of gold paint. They look like stars or comets, he thinks and they seem to flit around the picture as if of their own free will. Lastly, he paints over Crowley’s irises with gold instead of the mix of warm brown and yellow he’d used before.

Aziraphale steps back.

“I’m finished. Come look.”

Crowley gets up hesitantly and walks around the easel to stand at Aziraphale’s side. When he finally lays eyes on the picture, Aziraphale watches his lips open in surprise and something like respect.

“It’s beautiful, angel“, Crowley says sincerely after a bit.

Aziraphale lets him look for another moment before he speaks, his voice quiet but earnest.

“It is beautiful. Do you know why?”

Crowley looks at him questioningly.

“It’s beautiful because this-“, he gestures at the painting, the gold, and tries to keep his voice steady, “This is what I see when I look at you. This is you.” Awe is slowly seeping into his voice as he speaks. “Just look. Look at you. Everything that you are.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know why his heart is suddenly beating faster or why it feels dangerous and reckless to say these things, like a confession, like admitting a secret. He ploughs on anyway.

“‘It’s not about what it is, it’s about what it makes you feel.’ That’s what you taught me. The gold, the stars and the comets, the movement and light, that is what you feel like.“ He swallows, his heartbeat racing but he has to go on now, he has to make Crowley understand, even if he doesn’t quite understand himself.

“This is what I meant. I can’t explain it. I’ve never been good with words. But this, this painting… That’s what it is.”

He looks over and sees Crowley studying the picture, golden eyes still full of doubt.

“Look at it”, Aziraphale says, almost pleading. “Look at what you do. I haven’t painted anything like this in forever.”

Crowley doesn’t answer. Aziraphale gazes at his profile, the narrowed eyes, the lines around the mouth, the slightly raised eyebrows.

He doesn’t believe it. Not really. Not yet. 

It’ll take time, Aziraphale supposes. But, one day. One day he’ll understand.

I’ll make him, somehow. Whatever it takes.

“You know what?” Aziraphale says softly after they’ve stood in silence for a while. “I think this might just be my favourite thing I’ve ever painted.”

Chapter Text

“Hi.”

There’s no answer from the various mismatched chairs and sofas.

Crowley lets himself fall onto the nearest free chair and sighs, half amused, half genuinely unsettled by the gravity of their expressions.

Bee crosses their arms in front of their chest and favours him with a severe stare. The rest of the group copies them.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders. 

“I dunno. I had stuff to do.”

Bee looks at him dubiously. “Right. What stuff? It’s been monthss.”

“Art. You know. Work.” Crowley shrugs again, feeling a little defensive. “Hung out with some people. I have other friends, you know.”

“Bullshit. No, you don’t. Name one.”

The name is over Crowley’s lips before he can think about it. Inwardly, he curses himself. Somehow, it feels like betraying a secret.

“Who the hell iss that?”

“The bloke he was texting last time”, a voice pipes up timidly from somewhere in the back. Bee turns around sharply at the interruption and the speaker shrinks into their seat, but they only nod acknowledgment and turn back to Crowley with a quizzical expression. 

Crowley, for his part, is too occupied wondering if he has ever even mentioned Aziraphale’s name to them to react to their unspoken question.

“You guys are creepy”, he tells Bee instead. “Why the fuck do you remember that?”

They firmly ignore his question. “That your boyfriend?”

“What? No!” Crowley ducks his head. “We're just friends.”

Bee rolls their eyes and groans. The rest of the group echoes them. It would almost comedic if Crowley wasn’t being aggressively interrogated right now.

“Then why the fuck are you sstill chasing him after three months? Move on, Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry, exactly how is this any of your fucking business?“ 

Crowley is getting genuinely annoyed now. Sure, he could’ve probably come around or at least talked to Bee and the others a little more often in the last couple of months but he’d had so much going on and so many other things on his mind and, actually, when he really thinks about it, those are all bullshit excuses.

Maybe, he realises, the truth is that he just hadn’t needed their company anymore, not like he had in the past, when he simply didn’t have anyone else.

“You know what, I’ll tell you why”, Crowley says after a moment. 

“Because he’s lovely. I don’t care if you believe me, but yes, I do actually have another friend. And he’s fucking wonderful. He listens to me and he’s someone that actually takes me seriously for a change and he cares about me being happy. I’ve started going to therapy because of him and we do art together and he makes me happy but I guess you wouldn’t understand what that’s like. And it’s really fine that he’s not in love with me, it really is, because my life is so much better just by having him in it at all.”

“You’ve been doing what?” 

Bee is staring at him blankly. Any hint of teasing is gone from their face.

Crowley meets their eyes resolutely, knowing exactly which part Bee has taken issue with. “I’ve been going to therapy. You should try it. I promise they’re not gonna brainwash you.”

Bee stays silent. Their stare slowly turns from disbelieving to cold. When they finally speak, their voice is calm and laced with venom.

“Lissten closely, Crowley. I don’t need someone to fix me. I know you think you’re sso much better than us with your career and your city apartment and your positive mindset and I know you think you’re being charitable and generous and such a fucking good person but guess what. You’re not. 

“I know you, Crowley. I know all the things you did. I know who you are. And, trusst me, you will never, never, be one of them, no matter how hard you try. They will never accept you, unless you hide and cut off every part of yourself that makes you an individual. You might be willing to do that but I’m not. 

“I fought to be here. I carved out a space for myself in a world that doesn’t want me to exisst and it wasn’t fun and it was bloody. But I fucking survived and, what’s more, I did it all on my own. So no, I don’t need someone to talk about my feelings with me and help me become normal again, so I can get a job and assimilate happily into a ssociety that wants me dead. But good to know that you do.”

For a moment, Crowley is shocked into silence.

He pushes down the impulse to simply punch Bee in the face and tries his best to calm his voice, though to little avail.

“That’s not what this is about, Bee”, he hisses. “You know that. What the fuck is wrong with wanting to be happy? Have you ever tried it? Or are you so stubborn that you’re just going to stay miserable and angry your whole life out of spite? The world out there isn’t nearly as much of a hellscape as you think it is. Of course there are assholes but there are also wonderful, wonderful people and-“ 

Crowley’s voice breaks and he swallows. 

“Bee, please. It gets so much better than this.”

Bee unfolds their arms and shrugs.

“Then go. Go back to your wonderful life and your wonderful boyfriend and get your mind nice and brainwashed and comfortable. And don’t ever come back here.”

Crowley’s mouth opens in shock.

“Bee-“

“Leave.” Bee’s voice is cold and emotionless.

“Listen, Bee-“, Crowley tries again.

“And do not fucking call me that!” they explode at him. 

“Do you know how I’ve fought and suffered to be who I am? Do you know what I’ve sacrificed for this name? You of all people should understand,  Crowley, or should I say-“

Crowley cuts them off before their lips can form the syllable.

“No”, he snarls. “You don’t get to say that. I get that I hurt you and I’m sorry but you don’t get to call me that.”

He is only met with a cold stare and an unspoken but unmistakable get out.

So he does.

Crowley leaves and goes back to his maybe-not-quite-wonderful-yet but certainly much-better-than-ever-before life and to his definitely-wonderful but definitely-not-boyfriend and he tells Aziraphale about the fight. 

Six months ago he would’ve gone back to his flat, drunk a little too much and woken up the next day with a headache and yet another wall around his heart, never to let anyone in or anything out. A profound sadness settles in the pit of his stomach when he realises Beelzebub is probably doing exactly that right now.

Chapter Text

Everything is perfectly lovely when the phone rings this time.

The first rays of the autumn sun are falling through the window, Crowley is sprawled out on the couch with his eyes closed, sunglasses carelessly thrown aside, and Aziraphale is taking his time capturing the soft, warm glow of his hair on the canvas.

Perhaps that’s why the sudden shrill noise seems all the more jarring. Aziraphale’s head whips around and immediately, he can feel something settle uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. There’s only one person who still calls his landline phone.

Crowley opens his eyes and peers over at him curiously while Aziraphale puts down his paintbrush and takes a calming breath.

Don’t get worked up now. Whatever she says, it doesn’t matter. 

With a sigh and an apologetic look at Crowley, he walks over to his desk. 

Nothing you haven’t heard before. Nothing to be upset about.

His hands shake a little as he picks up the phone.

“There you are. What took you so long? It’s not like you have anything important to do.“

Aziraphale closes his eyes and tries to ignore the tight feeling in his chest. Just keep it short.

“Hello, mother.“

“No how are you? Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, does it now. Listen, -“ 

“I’m sorry, mother“, Aziraphale interrupts her, as firmly as he can manage. “But I have a friend over, I really can’t talk right now.“

He can almost see the suspicious look creeping onto her face.

“A friend? What friend?“

Why do you always ask that? It’s not like you know a single one of the people I spend time with. Or like you care to know.

“You don’t know him“, Aziraphale answers shortly.

“Of course it’s him.“ She scoffs. What the hell is that supposed to mean?  

His mother sighs dramatically. “You know, for some reason, I still had hope. That it’d be a her one of these days.“

Aziraphale almost laughs. You really still believe that?

But he stays quiet. Of course he stays quiet.

“I suppose I should’ve given up that hope long ago“, his mother sighs, the familiar melody of disappointment and bitterness playing around her every word. “I‘ve always known, you know. I’ve always known there was something wrong with you. Even as a boy. You’ve always been… soft. I was hoping you had grown up and become a man sometime in the last decade but I suppose I was wrong.“ 

She sighs again. 

“It's never going to be a she with you, is it?“

Boiling hot anger rises up to Aziraphale‘s throat. His free hand grips the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turn white.

He wants to shout at her, he wants to scream, he wants to hang up the phone without a word. He wants to cry.

He feels utterly pathetic.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she says, it doesn’t matter.

Radio static is slowly drowning out the voice in his head.

“He’s just a friend“, he grits out and ignores his mother‘s snort.

“Well, anyways, this isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.“ As if nothing particularly unusual just happened, she launches into a detailed description of a conversation she’s had with one of her church friends‘ husbands.

Aziraphale switches his attention off her and tries to focus on taking calming breaths. 

It shouldn‘t matter to him. Not anymore. He shouldn’t let her words get to him like this. 

He doesn’t care what she thinks, he really doesn’t. He knows it’s okay, the way he is, and it’s been years since he‘s last wished he were anything but.

So why does it still feel like nothing has changed? Why is a single call from her enough to reduce him right back to the scared, cowering thirteen year old boy, hiding from the world behind century old books and hiding from himself behind perfect pencil drawings?

“Are you even listening to me?“

Aziraphale startles out of his contemplation.

“Excuse me. I was… distracted.“

“Hmpf. Well, as I was saying, Sarah‘s husband said, his brother bought a first edition of… well, of something or other, I forget, and that it was quite expensive.“

“Did he?“ Aziraphale tries his best to sound interested.

“Yes. And, well, I thought, we have a few of those in the bookshop, don’t we.“

“Four“, Aziraphale says automatically.

“Yes, thank you, I know. I looked into your grandfather‘s catalogue.“

“Well?“ Aziraphale asks, wondering where in all heaven this conversation is going.

“I’ve decided to sell them.“

He must’ve misheard.

“You‘ve… what?“

“You know I‘m getting rid of the shop at some point and, well, you have to start somewhere. I’ll get back to you when I hear from a buyer.“

“No.“ Something is rising up in Aziraphale‘s throat again and this time, it’s ice cold panic. He can feel Crowley’s stare on his back. “No, you can’t do that.“

Her voice is impassive as always. “Of course I can. They’re my books, remember? And it’s my shop. You’re lucky I’ve let you waste your time in it for as long as I have.“

“But-“

“No buts. You heard me. I’ve waited long enough for you to do something with your life. I think what you need is a little shove. Maybe it’ll get you out of the fantasy world you seem to live in.“

Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest but the receiver clicks with chilling finality.

For a moment he just stands there, frozen in shock, until, suddenly, a hand on his shoulder startles him back to reality.

“Everything alright, angel?“, he hears Crowley ask carefully from behind him. 

Aziraphale quickly presses his knuckles into his eyes to get rid of the few tears that he hadn’t even noticed have formed there and slips his practiced smile back on before turning around.

“Yes, dear, don’t worry about me. Just a disagreement with my mother, nothing new, really.“ He laughs humorlessly. “Well, let’s get on then, shall we?“

Flashing a hopefully convincing smile at Crowley, he quickly goes to return to his easel.

“Aziraphale.“

Aziraphale closes his eyes.

“Yes?“

“Look at me.“

Aziraphale turns back to him with a smile, like he’s indulging Crowley. 

How silly of you to worry about me. See? I’m alright. Nothing I’m not used to by now. 

Nothing like what you had to go through. 

Crowley takes a hard look at him with lovely, honey-coloured, concerned eyes and, for a moment, Aziraphale is distracted.

Crowley nearly always takes off his glasses at Aziraphale’s flat now but Aziraphale has yet to get used to it. At least, he assumes that that‘s the reason for why his gaze invariably catches at the sight of those eyes and why it always takes him a fraction of a second too long to look away.

Suddenly, Crowley’s arms are around him. 

Aziraphale freezes. Every one of his impulses is trained to reassure, to dissemble, to never take more than he needs. But for once, just this time, he is caught off his guard. In the second it takes his head to catch up with his heart, he’s already put his arms around Crowley and hugged him back.

Aziraphale breathes in and out slowly and finally manages to recover some semblance of calm in between his racing thoughts. Crowley doesn’t let go of him. 

Instead, he begins slowly drawing little soothing circles on Aziraphale‘s back. Almost automatically, Aziraphale rests his head on his shoulder and closes his eyes. Funny, how Crowley’s shoulder is the perfect height for him to be comfortable like this.

Crowley’s hand slowly moves higher and higher. Then his fingers are in Aziraphale’s hair and Aziraphale shivers involuntarily. He could stay like this forever.

But Crowley pulls his hand away rather abruptly and lets go of Aziraphale. For a second, Aziraphale mourns the loss of contact, then he quickly schools his face back into a smile.

“So, what happened?“ Crowley asks, crossing his arms. There are two little spots of colour on his cheeks and Aziraphale’s heart melts a little at the sight.

He forces himself to look Crowley in the eye and sighs.

“My mother“, he explains, “wants to sell a few books from the shop. Four first editions. They’re… well, I suppose they are worth a lot of money but I would never sell them. They’ve been in the shop pretty much as long as they’ve existed, which, for some of them, is well over a century. I just… can’t bear parting with them.“ 

He shrugs his shoulders sadly.

“I’ll try everything I can to dissuade her of course but in the end, they belong to my mother and she can do whatever she likes with them.“

Crowley is silent for a bit, then he scoffs and calls Aziraphale‘s mother a rude word and Aziraphale has to laugh in spite of himself.

The picture turns out a lot more detailed than Aziraphale had planned, mostly because he can’t quite manage letting Crowley go and being alone yet.

When Crowley finally does leave, he gets one of the first editions from the bookshelf and begins rereading it for what is probably the 100th time, with each page sinking further into a world a hundred years away from his own problems.

Perhaps, he thinks wryly, his mother had been right. 

He hasn’t changed at all.

——

‘Any updates on the book situation?’

The message blinks hopefully on Aziraphale’s phone. 

Aziraphale sighs deeply and texts back.

‘No good news, I’m afraid. Nothing I said would convince her. She says she’s already found a buyer. No wonder, she’s selling all four for less than one of them is worth. -Aziraphale’

It takes less than a minute for Crowley to reply.

‘I’m sorry’

‘Can’t you do a miracle, angel?’

Aziraphale smiles sadly.

‘Good idea, though not within my power, I‘m afraid. -Aziraphale’

Chapter Text

Nothing.

There’s absolutely nothing he can do.

Aziraphale has been wracking his head about it for three days and nights and still hasn’t come up with anything. The chances that that is going to change within the next half hour are slim at best.

Still, he keeps on sitting stubbornly on his couch, staring at the four books lined up on the coffee table, and thinks.

There has to be something he can do. There has to be.

There isn’t.

Aziraphale wants to cry. He wants to shout, at the world and the unfairness of it all and especially at his mother. He wants to call her and tell her all the things he’s always wanted to say to her face but never had the courage to and then hang up before she can say something to pin the blame back onto him.

Of course Aziraphale does none of those things.

Instead, when he hears the doorbell ring a quarter of an hour too early, he gets up obediently, if with a bitter expression.

He takes a moment to gather himself, swallows heavily and schools his features into a polite smile. Then he opens the door which somehow seems a lot heavier than usual, and is greeted with an unmistakable half-grin.

“Crowley?“

Crowley is indeed leaning in the doorway, smiling at him somewhat cryptically.

“Hi. Can I come in?“

“Bit of a bad time, I’m afraid. I’m waiting for the buyer who’s coming to pick up the books.“

Crowley‘s smile becomes a touch wider. “Hadn’t you better invite me in, then?“

A bit of emotional support wouldn’t hurt, Aziraphale supposes.

“Alright. But don’t try to meddle, will you. It’ll only be more trouble.“

He steps aside and Crowley flashes him an amused smile that Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand before skipping up the stairs. 

When Aziraphale enters the living room a moment after him, Crowley is already inspecting the books on the coffee table.

“So these are the goods, are they?“ He picks up one of them, turns it in his hands and whistles. “Wilde. Wow, even I can tell those are worth something tidy.“

“Well, yes, they’re very precious and very old, so would you please be careful…“ Aziraphale walks over quickly and reaches his hand out for the book nervously. “Just give it to me, will you?“

“What, my book?“ Crowley pulls it away and grins at him, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, please just give it- what do you mean, your book?“

With a flourish, Crowley reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper and gives it to Aziraphale.

“My book“, he repeats with more than a little self satisfaction.

Aziraphale stares at the document. His eyes skim the text quickly and finally settle at the bottom, where, side by side with the swirling signature of his mother, there is a short scribble which very clearly resembles Crowley’s handwriting.

Aziraphale looks up incredulously.

“How did you-“

Crowley shrugs his shoulders, clearly trying to act nonchalant, but his eyes give him away. They are shining with a mixture of mischief and pride and he looks nothing less than beautiful as he holds the book out to Aziraphale. 

“Miracle.“

He takes Aziraphale’s breath away.

I love you, Aziraphale thinks and in the second before he takes the book from him, it doesn’t seem like a revelation at all.

Then his fingers close around the small leatherbound tome and suddenly, it’s like clouds parting or like opening a door that was never locked in the first place and seeing sunlight for the first time.

Oh.

That’s what it is.

I love him.

Aziraphale waits for the realization to hit him, for the world to turn upside down, for the sudden change to make him stumble and fall. 

Nothing happens.

Rather, it‘s as if he’s had the thought a thousand times before, a feeling so ancient he can barely remember a time when it hadn’t been there and so natural he can only wonder how he hasn't noticed it until now.

“You alright, angel?“ Crowley’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence, shaking him out of his trance. 

Aziraphale quickly smooths over his expression and nods hastily.

“Yes, yes, just… thank you, Crowley.“ 

The words are right there in his throat, fighting to get out, and Aziraphale briefly wonders if he didn’t prefer before, when he couldn’t hear his heart beating in his ears and when he didn’t have to watch his mouth lest something slip out accidentally.

“That was very kind of you“, he manages and Crowley scoffs.

“Not kind. Just what friends do.“ If Aziraphale thinks he hears him hesitate a fraction of a second before the word ‘friends‘, then that is surely just his own wishful thinking.

“I’ll give you the money, of course“, Aziraphale says and turns away busily to look for his wallet but Crowley waves away the notion with his hand.

“It’s a present.“

“Nonsense“, Aziraphale insists. “You’ve done enough for me, the least I can do is pay you back.“

Crowley shakes his head. “It’s alright, really.“

“Well, there must be something I can do for you in return.“

Crowley’s eyes widen a fraction and he clears his throat but Aziraphale ignores him.

“How about I invite you to dinner tonight?“ 

“If it makes you happy“, Crowley sighs but Aziraphale knows him well enough by now to recognise the little pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I love you, he thinks and wonders if he’s ever going to be able to stop thinking it now.

——

And so what if the restaurant is only dimly lit and there are candles on the table between them? So what if the wine tastes better than any of the bottles he’s had before and there’s a certain air of significance to the conversation that wasn’t there before?

So what if he can’t keep his eyes off Crowley, if he feels like he’s floating a few centimeters above the ground the entire time, if the words are always right there on his tongue?

It surely isn’t any fault of Aziraphale‘s that he can’t quite keep his expression from betraying him whenever he catches a glimpse of Crowley’s eyes underneath the sunglasses or whenever something he says makes the corners of Crowley’s mouth lift into a tiny smile. 

So what if Crowley notices? 

After all, what does it matter?

Chapter Text

Aziraphale is making tea.

Tea is calming. Tea is good for his nerves.

It’s not like Aziraphale has anything to be nervous about, really. After all, this is far from his first exhibition and a pretty small one at that. 

He glances through the open door of the kitchen at the paintings lined up on his living room wall next to a frankly stupendous amount of bubble wrap. There are eight paintings in total, lined up and waiting patiently for him to finish his tea. Among them is the first portrait he’d painted of Crowley.

Five of them, in fact, show Crowley in some way, either as a portrait or as a smaller part of the composition. The other three are cityscapes and a sort of still life, even though it doesn’t really seem very still at all, much like the rest of the paintings. The golden shapes and lines flitting around the picture have become somewhat of a theme in his pieces since that first portrait, as has the different painting style. 

In a way, it does feel like his first exhibition after all. At least, the first exhibition that’s truly his.

The kettle boils and Aziraphale carries his tea into the living room.

He has actually painted a lot in the last months, much more than he has in a long time. They’re mostly views of London or random objects from his flat, most of them books. Crowley had only sat for him four more times and two of those times, his figure isn’t even the centrepiece of the picture. Still, when the invitation had come in the mail and it had been time to choose which of the paintings to exhibit, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to leave even a single one of those five behind.

There is simply something about them, he thinks now, studying them anew. Their colours seem to shine brighter than those of the other paintings and their compositions seem somehow more alive than even the picture of the busiest of London streets during rush hour.

Just like with the first portrait, Aziraphale has already spent hours staring at each of them after finishing, trying to figure it out, trying to understand what brushes he has to use or what contrasts are needed to give his other paintings the same effect.

It seems almost ridiculously obvious now.

‘Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.‘

Aziraphale looks at each of the paintings in turn and feels almost light-headed. It’s all there, clear as day, in the colours and the brushstrokes and the gold, as obvious as if he’d written it out across Crowley’s face. I love him.

A slight uneasy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach at the thought. Aziraphale takes a long sip of his tea. Nerves, that’s all.

Wrapping the pictures turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated. The sheets of bubble wrap he’s bought are too small and he has to tape several of them together to cover an entire canvas. It’s a little annoying and much more time consuming than he’d expected and, after ten minutes, he’s almost cut his finger instead of the tape twice and the feeling in his stomach still isn’t gone.

Another sheet, another piece of tape, zip, cut, attach. It could almost be satisfying if it wasn’t so tedious. Another one and another and, finally, the first picture, one of the cityscapes, is finished.

The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach persists. Aziraphale moves on to the next painting.

Aziraphale is often nervous. It’s almost his natural state of being. Aziraphale worries about almost everything almost all of the time.

So, it’s really no use lying to himself. Aziraphale knows this feeling very well and it isn’t nerves. It’s- well, it’s nonsense.

Complete nonsense, he tells himself and cuts off another piece of tape. 

Complete and utter nonsense. Childish, really. However lovely and fitting the quotation might have seemed to him a few moments ago, that doesn’t change the fact that it is from a book, about a magical portrait of all things, and therefore complete and utter nonsense. This is the real world and the portraits are just portraits and no one is actually going to see any kind of hidden truth in them. Get a hold of yourself.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale picks up the next piece of bubble wrap. His stomach only seems to sink further. When he grabs the knife again to cut off the next length of tape, he finds that his palms are sweating.

This is ridiculous. It’s just a painting. No one is going to see. 

He cuts off a piece of tape and takes another sheet of bubble wrap. Zip, cut, attach.

And even if they did, so what? God knows he’s not ashamed of this. Not anymore.

He’s fine. He’s fine now and he has been for years and this is stupid. His hands tremble a little as he cuts off the next length of tape.

Zip, cut, attach.

It’s fine. 

No one is going to see. 

There’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with him.

There’s nothing to be afraid of.

So why are his hands shaking?

Aziraphale tries to cut off the next length of tape and narrowly avoids cutting his finger instead. Slowly, he puts down the knife and steadies himself on the edge of the sofa. He feels sick.

What on earth is wrong with him?

He’s fine. There’s nothing to be afraid or ashamed of. He knows this. He knows it.

So why does he still feel like this? 

Suddenly Aziraphale is nine years old again, he’s thirteen, seventeen, at Sunday school, in church, at home.

Stop it.

He’s twenty nine years old, in his own flat, in London, far away from all of them and he’s fine. Really.

He’s not fine. Everyone is watching him and they all know. 

They all know exactly what he thinks about, they can see it in his face and they despise him. He knows it. 

He sees how they watch him every Sunday, entering the church with his family. They think he shouldn’t be here. He is sure of it, and, worst of all, he thinks they’re probably right.

Stop. Stop. Shut up.

Even his mother. His mother most of all.

The whole family. They all know what he is.

His father looks at him and wishes he would change. Aziraphale wishes he could. His mother looks at him and wishes for a different son. Aziraphale can’t bring himself to fault her. His siblings look at him with pity and then move on. Aziraphale considers it a mercy.

“I will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes”, another quotation from the same scene goes but they are not here, they’re in another city, another life and they don’t have any power over him here so he really should just forget them and calm down. Please.

It’s useless and he knows it because the truth is that they are here, always, in the back of his head, watching and judging everything he does, everything he thinks.

Aziraphale hasn’t noticed that he’s started crying but now he feels the tears rolling down his cheeks and can’t stop anymore.

Pathetic, he hears one of them say and he isn’t sure if it’s his mother, his father or one of the others. It doesn’t matter. They’re all thinking the same thing.

Stop. 

Stop!

Shut up!

Just leave me alone!

Please.

—— 

Crowley is, rather unfashionably, early for Aziraphale’s exhibition.

He even takes the time to park his Bentley lawfully in the parking lot next to the gallery instead of in front of it and turns down the music blaring from the old cassette player. (It isn’t easy to find music he likes on cassette tapes nowadays but he had lucked out at a thrift market once and found a ‘Best of Queen‘ one.)

Still humming a tune that roughly resembles the melody of ‘Breakthru‘, he saunters into the building and even smiles at the attendant welcoming him.

Crowley looks around the lobby but there’s no sign of Aziraphale yet. In fact, the whole gallery still seems relatively deserted, with only a few guests already admiring the pictures. Leisurely, he makes his way through the different rooms and scans the walls for Aziraphale’s work, stopping occasionally to appreciate a particularly clever or fun piece.

Entering the fourth room, Crowley suddenly stops dead in his tracks.

Looking at him from the opposite wall, with a crooked smile and a piercing look, is his own face. 

Not just once, either, but three times and all of them right next to each other. Upon further inspection he finds himself in two of Aziraphale’s other five paintings as well.

Crowley steps closer slowly, almost timidly.

He knows these pictures, of course, and of course he had told Aziraphale he could do whatever he wanted with them but he hadn’t expected to ever see any, let alone all of them in an actual exhibition.

They certainly deserve their place here though, he thinks as he studies them. The paintings are beautiful, skillfully painted and alive with colour, movement and expression and Crowley feels his cheeks heat a little as he admires the meticulously detailed renderings of his own face smiling back at him from the canvases. 

The gold accents that adorn the paintings look like stars and Crowley is suddenly overcome with a wave of adoration for the artist. ‘This is you’, Aziraphale had said and Crowley is sure he’s never told him about the stars and his love for them but somehow, Aziraphale had gotten it right, so perfectly right that it almost embarrasses Crowley for the paintings to be displayed in public.

Why has Aziraphale chosen these pictures to exhibit? Crowley remembers very clearly the stacks of paintings of all kinds cluttering up Aziraphale’s hallway, stairs and even the closed down bookshop. Dozens and dozens of pictures to choose from, the entirety of Aziraphale’s work from the last few months, so why these?

“Okay, he’s actually obsessed with you. Damn.”

Crowley almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden dry voice right next to him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bee- I mean Beelzebub- no, he’s not-“, he sputters, then takes a breath and settles on, “What are you doing here?”

Beelzebub shrugs. “I knew you’d be here. Wasn’t that hard to guesss. Goes both ways, no?”

Crowley bites down on a defensive retort. Next to him, Beelzebub crosses their arms and studies Aziraphale’s pictures sceptically.

“Can’t believe you’re still pining for him. Took me less than a day to get with the guy I’ve been…”, they smirk, “seeing for the last few weeks.”

Again, Crowley’s head turns in surprise. In all the time he’s known them, Beelzebub has pretty much never spent more than one night with the same person.

His mouth opens, then closes again uncertainly. What is he supposed to say now? What is he even supposed to say at all? What the hell does Beelzebub want from him?

“I’m ssorry for the deadname thing”, Beelzebub says after a moment. “That was kinda fucked up.”

Crowley almost doesn’t believe his ears. Beelzebub never apologises.

“I’m sorry too”, he manages after having gotten over the first of his astonishment. “About the nickname. I didn’t realise.”

“It’s alright. It’s not like that.” Beelzebub admits gruffly. “I mean, I hate it, obvioussly, but…” They shrug their shoulders. “…it’s alright.” If it wasn’t such an absurd notion, Crowley would almost swear that the corner of their mouth ticks up a miniscule amount.

They stand in silence for a little while until Beelzebub speaks up again, seriously.

“You’re still one of us, you know that, right?”

Crowley hums thoughtfully.

“I don’t think I am.”

“You are”, Bee tells him. “And you always will be. Nothing you or I can do about that.”

It’s as close to a peace offering as he’ll ever get. Crowley offers Bee a conciliatory half-smile, and receives a hard stare in return. Their expression has gone back to their customary scowl with no traces of vulnerability left to be found, just as if the last two minutes had been nothing but a dream.

Crowley opens his mouth to say something when Bee suddenly turns around and boxes him in the ribs.

“See that guy?”

The room is filling up now as more and more visitors drift inside and it takes Crowley a few seconds to find who Bee is looking at.

“Grey suit?”

“Yep.”

“Who is that?”

“Name’s Gabriel. One of your boyfriend’s lot.”

“Ex-lot, first of all, and second, that’s Gabriel?” Crowley makes a vague noise of distaste. “I’ve heard about him but I’ve never seen him. He looks-“

“Hot, right?” Bee fixes the guy with a leer.

Crowley’s head whips around. He must’ve misheard.

“Hot?” he echoes. “What the actual fuck are you talking about? I was gonna say-“

He breaks off because, right in that moment, Gabriel sees them and, eyes lighting up, makes a beeline in their direction. Bee raises their hand in greeting and Crowley’s eyes almost pop out of his head. They are actually, genuinely, smiling.

“You’re kidding me.”

He looks back and forth between Gabriel and Bee incredulously.

“You’re actually joking. Bee, come on. You can’t be serious.”

“What?” They shrug their shoulders and give him a shameless grin. “He’s not so holy as he looks.”

Crowley doesn’t get a chance to respond because Gabriel arrives and immediately strikes up a conversation with Bee, without even a sideways glance in Crowley’s direction. It’s all Crowley can do to gape at the pair.

Bee’s remarks are sarcastic and morbid as always, of course, but Crowley knows them well enough that they might just as well be giggling and kicking their feet, judging by the hint of a smile that sticks around in the corner of their mouth the entire time. And Gabriel- Crowley wouldn’t have guessed that pretentious wanker was even capable of a genuine smile, let alone a laugh, but he seems to be honestly enjoying Bee’s unsavoury brand of humour.

This is unbelievable. This is insane. He has to be dreaming. First the paintings, then the apology and now this?

Speaking of. 

“I need to go find Aziraphale”, Crowley excuses himself and quickly extricates himself from the conversation. The two lovebirds don’t even spare him a glance.

A small crowd of visitors has gathered around each of the pictures by now. Still, it doesn’t take long to spot Aziraphale’s white-blonde curls at the far side of the room. Crowley makes his way over and waits for Aziraphale to finish conversing politely with a small group of interested guests.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims when he finally spots him after the group has left. His smile is as bright as ever. Perhaps a little too bright.

Crowley narrows his eyes at him.

“Are you alright?”

Aziraphale’s smile becomes a touch wider and noticeably more unnatural.

“Yes, of course, dear. It’s all going terribly well, isn’t it?”

“Don’t lie to me”, Crowley says, concern overshadowing any questions he had meant to ask Aziraphale. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale fidgets with his hands but the smile stays firmly on his face.

“Nothing at all, Crowley, really. There’s just so many people and so many conversations to have and I’m just a little stressed, that’s all. I think- oh, excuse me, Crowley, there’s Nina, the curator, I have to talk to her, goodbye-”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest but Aziraphale has already turned away to greet a dark-haired woman in a leather jacket and left him standing alone.

He doesn’t get a chance to talk to Aziraphale again for the rest of the opening event. Aziraphale always seems to be absorbed in conversation or nowhere to be found, presumably on important organisational duties, and the unsubtle stares he gets from guests that recognise him as the subject of the portraits do nothing to help his patience.

If I could only reach you, if I could make you smile, Freddy Mercury sings on the cassette player when Crowley eventually gives up and drives home, in a considerably less sunny mood than he had arrived in.

——

“I really love the pictures. Have I told you that?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you, dear.”

It’s the last day of the exhibition. Most of the guests that have come for the closing event have already left and the room is now almost deserted. 

“The gold bits look like stars.”

Aziraphale nods in agreement. “They do, don’t they?”

“I love stars. Space, planets, astronomy, all that stuff. Always have.”

Aziraphale’s head turns in surprise. “Do you?”

Crowley shrugs. “It’s a hobby. There’s a planetarium not far from here. I could take you.”

Aziraphale hums.

“I’d love that.”

Crowley risks a look at him. 

Aziraphale seems absorbed in the paintings. He looks pleased but the tightness about his face that’s been there since the opening hasn’t disappeared. Crowley takes a breath.

“Aziraphale, what’s going on? And don’t say nothing. It doesn’t really become more believable the more often you say it.”

Aziraphale glances up and meets his eyes for a second, before quickly looking away again, his smile slipping.

“I’m sorry. I just- not right now.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue but Aziraphale fixes him with a pleading look.

“Can’t you just leave it?”

“Aziraphale-“, Crowley begins but Aziraphale has already turned away.

“I’m sorry, I have to go help Nina pack up. I’ll see you.”

With that, he leaves. Crowley stares after him helplessly.

Chapter Text

It’s beautiful. 

They’re sitting in cushioned chairs, tilted back slightly to allow for an easier view of the dome-shaped ceiling on which star systems, planets and galaxy clusters appear in turn, labelled and accompanied by a small blurb of information each. 

Crowley knows something more about each of them and is explaining it to Aziraphale in whispered tones so as not to disturb the handful of other visitors. The room is dark, except for the minimal light from the projected stars on the ceiling. Crowley has even taken off his glasses. Gently, the false starlight falls on his face, barely illuminating it but reflecting in his eyes, like tiny mirrors containing all the universe.

Aziraphale can’t take his eyes off him.

Beautiful.

He doesn’t know what possesses him. Maybe it’s the dark, maybe it’s the spellbound silence. Maybe it’s that marvellous creature sitting next to him.

Suddenly it just feels so easy.

“Crowley?“

Crowley tears his eyes away from the ceiling and looks at him expectantly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.“

Crowley furrows his brow. “For what?“

“For the last few weeks. For not talking to you.“

Aziraphale takes a breath.

“I’m… I‘m just not used to having someone to confide in. And… well, it’s stupid. It’s nothing, really, compared to the things you’ve told me. But I guess that’s hypocritical. If anything was worrying you, anything at all, I’d want to know too.” 

He pauses for a moment, then adds quietly, “I don’t want this to bother me so much. I hate that it does. I want to be… strong. I want to be there for you whenever you need me.”

Crowley hesitates for a second, then offers his hand on the armrest between them. Aziraphale takes it gratefully. 

“So, what is it? What’s wrong?” Crowley asks gently, after a moment of silence.

Aziraphale looks away a little sheepishly.

“It was the portraits. I thought…“

He breaks off. 

Suddenly, his heart is beating way too fast for his liking, his hands are sweaty and there’s a roaring in his ears making it difficult to concentrate.

He hasn’t thought this through, has he? Just started talking without knowing where he would end up. This is why he always thinks things through, this is why he overthinks them. 

There’s a reason he’s like this. It’s to ensure that precisely this doesn’t happen. To make sure that he doesn’t accidentally reveal anything, that not even a hint of unwelcome truth ever reaches the wrong ears. It’s for survival, or at least it used to be.

But Crowley’s aren’t the wrong ears. They’re precisely the ears that are supposed to hear it. Aziraphale wants them to hear it. 

Would the truth be unwelcome? The thought almost seems absurd. Whether Crowley feels the same or not is inconsequential because Aziraphale has never felt safer with anyone.

Well. He’s done it now, anyways. There’s no going back anymore.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, takes a breath and grips Crowley‘s hand a little tighter. 

“I thought… everyone will be able to tell that I’m in love with you.“

It takes an astronomical effort not to open his eyes to see Crowley’s expression but Aziraphale soldiers on.

“I panicked. And I know, I know there’s nothing wrong with it and that after so many years I shouldn’t… feel this way anymore and I should just be able to let go and move on but… I can’t.“

Aziraphale hangs his head.

“They’re always there, in my head”, he admits quietly. “My mother, my father, my siblings, all the people from church, they’re always there and…“ He shrugs sadly. “I think maybe I’ll just feel like this forever.“

“No.“

The intensity in Crowley’s quiet voice takes Aziraphale by surprise and he looks up.

“No, you won’t. Listen to me.“

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand into both of his and meets his eyes. There’s something positively burning in them, some vast depth of emotion, and Aziraphale couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“I know”, Crowley begins. “I know it feels like nothing is ever going to change. Like it’s never going to get better. I know. I thought the same thing, for… I don’t even wanna think about how many years, but it did. Everything changed. And you know why?“

Aziraphale shakes his head.

“Because of you. Because you stayed. You cared. You helped. And you didn’t give up on me even when I made it as difficult as possible. You were just… there.”

He takes a breath.

“Aziraphale, I… I’m there, too. Always. Whatever you need.“

There’s silence. Crowley is searching his eyes as if waiting for an answer but Aziraphale can’t for the life of him think of a single thing to say.

It’s a long moment before either of them makes a sound.

Then, gently, so quietly Aziraphale almost misses it, Crowley whispers.

“Aziraphale?“

Aziraphale holds his breath. 

“Yes?“

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s hand becomes a little tighter.

“Can I kiss you?“

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Automatically, they flit around the room and Aziraphale curses himself. With an effort, he forces himself to focus on Crowley’s face.

But Crowley has already looked away and his hold on Aziraphale’s hand has loosened.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“Yes“, Aziraphale interrupts him and tightens his own grip to keep Crowley from pulling away.

Surprised, Crowley looks up at him. Aziraphale watches him hesitate for a second and then look around the room himself and follows his gaze.

There are a few other visitors sat several rows in front of them and some a little distance behind. Absorbed in the spectacle on the ceiling, not a single one of them is looking in their direction.

Crowley’s gaze lands back on him.

“Are you sure?“

This time, Aziraphale doesn’t take his eyes off him.

“Yes.“

Crowley swallows and hesitates for a few more seconds, searching Aziraphale’s eyes for any hint of reluctance, any sign of discomfort. Then, with an intake of breath, he leans over and kisses Aziraphale.

Suddenly, it’s quiet.

The voices in the back of his head protest and talk over each other, but Aziraphale can’t hear them. It’s just him and Crowley and the stars above them and, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t care what they’d think of him, what they’d say if they saw him.

Aziraphale covers Crowley’s hands with his other hand and kisses him back.

And oh, how right he had been about the stars. Aziraphale can feel them, taste them, in everything that Crowley is, burning bright and beautiful, an entire universe full of them, much bigger and much more real than the one on the ceiling above them.

“I love you“, he whispers when they part and Crowley returns the words almost immediately. Contained in them is a whole new universe and Aziraphale can’t wait to see all the wonders it holds.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale throws a last glance at the mirror in the hall and brushes down the lapels of his coat for the hundredth time before rushing down the stairs and out the front door, where a vintage black Bentley is already parked in the no parking zone in front of his house. A shadowy figure, similarly dressed all in black, is leaning onto its bonnet.

Aziraphale’s lips curve into a smile of their own accord and the nervous pace of his heart slows down a bit at the familiar sight. It’s just Crowley, after all, and they’re just going to dinner like they’ve done dozens of times before.

No sooner has he locked the door behind him than Crowley has stepped away from the car and into the light of the doorway.

“Hi“, he says and gives Aziraphale a crooked smile that makes Aziraphale’s heart speed up a little again. This, at least, is new, the racing heartbeat and the butterflies, and Aziraphale isn’t sure if he likes it or not.

But then again it’s only natural, he supposes. Crowley simply looks breathtakingly handsome with his silky black blouse shimmering softly in the lamplight and a pair of narrowly cut black trousers accentuating his waist. 

“Hello, Crowley“, Aziraphale replies. Then, after hesitating for a second, he adds, “You look good.“ This is a date, after all.

Crowley’s cheeks turn a lovely pink colour and he makes an undefinable noise in answer. Aziraphale can’t help but beam at him.

Neither of them can think of anything else to say after that. 

Crowley clears his throat. “Well, then. Should we…“, he motions toward the car, “Let’s go?“

Aziraphale nods quickly and follows him to the Bentley, where, instead of getting inside, Crowley waits for him on the passenger’s side, bowing theatrically before holding the door open for him. Aziraphale’s heartbeat flutters.

How absurdly silly this all is. How absolutely ridiculous.

It’s just another dinner and they’re just… well, them, as they’ve always been. In a lot of ways, it doesn’t feel like anything should have changed at all.

And yet, how wonderful, too, he thinks as he gets into the car, unable to stop smiling.

“Are you going to tell me where we‘re going?“ he asks when Crowley has gotten in as well, taken off his sunglasses and thrown them into the glove compartment.

“Nope“, Crowley answers and flashes him a mysterious grin, while he puts the car into gear and turns on the cassette player. ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy‘ begins playing softly from the speakers and Aziraphale feels a surge of affection at the little pleased look that appears on Crowley‘s face as he gently nods his head to the music.

For a moment, Aziraphale lets himself just look at him.

Half of Crowley‘s hair is tied back into a tidy half bun, the other half spilling out luxuriously across his shoulders, and long, slender gold earrings resembling an abstract version of a snake with a tiny red stone for an eye, glint together with his irises every time they pass a street light. Black eyeshadow and dark lashes frame his eyes, only intensifying the gold in them.

The overall effect is nothing less than enchanting but something about it is strange, too. He’s never seen Crowley like this before, all made up and respectable. Even at his most important exhibitions, he’d never made this much of an effort. 

Aziraphale shakes off the feeling and, with an effort, tears his eyes away, instead catching sight of both their reflections in the windshield.

They make an interesting pair, he thinks, him in his best suit and Crowley in his formal outfit. Comfortably traditional and strikingly modern, beige and light blue and gold and black, a perfect complementary contrast in almost every way, and Aziraphale can’t help but feel that this is exactly the way it’s supposed to be. 

Light and shadow. Order and movement. Traditional and modern art. Him and Crowley. Side by side, next to each other, forever and ever, if he has anything to say about it.

The drive is over way too soon and Crowley pulls into a parking spot before Aziraphale has had time to fully realise where they are.

“Crowley, you can’t be-“ he begins, staring out the window and then back at Crowley in disbelief. There are a lot of things on the tip of his tongue suddenly, first and foremost something along the lines of ‘have you gone insane?‘.

“I’m not dressed for the Ritz!“ he settles on instead.

Crowley only snorts and turns off the engine. “You’re always dressed for the Ritz, angel.“

Barely a second later he is already at Aziraphale’s door, opening it and holding out his hand.

“Coming?“

What the heaven are they doing, Aziraphale wonders as he takes it and lets Crowley lead him inside.

It’s lovely, of course. The food is heavenly, the wine almost unspeakably expensive  and just as good and the conversation even better. 

As soon as they sit down and begin actually talking for the first time this evening it’s almost like normal again. Almost like nothing has changed at all. 

Aziraphale could almost feel at ease in the intimate familiarity of it all, if only it didn’t take just one look away from Crowley and at the expensive furniture and gilded wall trims for him to be reminded exactly where they are and why and for the subtle undercurrent of inexplicable nervousness to make itself known again.

When they sit back down in the car almost three hours later, Aziraphale can’t suppress a quiet sigh of relief.

“What’s wrong?“ Crowley asks, immediately worried.

Aziraphale smiles at him.

“Nothing, dear, it was lovely. Really.“ He takes Crowley‘s hand. “Thank you“, he says sincerely.

Crowley smiles back at him but it still seems a little uncertain. Aziraphale’s heart constricts almost painfully. Dear God, how he adores this wonderful creature.

It must show on his face, he thinks, and yet Crowley’s expression is still so unsure, so anxious to have done everything right, so nervous to have made a mistake. It tears at Aziraphale’s heart.

You still can’t see it, can you? How wonderful you are. How perfect.

And that’s what’s been bothering him all evening, isn’t it? Not how different everything had been but how much Crowley had felt the need to make it so.

Aziraphale presses Crowley’s hand to get his attention.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know that, right?” he says gently. “I’d have enjoyed myself just the same anywhere else.” He smiles softly, foolishly probably. “As long as you’re there, I couldn’t care less about all the rest.“

It’s a marvel to watch Crowley’s face change, slowly, flickering through shades of surprise, wonder and affection and finally settle into a careful, impossibly soft smile.

Dear God, how Aziraphale adores him. 

He doesn’t want this night to end yet, or, if he’s honest, ever. Perhaps at least one of the two might be arranged.

“Would you like to come up to the flat for a little while? Have another glass of wine? I still have an open bottle from last time, not nearly as exclusive as the one just now, of course, but-“

“Yes.” Crowley nods, before Aziraphale has finished speaking. “Of course, angel.“

Crowley is half sitting, half lying on the sofa when Aziraphale comes back into the room, two wine glasses in hand. He sits up, takes one of the glasses with a grateful smile and raises it. 

“Well then. To what should we toast?“ 

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at him as he raises his own glass.

To you. To everything you are. To the stars.

“To-“

The phone rings.

Aziraphale’s face falls.

No. No. Not now. Why now?

For a second, he considers ignoring it. Maybe she’ll give up if he doesn’t answer the first time. Maybe she’ll think he isn’t home.

He dismisses the idea, of course.

Partly, because he knows she won’t. There’ll be a new call every ten minutes or so from now on if he doesn’t answer this one.

But also because something about it doesn’t sit right with him. He hates it, hates that he has to hide from her in order to have just one nice, peaceful evening, hates that she’ll do it again without a second thought the next time, and the next, and the one after that.

Maybe it’s due to the wine, maybe due to present company. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale is suddenly seized by a strange determination.

No. Not now.

“I’ll be right back“, he promises and puts down his glass resolutely. He walks over to his desk and picks up the phone.

“I’m very sorry, mother, but I really cannot talk right now“, he says firmly, cutting her off before she can say anything.

“Oh, of course, don’t even let me get a word in first. Let me guess, you have a friend over?“

Aziraphale’s jaw sets. That's enough.

“Actually, he’s my boyfriend. Good night, mother“, he hears himself say. Without waiting for an answer, he hangs up the phone.

For a long moment afterwards, Aziraphale just stands there, unmoving, his hand frozen on the receiver, not quite comprehending what just happened and not quite regretting it, either.

Then, slowly, he turns around, seeking Crowley’s eyes as if looking for an explanation or for reassurance, a confirmation that this is real and not just a bizarre dream. 

Crowley is still sat on the sofa and staring at him with his mouth open.

For a moment, neither of them says a word.

Then, suddenly, Crowley is across the room, holding his face in his hands and kissing him.

It’s only the second time since the planetarium and Aziraphale fairly melts under his touch. This is real, he thinks as he pulls Crowley closer, burying his hands in the mass of gorgeous red hair, and kisses him back. This is real and, somehow, it’ll all be alright because you’re here, with me.

“I love you”, Crowley breathes when they part. “I love you.”

His eyes are very wide and darker than usual, his face soft and his makeup a little smudged at the corners and Aziraphale can’t help but kiss him again.

Here. With me. Forever.

Until the end of the world.

Chapter Text

“I’ll be with you in a minute!” Aziraphale calls from somewhere behind the numerous, ceiling-high bookshelves at the sound of the bell above the door.

“We’ll be late, angel!” Crowley calls back, throwing his sunglasses down on the nearest table out of habit, even though he’s going to need them again in just a minute. He’s already sweating from the perfect July weather outside, and the nervousness thrumming under his skin certainly isn’t helping either.

Aziraphale ducks out from behind a display case filled to the brim with old books and other antiques and beams at Crowley by way of greeting.

“Already?” he says and glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Oh dear, you’re right. I hadn’t noticed the time passing. I’ll be with you in a second.”

“Muriel?” he calls while taking off and neatly folding his white cotton gloves, reserved for handling the numerous fragile objects in the shop. Almost instantaneously, a dark curly head appears from behind the nearest bookshelf.

“Here!”

Aziraphale smiles and turns to them. “Could you take care of the shop alone for a bit? We’ll be back in-“, he turns to Crowley with a questioning expression, “-three quarters of an hour?” Crowley shrugs, then nods.

“Something like that. Make sure everyone is careful with the- well, everything, if those children from last week come in again, tell them to wash their hands before touching anything and… oh, if Tracy comes by to talk about her portrait, give her some tea and tell her I’ll be back soon and that I-“

“Angel”, Crowley interrupts with a meaningful look at the clock.

“Right, yes“, Aziraphale says quickly. “Well, I trust you’ll manage alone for an hour, dear.”

Muriel salutes, beaming at him. “You can count on me!”

Aziraphale gives them a grateful smile and pats their arm once before turning back to Crowley who has already put his sunglasses back on.

“Ready?” Crowley asks, offering his hand.

“Ready”, Aziraphale answers and takes it.

It’s only a ten minute walk to the little park that Crowley has been asked to create a central art piece for but still, when they arrive just a minute before the unveiling is supposed to start, they are both out of breath from the heat and the hurry. Crowley gives the district representative an apologetic smile but she doesn’t take notice, too focused on the singular index card in her hand.

Somewhere in the distance, church bells strike on the hour, and the young, blonde woman claps her hands and begins addressing the small crowd of people standing on the grass, scattered around the nearly two metre high veiled object in the middle.

“I’m just as curious as all of them”, Aziraphale says under his breath, nudging Crowley. “You usually show me everything you’re working on.”

Crowley gives him what he hopes is a mysterious grin and prays that Aziraphale can’t hear his heart beating. 

The little introduction of Crowley, the park and the project only takes a few minutes. Then, as soon as she has finished speaking, the district representative pulls the veil off the piece in one neat motion. 

There’s a round of applause from the group. Crowley smiles politely at everyone and even receives a smile back from the representative this time.

He’s pleased with how the piece has turned out. It’s simple, simpler than his artworks usually tend to be, but possibly one of his favourites. A small tree, no taller than one and a half metres yet, is growing on the grass, through the gaps of a wooden easel which is splattered with colourful paint and has feathers stuck to it, the glue and all the other materials of course biodegradable.

Despite the simplicity of the piece, it had been one of his more complicated processes, not least because of the difficulty of sneaking away to take care of the tree without Aziraphale getting suspicious. Making his idea come to life had been nothing but an exercise of patience, gently shaping the growth of the branches with bits of string, collecting feathers and finally carefully relocating it to the park a few days ago. But, somehow, it had all worked out and now the day has finally come and Crowley has had months to figure out what to say and there’s absolutely no way this can go wrong anymore. 

Not that that helps his nerves at all.

He turns his attention back to Aziraphale who is beaming at him and clapping softly along with the others.

“So, d’you like it?” Crowley asks, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.

“It’s beautiful, darling”, Aziraphale replies. “The perfect piece for this place.” Crowley can’t help but smile to himself, pleased, relieved and just the slightest bit proud.

And there it is.

The moment he’s spent the last months worrying and dreaming about. The moment he’s been planning and waiting for for nearly half a year. He rubs a hand over his mouth nervously. Somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s had enough time to prepare.

“What… what do you think it means?” he asks, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

Aziraphale chuckles and rolls his eyes at him. “‘It means whatever you think it means’, I assume?”

Crowley has to smile. “Not this one. This time there’s a correct answer.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows at him and Crowley shrugs his shoulders. “Humor me.”

“Alright.” For a few moments, Aziraphale is silent, gazing intently at the living sculpture before them.

“Well”, he begins then. “The first thing I see is art. The easel, the colours. Then, nature. Tree, feathers.” Aziraphale chuckles. “It’s very you, all things combined.”

Crowley nods appreciatively. “Go on.”

Aziraphale hums. “The sculpture isn’t static, it’s changing, living. The tree will grow through the gaps, the two parts will fuse together over time. Or the easel will disintegrate first. I suppose that would also make it part of the tree, somehow.”

“Mmh”, Crowley makes. “What else comes to mind, about a tree?”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “It’s massive, sturdy”, he replies then. “Lives for a very long time. It’s always in the same place. Reliable, but not unchanging. It  grows  for a very long time, too. Never stops growing, I suppose.”

He turns to Crowley and it’s obvious he’s having fun. “How am I doing?”

“Very well”, Crowley answers truthfully. “Really well. You know me way too well by now for this to be a challenge.” He takes a breath. “Everything you said is right. There’s just one thing you missed.” The most important thing. So obvious, and Aziraphale doesn’t see it, just like Crowley had known he wouldn’t.

“Explain it to me, then”, Aziraphale says, curious.

Crowley nods. His heart is beating much, much too fast and no, he’d been wrong before because this is it, this is the moment he’s been waiting for, for months and months and, suddenly, he doesn’t remember a single thing he’d planned to say.

Not that it matters, really.

After all, it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

His hands tremble a little as he takes off his glasses and puts them away in his shirt pocket. The sun is very bright and Crowley suddenly feels naked. 

Not that any of that matters.

Crowley takes a shaky breath, and explains.

“Growth. Growth that never really stops. That’s correct. Two parts fusing into one over time, indistinguishable and inseparable, and continuing to grow as one. That’s right, too. Always there, reliable, for a very very long time. Longer than we’ll live, probably. That’s basically forever.” He clears his throat. “Also correct.

“The bright paint. Plants. Me. You said that, too. You only missed the most important part.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, intrigued. “What’s that?”

Crowley takes a breath. “Look at the title.”

The little metal plate stating Crowley’s name and that of the artwork is a few metres away from where they’re standing. Aziraphale gives him a bemused look and takes the few steps towards it. Keeping his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting, Crowley stays behind and watches him. He doesn’t have to look at the little sign to know what is written there.

‘Crowley, for: The London Gardens Trust’, it says, ‘“Angel”’

Aziraphale turns around, his expression a mix of touched and confused.

“It’s you”, Crowley says. “The part you missed, I mean. The feathers, the easel.

“The whole piece…” He swallows, unable to keep his voice steady anymore. “The whole piece is… us. Both of us, together. It’s not that one part’s me and the other’s you, it’s just… us. The whole thing.”

Aziraphale looks at him wonderingly.

“I- That’s… lovely, just…” His voice is quiet, careful. “Why did you make this?” 

Crowley takes a few steps to close the distance between them. “Because I needed to tell you. And I- I didn’t know how. An art piece seemed… appropriate, I guess.”

He takes a deep breath.

“What I’m trying to say, Aziraphale, is… We’ve known each other for a long time now. We’ve been… us for a long time. And this… this isn’t a proposal, really - though we can talk about that if you like - it’s just… I love you and- ngk. And I would like to spend-“ Crowley’s voice breaks and he has to blink to disperse the ridiculous tears that have formed in his eyes.

Aziraphale is looking at him with very wide, very blue eyes and this, this is it, this is the moment Crowley has been waiting for, this right here. There’s absolutely no way he can falter now. With an effort, he swallows the tears and goes on.

“And I would like to spend the rest of my life with you. I want- I want to be with you, beside you, forever.”

It’s not a question technically, but it is, of course it is, even though Crowley knows the answer, after so many years he knows, knows Aziraphale wants this as much as he does, knows because Aziraphale has said it a hundred times, casually, as if it hadn’t turned over Crowley’s world every single time. And yet, he holds his breath.

There’s a second in which Aziraphale looks at him with amazement and wonder and love, always love. One second in which there is silence, nothing more to say, everything finally out in the open. One second before Aziraphale steps towards him and kisses him.

So much has changed over the years. Now, there are people all around them, people who have likely been talking about Crowley and his work up to this second, and Crowley can feel their eyes on his back but Aziraphale doesn’t even hesitate. Crowley’s hair is shorter now, too, too short for Aziraphale to bury his hands in, so he cups Crowley’s jaw instead, brushing his thumb lightly across his skin in a way that always makes Crowley shiver.

So much has changed but this, this has always stayed exactly the same. Crowley lets the tears roll down his cheeks as he kisses Aziraphale back, desperate and gentle and perfect, just like the first time, just like every single time.

“Yes”, Aziraphale whispers when they part. “Yes, of course. You perfect, incredible…”

Crowley notices there are tear streaks on his cheeks as well and bites his lip against the wave of emotion that comes over him at the sight.

“I love you”, he whispers and closes his eyes briefly to dispel his own tears.

“I love you”, Aziraphale replies and reaches for his hand. 

“Forever”, Crowley says, asks, promises, he isn’t sure.

Aziraphale intertwines their fingers and smiles at him, blinding and brighter than the summer sun. “I’d accept nothing less.”