Archive of Our Own

The old window creaked as Crowley pushed it open. Cold air ruffled his spiky red hair, carrying with it the lingering scent of rain from earlier that day. Bumps rose on his arms, but he simply pushed the window further back and pulled the sleeves he had up till then bunched up to his elbows, down to cover his fingers.

It had barely been a week since Crowley moved in, along with his best friend. The small flat had been unoccupied for the better part of a year before they got the keys, so the stale, dust-laden air was almost stifling. The days were only getting colder, with October right around the corner, but having a window open throughout the day was almost a necessity.

“Ugh, remind me to add some air freshener to the grocery list for tomorrow,” Anathema groaned as she plopped on the thrifted couch. It was old but comfortable, its bumps and dips offering a sense of familiarity as one melted against the cushions. Still, a small cloud of dust engulfed her as she propped her feet up on the coffee table.

“Lot of good that’ll do,” Crowley scoffed lightly, even as he scrawled the words on the piece of paper stuck to the dingy fridge door. “Told you we should’ve waited a couple of days before moving in. Should’ve cleaned this place up first.”

It was a familiar disagreement. Anathema had been so excited when her search finally proved fruitful, that she barely let him get a word in edge-wise before signing the papers. Not that he’d had an objection about the space—it was kind of crammed sure, but it had two bedrooms and a kitchen that fit a dining table and a small living room setting, so he couldn’t complain. Especially not when he had spent the four years prior to that sharing a three-bedroom flat with six other people. That had not been… fun.

Also, it was fairly close to both their jobs, in a quiet neighbourhood, and it had parking space. No matter that he didn’t have a car, yet. He was working on it.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Anathema said, her feet propped up on the coffee table. “The only thing that can save this place is if we tear up all the carpets and wallpaper.”

Crowley gave her a stern look. “Which we are not going to do.”

“Obviously,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m just saying—”

Thankfully, before Anathema had the chance to finish her sentence and send Crowley’s blood pressure skyrocketing, soft notes wafted through the open window, rich and long. It wasn’t much, but he quickly recognised the familiar sounds of tuning a violin; slow, measured strokes of a bow across two strings at a time, the slight fluctuation in pitch until the musician was satisfied. It was a sound he hadn’t heard since he was a teenager, from the back of the auditorium as the string section of the school band tried to tune their instruments. It carved a melancholy smile on his lips before he even realised.

“Pleeease let that not be a child,” Anathema grumbled, throwing her head back. “I grew up across the street from someone learning the trumpet—ugh, you have no idea how torturous those first few years are.”

“You do know I grew up playing the guitar, don’t you?” he chuckled, pushing away the curtain so he could trace the source of the sound; now trickling scales, flawlessly gliding up and down the instrument with dizzying speed. Not a child, then.

“That’s different, though, isn’t it? Guitar is quiet, and it sounds good no matter what you’re doing.”

“Not the way I was doing it,” Crowley snorted.

His gaze landed on a silhouette moving across the street. Behind light blue curtains, he could just about make out the unmistakable point of the bow as it slid almost effortlessly up and down the violin, the ramrod straight back of the instrumentalist and a puffy cloud of messy short curls.

Crowley was not one for poetry, but the way the shadow danced along with the melodies, shoulders strong, muscles bouncing under their shirt… The silent confidence, the careful reverence; it was mesmerising.

The figure disappeared quickly after that, even as the music still travelled across the empty street.

“So?” Anathema prompted, glancing up at him with a wince. “Do I need to invest in a good pair of ear-plugs?”

He cleared his throat, pulling the curtain and securing it to the side before hesitantly walking away. “Seems like a professional—or close to it, anyway,” he said with a tight chuckle. “Your precious ears are saved.”

“Oh, thank God!”

It turned out, their neighbour was very diligent about his practising. Every day, just after six o’clock, the soft, concentrated drags of the bow echoed across the street. It went on for hours at a time, and it wasn’t long before the music became the soundtrack of Crowley’s evening routine. It started no more than half an hour after he had made it home from work, accompanied him as he prepared his dinner, then continued to provide delightful backup melody to the steady stream of the overhead shower.

It wasn’t always the same pieces, and even more rare were the passages he worked on, again and again, but Crowley found he was entranced by each and every one of them. They were so different than the music he was used to; languid and melodic where his playlists were fast-paced and ear-piercing; airy and bouncy, contrasting the harsh gravel of the guitars and drums he usually listened to.

It was unprecedented, how eager he was to take his earbuds off and let his neighbour’s harmonies flood the small flat.

Just as the neighbour was about to finish the first run-through of a particularly challenging piece, Anathema’s bedroom door opened. She had been locked up in her room the entire evening, busy with a video-call while Crowley lingered in the living room, a thin blanket over his shoulders when the temperature dropped a little lower than comfortable.

“Fuck, it’s chilly out here,” she complained, reaching for the window handle without a second thought.

“No, don’t—” Crowley jumped up from where he was lounging on the couch, blanket pooling on his lap.

Anathema gaped, raising an eyebrow. She wrapped her arms around her torso, hair ruffled by the wind as she paused in front of the half-open window. “You’re not cold?”

“I-I like the breeze,” he lied, biting back a smile when the violinist managed to play through the bars he had been struggling with for the past hour.

After staring at him for a few seconds in disbelief, she simply sighed and pushed the window fully open again before going back to her room. She reappeared a few minutes later, in a dark green hoodie that reached the middle of her thighs and bright pink, fuzzy socks on her feet.

Crowley smiled, shaking his head. Californians.

The days continued much in the same manner. It took a few dedicated evenings, but by the beginning of October, the flat had started to take shape, an almost seamless blend of both Anathema and Crowley’s personalities. Scattered among Anathema’s colourful, mystical posters hung Crowley’s droopy pothos—it was supposed to be droopy, it wouldn’t dare wilt otherwise—away from the occasional sunlight. The vibrant hoya branches had started hesitantly climbing the rod he had provided them with, clashing wonderfully with the dark burgundy of the curtains.

And—to both their delight—a combination of fresh plants, lots of open-window time and the reluctant burning of incense had finally defeated the faint mustiness of the previously closed-in flat.

No reason to freeze themselves now, was there? Which is probably why Anathema’s eyes had widened so much behind her glasses that Crowley feared they would just pop right off when she found him curled in the corner of the dust-free couch, blanket pulled up to his chin and window wide open.

“Have you gone completely insane?” she cried, rushing across the living room, leaving behind her a track of small puddles as the tips of her dark curls glistened with rainwater. “You’re going to catch your death!”

“It’s fine, I’m used to this,” Crowley drawled, stubbornly willing the slight chattering of his teeth to ease.

The window banged closed—whether that was due to Anathema’s sheer strength or the aid of a particularly strong gush of wind he couldn’t tell. The steady pitter-patter of the rain stopped immediately, along with the melancholy melodies floating through the opening. Crowley frowned, eyes searching the restless figure across the street.

She turned to him, eyes still threatening to jump out of their sockets, hands gripping her hips like a disappointed mother. “Okay, I’m gonna catch my death!”

“‘s just a little rain!”

“It’s not—Crowley, it’s barely 50 degrees_10^oC outside!”

“Oh yeah? Boiling hot, then,” he managed to quip, earning another glare.

Seriously, 10 years in the country and she insisted on the wrong temperature unit.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

Crowley smirked, admittedly more relaxed now that the temperature had started rising again. “No can do.”

She took a deep breath, finally shedding her coat, darkened from the water. “How long have you been sitting like this?”

“Couple of hours,” he mumbled, all his attention focused on the hem of his oversized hoodie.

“What the hell has gotten into you?! You’re the person who wouldn’t stop shivering unless the temperature was at a balmy 80_{Approximately 27^oC}.”

“In Scotland, this is summer weather,” he stated, lips stretched into a tight smile.

The thunder that made the floors buzz disagreed.

“If you insist on dying a slow and very cold death, I’m going to ask that you do it in your own bedroom,” she said at last, pulling the curtain over the window with a pointed glare.

The first time Crowley saw the violinist up close, he had to do a double take. And another. And another, for good measure. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Of course, logically, he was aware that the person who had been serenading him for the better part of a month had a life outside the frame of his window. But the last place he expected to run into the man was the bus stop 5 minutes away from his building.

Again—logically, he knew the chances of that happening were actually quite high.

It was a cold morning, the sun barely visible through the thick, dark clouds, threatening the upcoming downpour. Crowley only wished he would have time to make it to work before the skies opened. He pulled the strap of his satchel up, feigning a search for something in it to steal another glance at the violinist.

His instrument was nowhere in sight, his hands instead clasped in front of his stomach, clad in brown, leather gloves, but it was definitely him. Even under the multiple layers of clothing—and a damned tartan bow-tie, peeking from underneath his equally tartan woollen scarf—the strong build of his shoulders, the elegant way he carried himself; it was unmistakable. Not to mention the silver puff of curls on his head, catching the hesitant light just right to create a hazy glow over it. It suited him. Even though the man couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Crowley himself, the old-fashioned style looked perfect for him, the pale colours making his flushed cheeks stand out.

The man glanced up at him, and it was only when the full force of the grey-blue eyes hit him that he realised he had stopped pretending to look for anything and was, in fact, staring right at him. The violinist, in turn, blinked slowly at him, mouth slightly ajar with confusion—a question hanging by the edge of rosy, plump lips.

Don’t look at his lips, you idiot!

Crowley gulped, grateful for his dark glasses that offered him just the slightest benefit of doubt and focused his attention on the flashing board above the man’s head. Pursing his lips in feigned consideration, he racked his brain for something—anything—to say to him.

I’ve seen you play—no, that sounds stalker-ish.

You’re even prettier up close—yeah, like that’s a normal thing people say.

Your music makes me feel less alone—

Before he had the chance to come up with anything appropriate to say, the tell-tale screeches of the bus dragged a yelp out of Crowley’s lips, which in turn prompted the widening of the violinist’s eyes.

Great, now he thinks you’re a weirdo and completely mad.

The man walked around him, sparing him a fleeting glance before he disappeared inside the bus, the gentle chime of the ticket validation machine ringing in Crowley’s ears.

It wasn’t every day that Crowley walked to the bus stop to find the violinist already waiting. Sometimes, he arrived short minutes after he did, others he wouldn’t show up at all. Nevertheless, the evening practice sessions remained a constant, without a minute’s delay. It was comforting, knowing that no matter how his days started, they would always end with the sweet melodies of Beethoven and Brahms.

Crowley had been… researching. Getting informed on classical music. Specifically, classical violin. It started slow—a piece he remembered from his school band days, a frantic shazam search on a YouTube ad, finally googling what the silly jingle his washing machine played at the end of the cycle¹ was. Soon, violins cast in dim lighting and portraits of classical composers had taken the place of broody album covers and flashy concert shots on his Spotify homepage.

“Oh, oh, can you wait for me?” Anathema asked him one morning just as he was about to walk out the door.

She had hopped out of her bedroom, coat hanging from one arm, the hand of the other struggling to pull her shoe over her heel. Crowley barely heard her, the music in his ears (Mendelssohn’s Violin concerto no 2) already reaching a crescendo by the time the door swung open.

Her coworker usually picked her up, since they lived a few minutes out of his way to work. Apparently. The fact that both their old flat and the new one were convenient for him to drive to hadn’t been discussed much. Crowley was certain that the man had an extra incentive for volunteering to be Anathema’s cab driver, but he had opted to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Newt’s not driving you today?” he asked, voice gruff and a little tense. He had been gathering up the courage to talk to the violinist one of these days and making an appearance with Anathema at his side was sure to prove counter-productive. For a multitude of reasons.

“No, he’s out sick for the rest of the week,” she said absent-mindedly, tip-toeing to see her reflection in the corner of the small mirror she had hung herself—while wearing 4-inch heels. “I’m thinking maybe bringing him some… soup, or something, after work. That’s a thing people do, isn’t it? Bring each other soup and meds when they’re sick. Or-or some… I don’t know. Some tea? Is it treason for an American to bring tea to a Brit?”

For the first time since he had first met his friend, she sounded uncertain. Anathema, who usually wore her confidence like a crown, fretted over treats to bring to her sick coworker.

Crowley bit back a smile, opening the door wider for her to walk out before him. “Soup, yes. Tea, he’s probably stocked up on. Some VapoRub would prob’ly go a long way, though.”

She threw him an exasperated glance over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t be stupid.”

“No no I mean it! Get him all nice and cosy, rub some cream on his chest and boom, next thing you know you’re in his pants.” He laughed, expertly dodging her backwards slap. “Careful not to rub the cream anywhere else, though,” he added with a hiss.

“You’re horrible!” Anathema cried, even as she giggled and blushed. “And who says I even want to get in his pants anyway?”

“Oh, puh-lease! Last time I was sick you barely spoke to me for an entire weekend!”

She smirked and elbowed him gently. “Last time you were sick, you had Victor looking after you,” she said, raising her eyebrows when she mentioned their old roommate’s name.

“Mmm, yeah, you’re right.” He nodded slowly, then gave her a sly smile. “And you know what Victor did? Rubbed VapoRub aaaall over my chest. And we all know how that went,” he said pointedly, throwing a wink over his sunglasses.

She shoved him again, both their laughs echoing in the empty street. “Ugh, disgusting!”

“It was unexpectedly… not-unpleasant.”

“No!” she cried, pushing her palms over her ears.

“Kinda tingly—”

“I don’t want to hear this, shut up!”

“Burned a lot—”

“I am actually in pain, please, for the love of God stop it.”

He stopped, but only because the bus stop came into view, and along with it the familiar bundled ball of angel.

What happened in his thoughts, remained in his thoughts.

The violinist’s gaze snapped up to them, and he shifted slightly in his spot as they approached. His hand—as always covered in dark leather—flew to his blond curls, shaking some thin droplets away.

Crowley gulped, barely managing to stop the besotted smile that threatened to split his face in half every time he saw the man. They had yet to exchange a single word. Their only interactions had been matching grimaces of sympathy when the flashing announcements on the board changed from “arriving in 2 minutes” to “arriving in 13 minutes”.

Anathema, for once not perceptive enough to catch the shift in his demeanour, sighed as she came to a stop beside him. Right on her other side, the angel-looking man stared resolutely ahead.

“Okay but—” she said, and Crowley had to struggle to recall what they had been talking about. “Don’t you think it’s a bit… too forward?”

He frowned, blinking down at her stupidly. “Wot?”

“Appearing on his doorstep with soup and meds!” Anathema cried. “What if— What if he thinks I’m weird?”

“When have you ever cared about what someone thought of yeh?”

“Crowleyyy!” she whined, then bit her lip.

She was actually nervous. That was unprecedented, what was the date again?

He let out a long, exasperated breath. “Look, that man would probably melt into an anxious puddle if you showed up carrying rocks. I’m sure he will find your soup the best thing his mouth has been blessed with.”

“You think so?”

“I really, really, do.” He shook his head, unable to hold back his smile at the face of his friend’s glee. “I swear his glasses make his heart eyes look enormous.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the angel duck his head, the edges of a smile barely visible underneath his thick scarf. His stomach did three somersaults.

“Oh, stop it,” Anathema playfully shoved his shoulder, snapping him back into the present.

“Honestly,” he continued with a smile, keeping an eye on the violinist, “I’m scared I’m gonna have to keep him from fainting every time you so much as smile at him, it’s disgustingly sweet. Proper Disney cartoon fawning over you. Like-Like Bambi, wobbly legs and all.”

This time, he was certain he caught a stifled snort. Crowley’s eyes snapped up, and instantly met with the violinist’s. Neither looked away for a moment, smiles growing and blushes deepening.

And of course the damned bus chose that specific moment to screech to a stop, startling the angel out of their joined stupor and sending him off with an apologetic smile. Crowley’s eyes tracked him until he was seated behind the dingy windows. And as the bus sped away, he was sure he caught the corner of a lingering smile on his face.

“Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you really rub VapoRub on your…?”

He snorted, at last turning back to Anathema with a sly smile. “Not mine.”

“Oh, Lord…”

The next time Anathema returned home and found him curled up under a mountain of blankets with the window wide open, she paused in the doorway instead of screaming at him.

“Please,” was all she said, just as the angel had started the second part of his concerto—Korngold’s violin concerto in D major, Crowley was proud to say after extensive research which demanded every tiny bit of his musical knowledge.

“Wot?” he mumbled, eyes wide. The fast run was about to begin, and he clenched his jaw, stretching his neck to hear the violin over Anathema’s steadying breaths.

“Just… explain to me,” her words were slow and measured, the bridge of her nose pinched so hard her fingers turned white, “what could have possibly changed in your brain ever since we moved here that would make the fridge warmer than the flat.”

The music flowed almost effortlessly, slightly slower than the actual tempo but he had no doubt he would—

“Crowley!”

“What?!”

“Are you even listening to me? What are you—”

Her eyes followed his, settling right on the blond angel across the street. Only when the music stop did Crowley turn to her with a sheepish smile.

“Oh…” Her face shone with glee, mouth spreading into a wide grin. “I see…”

“Y’see what?” he grumbled, getting up to close window but lingering there for a few seconds, barely catching the man’s shoulder as he packed up his instrument.

Just before he left the room, he turned to the window, gaze falling right on Crowley for a few seconds. The red-head froze, hand gripping the handle for dear life. The man’s lips spread into a hesitant smile, before he waved his hand in a—frankly adorable—greeting and left the room.

“You could’ve just told me you were stalking our neighbour,” Anathema said conversationally, pointedly raising the thermostat.

“I’m not— I wasn’t—”

She ignored him, chuckling to herself. “You know, I thought I saw some sexy looks at the bus stop but I figured it was all in my head.”

“What are you— What looks?”

Her head fell back with her laughter, and then she levelled him with a firm look, even as her eyes glinted with amusement. “Remember when you compared Newt to Bambi?”

Crowley frowned. “Yeah?”

She sighed, patting his shoulder as she passed by him. “That metaphor was better suited to how you look at him, lover boy.”

Before he had the chance to formulate any sort of semi-cohesive response, she disappeared down the hall and into her bedroom, her own cackles echoing along the way.

Ever since that evening, she never complained about the cold again. She simply returned home from work every day, looked at the window, then at Crowley—the thick layers over him increasing as time went on—and retreated to her bedroom with a shake of her head, only to reappear 5 minutes later with three zip-up hoodies on.

“Move over,” she grumbled, her voice muffled behind her steaming mug of tea.

He pulled his legs underneath himself, making space for her to sit and bury her legs under the mountain of blankets.

“So.”

She blew on her tea, and the angel started playing a piece Crowley didn’t recognise², so he strained his neck to hear better. It was a sombre introduction, slow and mellow at first but growing stronger as the notes trickled in. It wasn’t long before the melody evolved into warm, radiant light, pulling a serene smile and a wistful sigh out of Crowley.

“Hmm?” he mumbled absent-mindedly, taking the offered tea she made for him and holding it.

“Are you ever going to talk to him or are we going to spend the rest of our days here freezing to death?” Her tone was light, as if what she was talking about was something minuscule, mundane.

Crowley spluttered, thankful he hadn’t taken a sip of his drink yet. “I’m— I’m— I’m working on it, okay?”

“I’m just saying, if you ask him out then maybe you will be able to be over there when he plays, where I presume it’s nice and warm, and not over here, where we’re about to get a polar bear for a roommate.”

He wished he could tell her she was exaggerating, but the punishing wind rattled the open window before he could speak.

Maybe she had a point. It was the middle of November, after all.

Crowley spent the entire upcoming weekend mulling over his conversation with Anathema. He had to admit, keeping his window open and pining from afar didn’t seem like a viable plan, in the long-term. He would have to figure something out, and quickly. The thought of being in the same room while the man practised was… too enticing to let it pass.

The following Monday, Crowley woke to the sound of thunderous rain, the drops rattling his windows like pattering stones. He groaned into his pillow, hoping the covers pulled tight over his head would make the day pass without him having to move.

No such luck.

His plans to dress to impress were foiled by the intensified wet onslaught. Any outfit he picked would get lost underneath his long rain-coat or spluttered with mud on the way to the bus stop. No matter. He had made up his mind, he would be damned if he didn’t find a reason to talk to the angel.

He barely caught Anathema’s “go get him tiger” before he flew out the door, heart rattling loudly in his ears and hands shaking from more than the cold. He left more than ten minutes earlier than he usually did, in the hopes of getting more time with the man, should today be a day he would make an appearance.

He caught the flash of white-blond curls, blurry from the rain running down his forehead and into his eyes—he would have to buy an umbrella some time soon. When the man turned to him, his smile shy but certain, he knew there was no mistake. The leather around his knuckles was pulled taut as he gripped the handle of his—freaking tartan, of course it’s tartan—umbrella, but he extended it to reach over Crowley’s head as well, when he came to a stop beside him.

Crowley checked the flashing board. 7 minutes. Right. That was plenty of time.

“Hi,” he said, turning to the man with a shaky smile. He had to do something about his breathing; it was still coming out slow and heavy in thick, puffy clouds. This was why he never ran anywhere.

“Hello,” responded the angel, just as breathless as he was.

Crowley watched him with a big, utterly besotted grin. This was the first time he had heard the man’s voice. It wasn’t what he expected—he didn’t even know what to expect—but it fit him perfectly. Light, and cheerful, lilting in a way that made the melodies he was so used to pale in comparison.

“I’m… Aziraphale!” continued the man, and Crowley nearly jumped up in delight.

And he might have, had it not been for the cold trail of rain-water running down his spine balancing the scales.

“Nice meeting you,” he heard himself say. And then his mouth snapped shut.

The man’s—Aziraphale’s, Jesus, what a name—smile faltered, and he shifted in place, turning his gaze ahead.

5 minutes.

Say something. Anything. Any. Thing. Doesn’t have to be smart, or sexy, it just has to be words.

“Shit weather, eh?”

Idiot.

To his surprise, the man beside him chuckled. “Doesn’t inspire one to leave their house, that’s for sure,” he said lightly, reaching up to pull the collar of his coat tighter around his neck.

Crowley narrowed his eyes as he followed the movement, the fact that this was the first time he ever saw that much of the man’s neck not an insignificant detail. He gulped, eagerly drinking up the smooth movement of the bump in Aziraphale’s throat as he did the same.

“Didn’t you have a scarf?” he asked, voice gruff before he cleared his throat. He forced his gaze to lift up, finding the man already looking at him, a shielded but amused expression on his face.

“I…” he said, at last ducking his head to reveal soft, delicious rolls under his chin.

Crowley needed to get a hold of himself. 3 minutes.

“You did, was all tartan and fluffy. Terribly out of fashion if you ask me.”

Aziraphale gasped, then straightened his shoulders. “Tartan is stylish!”

“Agree to disagree, angel,” Crowley chuckled, but his eyes widened when he realised what he said. He coughed in an effort to conceal his frustrated groan. “So. Uh, what happened to it? Can’t have lost it.”

Ducking his head again, the man muttered something that was lost down the multitude of thick layers he had to protect himself from the biting cold.

“You wot?”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale huffed, plump cheeks now bright red. “There was a woman, she must have been… oh, I don’t know, very pregnant! She was shivering, the poor thing, and it’s such a dreadful day I just gave it to her. I barely had the time to wrap it around her before her bus came.”

Crowley’s jaw fell open, delight slipping through the cracks of his composure. Every wall he had ever built around his heart blown away like it was dust. And now Aziraphale was standing on top of the remains, umbrella over them both like a protective wing, fretting over giving some poor woman his scarf.

His mouth was dry, pulse deafening in his ears, slightly sweaty under his arms despite the chilling weather. He swallowed. Once, twice.

“Listen, would you—”

The rubber wheels shrieked as the bus came to a stop in front of them, running right over a puddle and sending the water up to their knees. The cold reached down Crowley’s shoes instantly, and judging by the man’s yelp, Aziraphale was in much the same state. Nevertheless, he looked up at Crowley with a smile, umbrella struggling against the wind above them.

“Were you going to say something?” he asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yeah, I—”

“You getting in or not, mate? I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, of course, just a second, I—” Aziraphale looked between the increasingly angry driver and Crowley, a pleading expression on his face.

“I’ll— see you.” Crowley took a step back, once again under the hammering rain, his jaw tight.

“Move along, we’ve got places to be!” screamed a passenger from the back of the bus.

Aziraphale jumped up, umbrella still open as the vehicle started moving. He stood there, looking at Crowley until they disappeared down the road.

Idiot.

Later that day, the downpour had only intensified by the time Crowley made it back home, soaked and miserable. Anathema was already home, lying on the couch, her phone propped up on an empty mug across from her to talk. He barely acknowledged her with a nod of his head.

It was late, just past 7, and yet there were no melodies seeping out from across the street. Sparing a glance through the window, he confirmed the lights were off, the flat seemingly vacant. There was no music, and yet the lack of it was deafening.

Leaving a trail of sodden clothes behind, he made a beeline for the shower, which he didn’t plan on getting out of until his skin was angry red and stinging.

All day, he had been trying to stave off the pathetic thoughts. It wasn’t like all hope was lost, he was going to see Aziraphale again, he still had a chance. Aziraphale seemed… excited to see him, talk to him. And there at the end, he almost seemed disappointed when Crowley didn’t finish his sentence.

There was still hope.

He emerged from the shower, leaving behind him a thick, stifling cloud of steam. It was like all his worries had slipped down the drain along with the exhaustion of the day, and he almost floated to his bedroom. It was going to be fine. Tomorrow, or the day after that, he would get his chance again and it would be fine.

Pulling a comfortable pair of dark joggers on and his favourite black hoodie, he towelled his hair dry. It was getting longer, now slightly curling and falling downwards instead of spiking up on the top of his head like it used to.

The doorbell rang just as he squeezed the last droplets out. Before long, he could hear Anathema’s muted footsteps, then the faint squeaking of the door hinges, followed by a delighted gasp. There were some murmurs, then the front door closed, and his bedroom door rattled with the force of the knocks.

“Crowley! Get out here, please. Quickly.” More knocks, stronger. “Now, get out here, now.”

“What the—”

He pulled the door open. Anathema was right there, grinning and hopping from foot to foot, barely holding back her squeals. She pointed down the hall, and then disappeared into her own room.

“Hello.”

Aziraphale was hovering right in front of the front door, wringing the dripping umbrella in his hands. His hair was ruffled, messy and flying every which way. A deep, pink flush darkened his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and the tops of his ears.

“Hi,” Crowley breathed, registering the pain in his cheeks before the smile that had caused it. “You— What— How—”

“I hope you don’t mind… me dropping by, I just—”

“It’s okay,” he rushed to say, then stepped aside and motioned toward his room. “I— D’you… want to come in?”

“I didn’t… I mean, I’m not here to— impose myself, or anything.”

“You’re not—”

“Please,” Aziraphale gave him a frail smile, his hand rising as if to silence him, “let me… Let me finish.”

Crowley gulped, folding his arms in front of his chest. Aziraphale had no reason to come to his home, uninvited, after they had barely exchanged a few minutes of conversation to tell him something bad, did he? Unless… Unless this was about Crowley listening to him playing. Maybe he felt that he had been the one invading, maybe he had crossed a line—

“I just wanted to ask… if you— if you would like…” Aziraphale was saying, his umbrella taking the brunt of his anxiety. “Would you like to— have dinner? With— With me?”

There was a moment, a long moment, where neither one spoke. Aziraphale was looking up at him with the same hopeful glimmer in his eyes, breath bated. Crowley was looking at him with his own eyes wide, painfully hopeful as well that Aziraphale won’t change his mind or admit to a prank and walk away laughing.

“Angel…” he breathed, at last feeling the tension leaving his shoulders when the man simply smiled instead of doing any one of the million horrific thoughts running through Crowley’s head. “I would absolutely love to.”

1 week later

It was late on a Friday afternoon, the sun peeking hesitantly behind a small crack in the clouds. Crowley relaxed against the soft, cream-coloured pillows, his wine sloshing in his glass. It felt strange, to be on the opposite side of the window. To be able to walk among the hint of tartan and beige he had only seen from afar up until then, run his fingers over the light-blue curtains. More importantly, it felt delightfully right. Seeing Aziraphale navigate the place, swivel effortlessly to avoid knocking down the piles upon piles of books. Lingering in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables and cleaning appliances while Aziraphale prepared their lunch. Having the pop of the cork tangle itself around the man’s giggle at one of Crowley’s silly jokes.

“Okay, are you quite certain about this?” Aziraphale asked for the nth time that day, carefully zipping the tartan case open. Because of course it was tartan.

“Angel, how many times do I have to—”

“Yes, I know, only a practice is different than a concert, I wouldn’t want you to—”

Crowley left his glass on the table and leaned closer to the man, covering his fretting fingers with his own.

“Aziraphale.” His voice was soft, yet firm enough to make him look up. “I have literally been dreaming of the day you’d play for me.”

The flush spread on his cheeks like wildfire, his soft fingers twitching under Crowley’s until they turned and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. This technically being their third date, it shouldn’t feel like such a big deal that they were practically holding hands. But the touches so far had only been fleeting—a warm pressure around a forearm as they laughed, a playful nudge where their knees met; or entirely accidental—their shoulders brushing as they walked side by side, the barest sweep of their fingers as they passed a glass between them.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered at last, his eyes glimmering as his smile widened. “It means a lot.”

Sitting up with an unsteady exhale, Crowley watched as the man prepared his instrument. His eyes were unblinking as Aziraphale carefully hooked the shoulder rest on the violin, then plucked the strings one by one before he reached for his bow, tightening it with careful slow twists of the pin. His movements were measured but practised, a familiar dance it seemed like he could perform in his sleep.

After he had thoroughly checked the tuning, the violinist turned to him with a coy smile. “Right, then. Any requests?”

Crowley shook his head where it rested on his palm. His smile was relaxed and a little tilted, as if it was melting against the cushions along with him. “Just… play something that makes you happy.”

Aziraphale’s expression instantly softened. He propped the violin up on his shoulder, his left hand plucking the strings softly, almost like a nervous habit. With one final smile, his eyes fell closed, mouth relaxing into a careful, peaceful twist. His bow rose, gently scratching the string it rested upon. A deep breath, and the sweet music trickled in.³

The drawn out melody bled into the silence, each stroke a gentle heartbeat. Quiet, lingering notes accompanied the wistful melody—an unwavering support that had Crowley’s breath catching in his throat. It felt suffocating at first; a forced-upon pace his lungs were hesitant to follow. It didn’t take long for him to give in, letting the serenity engulf him and slow his pulse to match the steady tread of the bow, warm and heavy. It was intimate; quiet. Almost a secret whispered between them, only for him to hear. It wasn’t meant to impress. It was meant to confess.

The music was simple, yet under Aziraphale’s careful ministrations it sounded monumental. He was carving the notes out of thin air, bright thin strokes drawing gleaming shapes. The tune moved in steady steps, each sound carefully tugged, shining in the spotlight before giving way to the next. A constant, seamless push and pull Crowley never wanted to end.

When it did, Aziraphale’s anxious fretting was back so fast it nearly made Crowley dizzy. The violinist gulped, pulling a heavy breath in before letting it out between unsteady lips. His eyes were glistening, slightly hazy but sharpening as they scanned Crowley’s face.

“I-I hope it lived up to your expectations,” he whispered, holding his instrument in front of him like a shield.

It took Crowley a few seconds to understand Aziraphale’s words, then a few more to form a response that put some letters in semi-comprehensible order. His brain was foggy, thoughts wrapped in warm honey. When he did manage to bring everything back to life, he cleared his throat, then pushed himself up on legs that felt like a poorly constructed jenga tower.

He reached for the violin, then hesitated. “Can you— Uh… Put that down…?”

Aziraphale did, his hands instantly clenching around nothing as soon as the instrument was safely encased back in its place.

Crowley moved slowly, making his intentions as clear as possible. Trembling fingers reached up to cherubic cheeks, the skin soft under his calloused thumbs. Aziraphale smiled. His own hands grasped the dark fabric of Crowley’s shirt, making him stumble closer. Crowley leaned down, or Aziraphale pushed up, or both, but next thing he knew they were kissing, lips moving against each other’s unhurriedly. A gentle pressure, a timid push and pull. Two heartbeats echoing one another, a delicate and seamless duet.

1. Here. In case you don’t speak German, the song appears to talk about a small trout, swimming merrily in crystalline waters until it’s captured by a mean old fisherman. The lyrics have been interpreted in a number of different ways throughout the years, from a literal translation to political and even sexual meanings. Back to the story.

2. It was Bruch’s Scottish Fantasy. The violinist himself wouldn’t look too deep into what had inspired him to look up the sheet music that evening. Back to the story.

3. Bach’s Sonata No.2 in A minor, Andante. Back to the story.