Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley has a problem.

Well, Crowley has several problems, but there's one pushing its way to the front of the queue and demanding his full attention today.

He's spilled hot coffee down the front of his skin-tight, freshly pressed suit and in taking the time to clean up, he's now fifteen minutes late for work.

He decides that, as a radio host, he's just going to have to deal with the stains and the first-degree burns all down his legs and hurry off to work despite it all.

He's hosted the same radio show for twenty-five years and has never missed a day. He'll be damned if he's going to start. Besides, it's not as if anybody's going to see him. He's just the voice coming out of your speakers. Who gives a toss what he looks like?

When he arrives at the station, he flies right past his desk, ignoring the stack of papers there. He can deal with whatever that is after he's started the first set of songs of the morning.

But before he can slip into the studio, Lucy, his boss, pokes her head out of her doorway and calls him in.

"Great," Crowley thinks, "She's going to tell me off for playing too much Queen. Again."

But she doesn't.

Instead, she takes a seat in her leather upholstered chair and sighs.

"Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Have you ever considered retirement?"

Crowley's stomach drops right to the bottom of his snakeskin shoes. Retirement? What is this about? Nobody ever mentions (or dares to even mention mentioning) Crowley retiring. He's seen producers come and go, hotshot Djs with no love for the craft. He's weathered the decades like a barnacle to a sinking ship. And sure, the radio isn't the new hip medium of the youth anymore, but it has something TV anchors and podcasters can never have. It has history, respectability, dependability. When your phone doesn't have service or dies, when your TV is riddled with advertisements for crap reality shows that Crowley certainly doesn't watch, there's always the good old radio to fill the silence.

Retire?

Crowley's never heard anything more preposterous in his life.

"Of course I haven't. What are you on about, Lucy?"

Lucy sighs again. Not a good sign. He prefers it when she goes whole stretches of time without acknowledging him at all, leaving him blessedly alone in his studio.

"Look, Crowley. We have a situation."

"Well, what is it?"

"The thing is, you're just not cutting it with the ratings like you used to do. And sure, we all know radio's going the way of the dodo, but the fact is that your show is not well…" She pauses, as if not wanting to continue.

"It's not what?"

"It's not cool anymore. Your old brand isn't working. I mean, you used to be shocking, edgy, the demon of the airwaves. Now you're just…"

"Just?"

"Old news."

Harsh. But that's Lucy's way. She never minces words.

"So, you're firing me?"

"No. We're simply encouraging you to think about your options. We need someone young and fresh to take your time slot. In fact, we've already got a pair of young people lined up for it. Of course, if you don't retire, well, there's always nighttime programming."

Demoted. He's being demoted. After all his years of dedication, all his credibility, all his personality, only to face demotion? It's more than he can stand.

He does not have much of a life outside work. His evenings consist of lounging on the sofa with a bottle of wine or yelling at his plants. He has no friends, no family, and no dating life to speak of. The only regular human interaction he engages in is when his virulently homophobic next-door neighbor, Mr. Shadwell, happens to spot him passing by and calls him "Nancy" through a condensed milk mustache and he smiles and nods and secretly hates him. There's no way Crowley's going to let that be the social highlight of his day. He isn't a total recluse.

"Nighttime programming," he hears himself say in sheer desperation, "What would that involve?"

Lucy does not look pleased. "Well, you would get the nine PM to three AM shift."

Alright, alright. It's terrible. Nobody wants those hours. But Crowley's a night owl anyway. He can work with that.

"But you'd be working with a cohost."

Crowley jumps back like he's been burned (which he has) and paces around the little rickety desk Lucy's sitting behind.

"A cohost!" he gulps. Never in all his years has Crowley been subjected to the indignity of a cohost. That's one of his two stipulations. He can play whatever music he wants, and he can be alone in the studio without having to feign interest in dull conversation with a stranger. "I don't do cohosts. I don't do interviews. I play music. I report current events with my deftly perceptive and witty commentary... I have never had anyone on my show. Ever."

Crowley is a solitary creature.

"I don't know what to tell you."

"You've got to be kidding."

Lucy stares at him blankly. "I'm not. Cohost or a graceful retirement. Those are your options, Crowley."

"A graceful resignation, you mean." Crowley fumes. He's not that old.

"Pick your poison."

Crowley knows his choice; he's known it since the very beginning of this dreadful conversation.

He lets out a full-body sigh. "At least tell me who it's going to be."

Lucy smiles wickedly. "I think you'd fit nicely with Fell."

And Crowley knows he's fucked.

What to say about Aziraphale Fell?

Aziraphale Fell, the once legendary broadcaster who up and quit his cushy TV job to take a dumpy late-night post in radio? Aziraphale Fell, the stuffy, saccharin sod with the sweet voice and the worst music taste imaginable? Aziraphale Fell, champion of overly sentimental inspirational stories, love song dedications, and sound if impractical advice? Aziraphale Fell, the man whose voice has lulled Crowley to sleep for the last twenty years?

Yes, Mr. Fell is a man of mystery in Crowley's world of radio. The truth is that, outside of his long-running program and the fact that his family comes from a long line of television executives, no one knows much about the man. He's, if possible, even more solitary and reclusive than Crowley.

It's hard for Crowley to imagine the man having a corporeal form rather than just that heavenly voice, let alone that he'll shortly be sitting in the same studio with him in just a few hours.

Because of course he has to agree. Even if the last person in the world Crowley can hope to make a comeback with is Aziraphale Fell. After all, the man's been Crowley's secret crush for pretty much the entirety of their mirror image and opposite careers. Crowley's not going to miss an opportunity to meet the man of his dreams for anything, even nighttime programming.

"Fine," he hisses, and wonders, even as he does so, why he bothers.

At nine in the evening he returns to the station, jittery and annoyed at the same time. They've got no right to take his beloved show from him, to force him to work with someone as silly and polished as Fell. And yet… And yet… Crowley has to admit he's been looking forward to finally meeting him all day. It's a confusing medley of emotions that Crowley doesn't feel like untangling at the moment. Or ever.

He once again ignores the retirement papers piled on his desk and strides purposefully into his—their studio.

Aziraphale Fell is already sitting in the usually empty spare chair beside Crowley's. He rises to his feet as Crowley enters, smiling like pure sunshine itself, and extends a hand to him.

Crowley takes it reflexively. Fell's grip is firm, but his hands are soft and warm.

He can't help examining his new cohost. He's decked out, just like Crowley himself, in a suit. Only, his is brown and beige and markedly more worn. He's got shockingly white-blonde hair and eyes that twinkle like starlight. If Crowley has ever imagined what the man behind the voice might look like, it's probably been exactly like this.

Oh yes, Crowley is most definitely done for.

"Hello, and you must be Anthony?"

"Crowley. People just call me Crowley."

"Crowley. And I'm Aziraphale."

Crowley's head spins a little when his name pours like honey off Aziraphale's tongue. Never, in all Crowley's daydreams, has Aziraphale addressed him specifically. It's dizzying.

"I'm delighted to meet you," says Aziraphale. He leans in conspiratorially. "To tell you the truth, I've always wanted a cohost, but nobody's ever fancied my hours. I'm thrilled that you accepted. I'm sure we'll get on famously."

Crowley doesn't know what to say, so he finds himself nodding and taking his own seat, wondering how he's supposed to cope for the next six hours and hoping this man doesn’t think he smells like stale coffee beans.

And then Aziraphale asks him if he would like a cup of tea. "We're going to be here a while. Best to keep a cup on hand." And he's even got an electric kettle on a table in one corner. And how can Crowley say no?

"How do you take your tea, my dear?" Aziraphale asks as he bustles around the table for mugs.

Crowley's brain freezes. His heart flutters. He knows Aziraphale is polite, old-fashioned, and often over-the-top, but the casual slip of the term of endearment sends him spiraling. He's unable to think.

"Dear, sugar or no?"

"Yes," he finds himself spluttering, "Yes, to sugar, I mean."

Crowley does not, nor has he ever, taken sugar in his tea.

With a gentle smile, Aziraphale places the mug in his hands and even goes so far as to pat his shoulder companionably.

"It's perfectly normal to have the jitters beforehand. I still get them myself, to be honest. And this is a whole new show for both of us."

It's showtime.

Time to put on his prickly radio personality. It isn't difficult. It's just an exaggerated version of himself in real life.

Aziraphale starts the broadcast in his usual style. The quaintly campy trill of arpeggiated harp strings ushers him on.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," his familiar greeting.

Crowley is surprised to see the genuine smile on his face, crinkles by his eyes and all, as he says it, as if there's no place he'd rather be then right there, speaking slow and refined into that microphone. Crowley knows that thrill all too well. That's the reason he's here, after all, and not listening from his flat.

"I do hope you've had a heavenly day. And now allow me to carry you off into dreamland or a nighttime drive, or whatever you have in store tonight," he continues in his typical soothing way.

Crowley's never felt more relaxed at work before.

"Ah, but it is a different format tonight. You see, I'm now going to be joined by the famous, or shall I say infamous, demon of the airwaves, Mr. Crowley as my cohost."

How did Aziraphale know his moniker? For an instant, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has ever listened to his show the way he's listened to Aziraphale’s but dismisses the idea at once. People like Aziraphale don't spend their free time listening to people like Crowley.

Crowley tries and fails to squash his questions about what this strange man does do in his free time and focus.

"Although, I must say, you don't seem very demonic to me. Good people, I must inform you that everybody's favorite servant of darkness has been most kind in agreeing to come on my show and," as though spilling a secret at a private tea party, "He has a rather charming smile into the bargain."

Crowley feels his cheeks go hot. Oh, to be sure, he knows Aziraphale means nothing by it. It's just his radio personality. Larger than life, overly polite, always complimentary. He's never actually flirting, just disgustingly mushy. But still, Crowley is flustered.

"Don't go giving all my secrets away now," he says grumpily. He needs a bit, a running gag, something to really set the tone of the evening and the dynamic between the two of them. "Angel."

Oh dear… somebody.

The word just slips out unbidden.

Crowley's cheeks burn. It's just then, as he's staring down at his hands folded in his lap, that he notices that he's neglected to clean out the coffee stains of this morning. What a fool he must look.

But Aziraphale, class act that he is, brushes right over the pet name.

Aziraphale takes them into the first song dedications.

A lady calls into tell them that the advice Aziraphale gave her about making more time for her relationship and bringing back the romance has worked wonders and she and her husband are happier than ever. She requests a truly God-awful ballad. Aziraphale titters and smiles and tells her he's really very pleased" and procedes to hum along to the song.

"You really love love, don't you," Crowley says during the song, when no one can hear them, "Like, for real, not just as a bit you do on air."

Aziraphale smiles at him. "What do you mean? Of course I do. Don't you?"

Crowley isn't ready for this conversation. He stumbles over words, shakes his head. "In this business? No."

Aziraphale crosses his arms and pouts. "Well, we shall have to change your mind about that, won't we?"

"Only thing that matters is getting to play my music."

"Is that so?" For some reason, Aziraphale looks disappointed, like he expected more from Crowley than Crowley knows what to do with. "That's really quite ashame." He turns on his radio voice again after the song concludes, which is not much different to his regular speaking voice, come to think of it. "Well I, for one, applaud this young couple for finding love again and wish them many years of marital bliss. What say you, Crowley?"

"I give it a year, and they'll be clawing each other's eyes out over a divorce," Crowley grumbles.

Aziraphale has made him feel exposed, as though he can see into the lonely heart of him and isn't impressed by what he's found there.

Another woman calls in to tell them that her fiancé of seven years has left her for her best friend, and she would like a "really gloomy one, thank you."

"See what I told you," Crowley says after the wretched song is over. "You think you're going to marry a man and he's going round with your best friend. There's people for you." He says this like a grand proclamation.

"Well, listeners, it appears Crowley and I have had our first disagreement. Please, send in your best love stories and we'll share our favorite next time. I believe that love can bloom anywhere. It's just hiding sometimes."

A melancholy look passes over Aziraphale's face, almost like loneliness. Crowley has heard the rumours that, much like himself, Aziraphale Fell has never dated anyone publicly. Crowley has his reasons. He wonders if Aziraphale does, too, if all this love talk on the show is as fake as the smile he's wearing now, the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Crowley wants to peek behind the professional mask, see what secrets are hiding there. He curses himself for his overt curiosity.

He sipps at his tea. It's a little too sweet, just like this radio show, just like Aziraphale.

If truth be told, Crowley knows why his ratings plummeted. He's lost heart. He's lost energy. All he wants to do is sit and listen to this angel of a man talk about love to him like either of them know what they’re on about. No wonder Lucy wants to get rid of him. His cynicism has made him dull.

But at the end of the night, when Aziraphale stumbles over a "Good night, er, I mean, good morning. That is, it was lovely to have you on, truly," and blushes under a streetlight as they head their separate ways home, Crowley begins to feel the old, shriveled thing inside his ribcage stir again.

Maybe getting demoted wasn't such a bad thing, coolness be damned.

Chapter Text

"Dear Misters Crowley and Fell," Aziraphale reads, "Our love story began in our university years. We'd known each other since we were young but could never act on our feelings due to my parents' feelings on LGBT relationships. I had moved away for my studies and one night, I realized I was so miserable and lonely that I wanted to come home. Only, I didn't want to go back to my parents. I wanted to go to her. When I called, she picked up right away and the very next day I bought a plane ticket. We haven't been parted since."

Aziraphale gasps and actually, honest to somebody, puts a hand to his heart in delight.

"Oh my," he says dreamily, "But that is beautiful!"

"Don't see what's so beautiful about having rubbish parents,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale frowns and, for some reason, Crowley feels guilty for spoiling the smile on his face. "Why, nothing. Nothing is beautiful about that. To stand in the way of young love! It's despicable! Those horrid parent’s ought to be ashamed of themselves. But, as I always say, love always triumphs in the end! Many well wishes for both of you and may you never be troubled by ignorance again."

Crowley can't help it. He smiles. It's just impossible not to, what with the fervent way Aziraphale defends the couple in the letter and the stern look on his face when he'd spoken of the parents' homophobia. Crowley's faced enough of that to last a lifetime and there's something remarkably warm in his chest in hearing Aziraphale's ardent support and harsh condemnation that makes it difficult to find something sharp to say.

Instead, he looks down at the paper Aziraphale is reading from. "There's a postscript, angel." He curses himself for allowing the endearment to slip out. Again. Wonders what's gotten into him. Thanks all the stars above Aziraphale is too focused on his stupid bloody love story to notice the blush suffusing Crowley's cheeks.

"Ah, so there is, so there is!" Aziraphale says excitedly. "Hmm let's see. It says: PS: If you could play "The Book of Love," as that was me and my wife's wedding song, that would be great. And we're sending our congratulations to you two as well. You're faithful listeners, Jean and Marina. Oh, how lovely! Thank you, good ladies and I shall certainly play your song. An excellent choice."

"Dunno what they're congratulating us for. It's their wedding."

A look of momentary confusion wrinkles Aziraphale's brow. But then he perks up and grins at Crowley. "They must be referring to your new position as cohost, of course. Thank you, thank you: It's only been three days, but what a change having Crowley here has made."

Crowley can't see why Aziraphale is so pleased to have him. All he's done is grouse and put in cutting remarks. If Crowley were in his position, he would wish himself away and go back to being peacefully alone.

But Aziraphale seems to be over the moon about everything. It's infectious, like a disease. "Or his laughter," Crowley thinks hopelessly, "Or his smile." Yep. There's most certainly something wrong with him.

The song plays, sappy and overwrought and Crowley frowns when he notices Aziraphale mouthing the words.

"Twenty years doing the same show," Crowley says, just to make him stop it, "You must have a lot of regular listeners."

"We must," Aziraphale corrects with a friendly wink. "But yes, when it was just me, I could always count on a few to write in. But my audience has always been rather…"

"Small?"

"I prefer to think of it as niche."

Crowley gets up the nerve to ask something he's always wondered. "Why leave television, then? You were good at it."

Aziraphale blushes, fans himself. "Oh, thank you. You're too kind." He becomes thoughtful. "I liked television, but I'm afraid it didn't like me."

"What do you mean?"

Aziraphale sighs, shifts in his seat uncomfortably, looks down at his hands. "I received… criticism for my appearance."

Crowley's eyes widen. His mouth drops open. He can't see anything to criticize. He quickly shuts his mouth and composes himself. "What on Earth for?"

Sure, Tartan is not a fashionable or usual choice. And yes, his clothes are definitely out-of-date. But with his perfect smile, his charm, and his delight at everything, not to mention his twinkling eyes, Aziraphale is a vision. Fit for television, that is.

"Oh, for everything, it seemed. My dress, my conduct, my mannerisms. My family found fault with it all."

"Well," Crowley says, "Then you have rubbish family, too and you're better off here without them."

Aziraphale's lips quirk into a tiny smile. "Thank you, Crowley. I very much agree. But they never understood why I was so fond of this old show of mine."

"I do." And Crowley surprises himself by meaning it. Aziraphale is good at his job and sincere about it, too. A rare combination.

"I know you do," Aziraphale says. Their eyes meet and hold.

Then the song ends and Aziraphale is back to his radio persona.

"Dear me, that was wonderful."

"If I played that sort of music at home, my houseplants would shrivel up and die."

"Oh Crowley, dear, don't be so harsh."

"No, really. I believe the right music is as essential for growing things as is water and sunlight. My plants only get the best."

"And what, do you suppose, is the best."

Crowley grins. "Queen."

"Which is the next artist we shall play. After all, we would strongly like to encourage a green thumb here, though ow must admit I don't see how music factors into the growing."

"It gives the plants personality," Crowley explains. "You don't want them getting the wrong one, see. That would be a disaster. Then you'll get plants that refuse to bend to your will."

"You heard it here first, good people, apparently your demon of the airwaves believes he can accidently grow his own Audrey Ii

Ah, so there is a spark to him. He's not all fluff and sunshine. Crowley is enchanted.

"Anybody would want to go on a rampage if requests like these keep coming in, angel. It's not the plant's fault. It's in its nature."

He doesn't even notice the nickname anymore.

"Oh, now you're just being defeatist. I believe every plant has a seed of good."

"And now we know he's not a gardener, folks!"

"Maybe not, but I am an admirer."

"Plants don't need admiration. They need fear."

"What do you think, listeners? Is there any merit to this or is Crowley here just being silly?"

Aziraphale takes a caller. Crowley is dreading this. He hates taking any calls. Why can't they get back to playing music? Bantering with Aziraphale is easy, fun even, But Crowley's not about to start interacting with any old person off the street.

"Hello, and who's this?"

"Hello dearies, this is Tracy. And might I just say you two are a crack up. What with my aching knees, I don't get much sleep these days and you, Mr. Fell, and your new gentleman friend cheer me right up."

Fuck!

But Aziraphale either doesn't notice or pretends not to notice the caller's implication.

He positively beams.

"Oh, I'm so glad. And I do hope you feel better very soon." He turns to Crowley. "See, my dear, you're a hit!"

"Yeah, with the senior citizen crowd," Crowley thinks bitterly. He's beginning to suspect this show is only listened to by old ladies. So much for being anyone's radio demon. He might as well pack it all in tonight. His career is finished.

But then Aziraphale says, "Oh, I just knew you would be," and Crowley's bitterness melts away like butter.

Maybe he'll stick around a little while longer. What else has he got to do?

They go back and forth like that for the next five hours, publicly disagreeing on pretty much everything but, in the space between songs, Crowley learns several things about Aziraphale in short order.

One: Aziraphale has a sly humor to him, an edge that Crowley would have never guessed at.

Two: He is just as vexed by some of the callers as Crowley is.

Crowley watches in delight mixed with embarrassed horror as a man rings in not once, not twice, but three times to say how marvelous he thinks Aziraphale is and how, if he's up to it, would he care to accompany him to the pub near his house?

"I mean, honestly, why ever would I want to go out when I have a perfectly good selection at home?" Aziraphale says off microphone.

Crowley grins to himself and makes no reply.

And three: The man is as gay as a spring morning and somehow absolutely oblivious to Crowley's shameless flirting.

Because yes, Crowley is flirting. He tries, for the first three hours, to avoid it, to be surly and standoffish. But, dammit, the man's wearing off on him, and he finds it too much effort to keep up the charade all night long.

"What do you dream about, Crowley?"

"Oh, I don't know, angels descending on me from on high."

"Well, that's surprisingly sweet."

"Yes they are."

"What do you plan to do after our shift?"

"Dream."

"I suppose so. It is quite late. Unfortunately, I don't sleep much."

"Shame."

"I know! It's one more reason I quit television. The night suits me better, I think."

"I don't know. I think anything would suit you."

"You really are quite lovely, Crowley. You know, I was nervous with you as my cohost. You have a reputation for, well, for being a bit aloof. And I, well, I'm me." He looks down at his clothes, his worn but still precisely kept shoes. "But you haven't been aloof to me."

"Why would I be? You're like a beam of sunshine."

"And what, are you telling me you're a sunflower?"

"Maybe."

"And what happened to Audrey Ii?"

Crowley shrugs.

"Can't say. It would be a spoiler."

"You know, lucy told me lots about you, but she neglected to mention how ridiculously charming you can be."

"She wouldn't know, would she?"

"I suppose not. She is a bit…"

"Shhh, we have an audience!"

"Oh, nobody listens this late anyway," Aziraphale objects. "Nothing I say truly matters."

"That's not true, you know," says Crowley, "You say which song we play next. Go on. I won't protest, angel."

Aziraphale gives Crowley a grateful smile, but there's a mischievous glint in his eye. "Classical it is, then."

"Too much, anyway."

"Ah, there you are. I was beginning to worry."

That night, as they walk together out of the station, preparing to go their separate ways once more, Aziraphale calls Crowley back.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"For what?"

"Listening to me and with me." Somehow, Crowley's sure he means more than to just the music.

Crowley shakes his head. "S nothing."

"Well-well, good night, Crowley."

"Night, angel."

Things are going so well, in fact, that Crowley is astonished and annoyed when their boss calls him to her office the following day.

"So," she says, through a self-satisfied smirk, "How's working the graveyard shift with old fuddy duddy Fell? I'm surprised you haven't quit yet. Or fallen asleep on the job."

For some reason, her dig irks Crowley. Yes, he's felt relaxed and soothed by Aziraphale's voice and manner of speaking, but he's never been bored like what she's implying.

"It's fantastic, actually," he says, just to spite her. "Never thought I'd be a cohost guy but here I am, loving it."

"You are?"

"Oh absolutely. Couldn't be better."

She looks puzzled. "And here I was going to offer you Fell's spot in a few months. Just you. If you're old news, he's a joke."

"Funny, I'm not laughing."

Lucy raises an eyebrow. "What's gotten into you tonight?"

"Not your joke, that's for sure. Anyway, I'm going to be late. Chow."

He storms out of her office, bristling with anger. It's one thing to take his beloved show from him, to pair him up with Aziraphale without either of their saying so, but he's not going to let her steal Aziraphale show from him, too. Then again, there's not much he can do about it if she does. Crowley just hopes the loss won't break his heart.

Chapter Text

"Dear Mr. Fell, my cat is ill. Can you play a song for her speedy recovery?"

"Dear Mr. Fell, my granddaughter was just born yesterday. Can you play me a song with her name in it?"

"Dear Mr. Fell, I expect to see you at tea on Wednesday. I'll have your book to return so don't make excuses."

This is the audience of the Fell and Crowley show: cat ladies, grandmothers, and, apparently, Aziraphale's personal acquaintances. A rather insular group. Aziraphale is right to call it niche.

But Aziraphale answers each question with grace and kindness and more patience than Crowley thinks any human should possess, and the people seem to love him for it.

The first time a question for Crowley comes in, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

It happens one cozy night, when rain is pattering cheerily on the roof and the whole world feels at rest. Aziraphale has brought in coco and even a packet of marshmallows after Crowley confessed, he doesn't like the stuff.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, "That's only because you've never had coco the way I make it."

Crowley smirks. "You've the one chance to prove me wrong."

"Just you wait and see," he says with a giddy laugh.

They are playing oldies tonight. Nina Simone sings "Lilac Wine" soft and sweet in the background.

Aziraphale hums to himself as he steams the milk and melts the chocolate on a hot plate.

Crowley sniffs. "Is that cinnamon?"

"I shan't say."

"And brandy! On the job?"

"Shhh, Crowley! Don't give us away!"

"Angel!" Crowley laughs, delighted, as Aziraphale, with a bow and a flourish, sets the beautifully arranged mug on the table before him.

The coco is topped with a mountainous swirl of foamy cream and dashed with a sprinkling of cinnamon.

Aziraphale clasps his hands together in front of him. He watches Crowley lift the mug to his lips, watches him take a slow, deliberate sip. Aziraphale's eyes follow Crowley's every gulp and swallow as he delicately tastes all the layers of flavor in the chocolate. Anxiety is writ plain as a neon sign all over Aziraphale's face, hovering there like a cloud about to break.

"Well, do you like it? How does it taste?"

Crowley takes another slow, considering sip, mulls it over in his mouth. The chocolate is rich and smooth as silk. The brandy in it warms him from the inside out. The effect is magical.

He finally lets a smile bloom on his face. "It's sinfully good, angel."

"Oh, oh good." Aziraphale's shoulders relax.

He takes the seat beside Crowley and at last sips his own coco, letting out a pleased little sigh that goes straight to the burning core inside of Crowley where the brandy has taken root.

And when Aziraphale licks a spot of chocolate from the corner of his mouth, Crowley has to take another sip of coco just to steady his racing pulse.

Both of them quite forget they are on live microphones, or even at work at all.

Crowley braces himself with the brandy and coco and tries to settle his thoughts. But this is Aziraphale, the man whose voice has carried Crowley to sleep for so long now, and he's holding Crowley's gaze and there's the tiniest bit of cream on his upper lip and if Crowley had known this is what the man looked like, he's sure he wouldn't have gotten much sleep at all.

The song changes. And because Crowley is feeling generous, he lets Aziraphale choose something more to his taste. "Moonlight Serenade."

It's midnight. It hardly matters what they play, but somehow the song feels right for the closeness of the night and the rain and the warmth spreading through them.

"Well, you must admit I'm right," Aziraphale says after a while.

"Absolutely not," Crowley says with a smile.

"My dear, you did promise! And you seem to have quite finished your chocolate. So I believe an admission of wrong opinion is in order."

"What would you have me do?" Crowley asks before he can stop himself.

"Oh, I don't know, whatever you like."

Whatever Crowley would like? That is dangerous territory. He wants. He wants to veer into it with reckless abandon. He wants and wants.

But he daren't. It suddenly occurs to him that they have an audience and that he's leaning toward Aziraphale, smiling like an idiot. Even if no one sees it, they can probably hear it in his voice.

Abruptly, Crowley gets to his feet and does a sort of dance to break the tension. "You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right."

He watches Aziraphale watch him, take a long sip of his coco, and actually smirk at him, pleased as a cat who has gotten the cream.

"Oo, very good."

"Just like your chocolate."

"Now you're just flattering me."

"And? What if I am?"

"Well, then I shan't stop you. Flattery is most becoming on you."

"Not unless the one being flattered truly deserves it."

Aziraphale's cheeks go pink. "Crowley, you fiend! Now you're simply mocking me."

"Never, angel," Crowley says through a grin. It slides away as quickly as it comes when he sees the look on Aziraphale's face.

It's a hollowed out, crumpled sort of look. "You wouldn't be the first."

Crowley has the distinct impression that he's done something wrong, or that some great wrong has been done to Aziraphale a long time ago. For the first time, he begins to sense how fragile the man is. For all his calm, assuring words on air, he can not seem to extend that grace to himself.

"Never, angel." This time, Crowley's voice is firm and his expression sincere.

"Crowley…"

Then, the phone rings.

They both startle. Aziraphale, who hasn't taken his eyes off Crowley this whole time, turns quickly to answer it.

Crowley stares into space blankly until he hears the caller say his name.

"What?" he snaps, remembering to put on his work persona again. "What did she say?"

"The lady asked, er… well…" Aziraphale blushes, trails off.

"I asked Crowley what his favorite thing about Aziraphale is."

There are a million things Crowley can say, a million things he wants to say. Some of them are work appropriate. He realizes that he's staring into space when Aziraphale taps his shoulder.

He has to think fast.

The problem is, as always, his stupid persistent crush. It's been an odd quirk of his for a long time, so trifling he hardly notices it. But now, now that he's spent nearly thirty-six hours in this small, stuffy room with the man, gotten to know the person behind the voice, his tiny, harmless crush on an unobtainable someone has morphed into something else, something Crowley dares not name or think about too often.

"His hot coco, of course, now I've tried it. I suppose it's worth keeping him around for."

That elicits a laugh from the caller and eases the pressure.

"What about you, Aziraphale?" she asks. "What's your favorite thing about Crowley?"

Aziraphale shifts, straightens his bowtie, tugs at the hem of his sleeve.

Crowley is just about to tell him he doesn't have to answer when Aziraphale speaks.

But what leads Aziraphale to say what he says next, whether it's the brandy or the night or merely the company, Crowley will never know.

"His eyes, dear listener. You obviously can't see them, but our Crowley has the prettiest eyes."

Crowley can't look at him. If he does look at him, he'll want to keep on looking, and that won't do.

Instead, he stares at the computer before him, chooses a new song, queues it up. He doesn't trust himself to give a coherent intro: "Rainy night house." If anyone asks, He'll say it's Aziraphale's choice. Crowley certainly doesn't have a secret liking for such music. It certainly does not remind him of Aziraphale.

"Aww, you guys are the cutest," says the caller before Crowley can play the dratted song. "How long have you been together?"

"We're not," Crowley starts.

But Aziraphale cuts him off. "Crowley has been with me nearly a week now," he says happily.

"Wow, you guys move fast, huh?"

Crowley wants his mortal form to burst into ashes. He wants to crawl under the Earth and never be seen again. He wants Aziraphale to stop smiling, or maybe to go on smiling, or maybe to burst into ashes right along with him.

"Oh yes, time does fly. Much faster since I've had company."

"I bet," says the woman. "Well, I just wanted to say how adorable you two are. Have a good night."

Crowley smashes the play button so he doesn't have to talk to Aziraphale.

He keeps the music flowing the rest of the night, avoids as much conversation as he can comfortably get away with.

Aziraphale, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice anything amiss.

Crowley lets him prattle on, smiles occasionally, makes a retort or two.

But he should have known Aziraphale would not let him stay quiet the whole night without drawing him into a conversation.

"Crowley, dear, how do you feel about thunderstorms?" he asks, just as a booming clap of thunder sounds outside.

"I think they wake me up. Ruin a good night's sleep."

"Well, I think they're wondrous,” says Aziraphale, bright as lightning. "What do you do to go back to sleep? I personally like to watch them out my window with a good book."

"Listen to you," Crowley says, perfectly truthfully. Though now he's said it, it sounds harsh, even cruel.

"Right," Aziraphale says, "Of course." There's a tightness in his voice, a brightness in his eyes.

"Angel, I didn't mean…"

"More music, then?" Aziraphale interrupts brisky and plays yet another classical piece. This one goes on for a long time. Crowley can't help feeling he's chosen it on purpose to avoid talking.

And that ends that discussion.

Crowley feels wretched.

The night is subdued, after that.

Crowley wants to say something to make up for it but can't think what to say. And, anyway, Aziraphale doesn't seem to want to give him the opportunity.

After the show, Aziraphale collects his coco ingredients and hurries out the door, not lingering in conversation like they usually do.

Crowley rushes after him, nearly slipping on the slick pavement.

"Aziraphale, angel, hey."

Aziraphale turns around, though he doesn't stop moving.

"If you think I'm boring, you ought to just say so," he says.

"But I don't," Crowley says, also truthfully.

But his words are drowned out by a huge boom of thunder.

"I have a long walk home," Aziraphale says coldly, "Good night, Crowley. May you sleep well."

Then, he spins on his heel and marches away.

Crowley is left utterly baffled in the street.

"What I said, I didn't mean it. Not like that, angel!"

But Aziraphale did not turn back.

Crowley makes his sodden and sorry way home, shoulders hunched against the wind and rain.

How have things gone so badly?

They were so close, tonight, teetering on the edge of something.

Aziraphale's audience seemed to think so, too. It can't just be in Crowley's head.

"Gentleman friend."

"You guys are the cutest. Adorable. How long have you been together?"

Crowley's constant attentions to Aziraphale.

How can Aziraphale possibly think Crowley is bored by him?

He gets to his empty flat, locks the cold out behind him, checks on his plants.

"What am I doing," he asks them, too tired to yell.

They shiver in their pots but offer no reply.

He trudges to his ridiculously large bedroom, throws himself down on his ridiculously large bed. His ridiculously large cold, empty bed. He pulls the silk sheets up around him, closes his eyes, sees Aziraphale's too-bright ones behind his lids. Tosses and turns.

He finally breaks at five in the morning. Picking up his phone, he types Aziraphale's name into the search bar, finds a playlist of old re-runs of his radio show.

It feels wrong, taking comfort from Aziraphale's voice even if he knows the man is upset with him, but he can't help himself. It's the only thing that can possibly get him to sleep on a stormy night like this.

He puts the show on, closes his eyes, listens.

Aziraphale talks of many things. Books and old films, musicals (he he has surprisingly violent opinions on the Into the Woods movie) and all the pretty parks and gardens he's been to. Crowley wishes he could have gone with him, wishes he could have seen his angel's face light up with joy at another beautiful thing.

Then, Aziraphale methodically takes his listeners through a forty-five-minute segment on Victorian flower language.

Crowley feels himself beginning to doze.

There are just so many flowers, so many different ways to say three simple words. He's never realized "love" could have so many different faces, so many different layers of meaning. Like the coco, sweetness on top, strong spirits in the middle, with just a touch of cinnamon, a bouquet can, apparently, say what mere words can not.

Crowley's eyes drop. He lets Aziraphale warm tones carry him into a soft dream.

"And you have the violet. Very pretty, violets, of course. If I had to choose a second favorite flower, it would be a violet, I think. But the real gem, the real beauty of the ball, and my personal favorite is, as you all probably have guessed by now, the lovely sunflower."

Crowley sits bolt upright. All trace of sleepiness vanishes in an instant. He knows what he needs to do, knows exactly how he's going to make it up to Aziraphale.

Chapter Text

Crowley's up the moment the sun is. He's got places to be, preparations to make.

Today, he opts not to walk to work, taking his Bentley instead: When he turns on the radio at the time slot which used to be his, he lets out a bitter sigh.

The two "young people" Lucy has gotten to replace him are the most awkward pair he's ever come across. It's clear the man admires the woman, but he's making such a mess of things.

"Good morning, you're listening to Newt and Anathema, and what a pretty, I mean, good morning it is," says Newt, apparently.

Poor lad, Crowley thinks, can't have been easy, growing up with a name like that. And Anathema? At least he and Aziraphale have normal names.

"Next up, a song that," a burst of static emanates from Crowley's speakers with a deafening roar, only to cut out again.

"Thank you, Newton," says Anathema. Crowley can hear the exasperation in her voice, mentally winces for her. "But maybe leave the computer stuff to me. This is the third time today that's happened."

Crowley scoffs. This is exactly why he doesn't like people. Well, most of them, anyway. People fuck up. People make mistakes. People are, well, people. You can't count on them. And now these two are fucking up what ought to be Crowley's show. Crowley has certainly never been that awkward on air before. Or that incompetent. It's maddening.

He's pulling up to a certain shop when they take a caller, and Crowley is horrified to hear his neighbor, Mr. Shadwell's unmistakable voice on the line.

"Hey, where did that Nancy and his fellow go?"

"Excuse me," says Anathema, "I won't have that talk on my show, thank you. Newton, I said hang up, not turn up the volume!"

Shadwell's voice blares, way louder than her muffled rambling.

"Ye know those ones last night, the fancy man and the grumpy one. I want to ask if Nancies have the same amount of nipples as the rest of us. You'd think they would know, don't ye?"

"Anyway, moving on," says Anathema desperately when her voice finally returns to normal, "That's something none of us want to know. Oh God, I bet Crowley's going to be so pleased when he hears about this. Fuck!"

Static blares again and Crowley experiences so much second-hand embarrassment (and firsthand embarrassment) that he jumps out of his car and scampers into the flower shop without a second thought.

He's got a bouquet to pick out.

He's not looking forward to going into work today. Lucy is going to laugh herself stupid if (when) she hears about this.

Crowley's right to be wary of work.

Just as he'd feared, Lucy spots him as soon as he slinks in the door that evening.

"Crowley. My office. Now."

Oh fuck. He’s ruined. This is it. He's really done it this time.

Resignedly, he follows her into her office and shuts the door behind him.

Lucy glares fiercely. Crowley tries not to take a visible step back.

"So," she says, "I've heard about you and Fell."

Crowley's mind races through excuses. Yes, they'd been drinking on air and yes, they'd had a little tiff, but it's nothing compared to the trainwreck this morning.

"Oh," is all he says.

"You're telling me you're really with that guy? I thought you didn't date."

"I don't."

"Like ever."

"I don't. We're not… He's not my…"

"A coworker, Crowley? Really? And him, of all people? You know we're trying to get rid of him. The only reason we keep him on is that he's loaded. Donates buckets of money every year at our fund-raising events."

Crowley's had enough.

"He's just as good as anybody, and more than most," he spits, "And I'll thank you not so kindly to leave our private life, and our nipples out of things."

He storms out and slams the door behind him, fury burning in his blood.

"Somebody's sake, I hate people," he says, stomping blindly forward and nearly crashing into Aziraphale, who's holding a steaming mug of tea. "Oh, evening, angel."

Aziraphale does not give his usual smile. "Do mind yourself, Crowley," he says coolly, "I would hate to spill on you." Then, he turns away and marches into the studio without another word.

Crowley follows him in, more sedately. He wants to make things right with Aziraphale, wants to mend whatever trust he's broken, but there's no time before the show.

And suddenly they're on and Aziraphale is all prim politeness. No tomfoolery, no snippy comments back and forth, no blatant flirting on Crowley's part and inadvertent responses on Aziraphale's, no more secret looks and getting lost in conversation during songs.

Aziraphale is nothing if not perfectly proper.

It's horrible.

Crowley hates it.

He thinks their audience can pick up on the awkwardness too, because they receive not one single call, leaving Crowley to try in vain to fill the silence with something to say.

He can't think of anything good and Aziraphale isn't helping.

He's just sitting perfectly still, afraid of blinking it seems. He's deflated, as if the heart has been drained out of him.

Crowley desperately misses the man who, just last night was going on about how wondrous thunderstorms are. He misses his silly, long-winded tangents, his delight at Crowley merely being there with him.

Crowley attempts to make conversation several times. Aziraphale always responds, never ignores him outright, but it's clear his heart isn't in it. Eventually, Crowley let's them trail off into silence.

He plays more music to cover it.

"Your turn, Aziraphale, what are we playing next?"

"Oh, why don't you choose. All my suggestions are too dull, surely."

"Aziraphale…"

"Oh, look at the time, we're off," he says and, without even doing his usual sign-off, practically sprints out the door.

Crowley speeds through the office after Aziraphale, right past a baffled Lucy.

He darts to the Bentley, grabs Aziraphale's flowers off the back seat, and peers through the rain to try and spot him.

Crowley hurries to catch up with him, speeding his way through the hazy night like a bat out of hell.

"Aziraphale, wait."

But Aziraphale doesn't slow down. He continues on his way, moving a bit faster now, almost disappearing in the rain and rising fog.

"Aziraphale, angel, please."

He's never done this, never followed after somebody, cried out for their attention like this, begged them for just a moment of their time. It's hopeless, pathetic, and yet he's drawn to the man like a magnet, unable to allow him to vanish without a word.

Aziraphale finally turns around under a yellow streetlight. The light shines off the raindrops in his hair. He looks bedraggled and sad.

"What is it, Crowley," he sounds exhausted, ragged at the edges. "What do you want from me?"

"Want? I don't want… I just—I've got something for you."

"Crowley, I really must be going. I haven't the time for…"

"Just here. You can take it and go, if you want to." Crowley pulls Aziraphale's gift from behind his back.

It's a large bouquet tied with red ribbon. A sea of bright, tall sunflowers with one single violet in the exact middle like the center of some strange and newly discovered flower.

Aziraphale's eyes widen. He takes a hesitant step forward, reaches out, not for the bouquet, but for Crowley, pulls back at the last second.

"What-what is this?"

"What's it look like," Crowley says, more gruffly than he means to. He softens his voice, "It's flowers. For you, angel."

Aziraphale blinks. His face is still screwed up in puzzlement.

Crowley suddenly feels like he must fill the silence with something or burst. He starts to ramble.

"If you don't like them, I can keep them. You don't have to take them. But I was just listening to one of your old shows, you know during the storm to help me unwind and you'd mentioned your favorite flowers were," he gestures to the bouquet, "And I just thought, seeing as how I live near a flower shop and all… it wouldn't be anything at all to pop by and…"

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, his voice breaking on each syllable of his name.

This time, Crowley goes quiet.

"You mean to tell me that you, you actually listen to my show? In your free time? For… fun?"

Crowley flushes, is grateful for the darkness half obscuring his features. "I know it sounds strange, I know. But I don't mean anything, you know, weird by it. Really, I don't. It's just you're so… you're show is so… peaceful. And A I have a hard time sometimes, with things, and…"

"You really, truly like it?"

"Well, yeah, obviously. I've been listening to you for years, angel, years and years. Long before I ever thought we'd work together. I guess you can call it my comfort show."

"Your what?"

"It doesn't matter. I just want you, need you to know that I think you're anything but dull, Aziraphale. You are, quite literally, the most fascinating person I've ever met."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says again, like it's the only word he knows.

And then, before Crowley knows quite what's happening, Aziraphale is rushing forward and, for one glorious moment, Crowley thinks he's going to kiss him square on the mouth. But he doesn't. He just wraps his arms around Crowley and presses him against his chest.

For a moment, they just stand there, holding each other. Aziraphale puts his head on Crowley's shoulder and Crowley can't help it, he breathes him in, the warm, old-fashioned smell of him. until Crowley remembers he's holding something delicate. Well, two delicate somethings, really.

"Ngk, the flowers, angel. Don't want to squish them."

"Oh! Oh goodness, no!"

Aziraphale releases Crowley, takes the bouquet softly from Crowley's outstretched hand.

It's Crowley's turn to be bashful. "Do you-do you like them?"

They are both soaked through by the pouring rain. The fog is getting thicker all about them, creating an ethereal haze over the single streetlight shining down on them.

"Like them? I adore them. They're gorgeous, Crowley."

Crowley grins, as if Aziraphale's just called him gorgeous instead. He tries to play it off, tries to be cool. Tries and fails.

"Then, since that's settled, would you like a lift home? I'm freezing out here."

He holds his arm out to Aziraphale. Aziraphale takes it with his free hand, beaming. "Most certainly. I would hate to damage these."

"Right you are and right this way, angel."

Carefully, trying not to splash through too many puddles, Crowley leads Aziraphale through the bluster to the Bentley.

He opens the door for him, ushers him inside, holds the flowers for him while he's settling himself.

Then, Crowley walks around the car to get in himself, practically bouncing on his feet.

As they're driving to Aziraphale's home, Aziraphale clears his throat.

"I am sorry for misunderstanding you," he says.

Crowley waves his apology away. "S alright, angel. It doesn't matter."

"But it does. To me." Aziraphale takes a breath. "I know what people think of me, you know. Stuffy, dull, ridiculous Aziraphale."

Crowley attempts to argue but Aziraphale silences him with a look.

"It's alright, Crowley. I'm used to it. When I was on television, my own supervisor Gabriel pulled me aside at least once a week to tell me I was too-too much. Too… me. But I couldn't help it. I could never help it. It was humiliating." There's a bitterness in his voice that Crowley has never heard there before and anger at who? Crowley has a feeling he knows, has a feeling Aziraphale only ever blames himself. "They call me an embarrassment. I know they do, you don't have to shake your head. And maybe I am. But I love my little show. I love the community I've built. It's small but it's mine. And yours, now. I don't plan on changing that."

"I wouldn't want you to. Not for anything."

Aziraphale's smile is gentle. There is warmth in his eyes again. "I know that. But there are so many times when I can't help but feel I'm still too much for even those that can tolerate me."

Crowley hates the way Aziraphale's lip quivers, the way his eyes shine.

"Even you, lovely as you are."

Crowley reaches over, pats Aziraphale's hand. "Never, angel," he says, "You're never too much. And I'm never just tolerating you. In fact, I'd say I rather can't get enough of you."

He means it sincerely, but to his surprise, Aziraphale laughs.

"You incorrigible devil, you fiendish flatterer! Don't think I'm not wise to your tricks."

"Then you'll know the trick is never on you, angel."

"How has no one stolen you away yet?" Aziraphale asks.

"Never let anyone close enough to, I guess. But I'm free on weekends, if you'd like to give it a go."

Crowley means it as a half jest. He's not prepared for Aziraphale to take him up on it.

"Tomorrow is Friday. You could, if you care to, come over mine after work. I could make you crepes and coco. But, of course, it's much too early. You'll want to get to bed…"

"Yes," Crowley says. Then, realizing his answer could possibly get misconstrued, he adds, "Crepes sound lovely, especially if you’re making them. I've learned to trust your taste."

"Well, I'd like to think I have that in spades, at least," Aziraphale says and winks. "Especially with the company I keep."

"Ah, you are a discerning man, Mr. Fell."

"That I am, Crowley dear. As, I believe, are you."

"Guilty as charged. And here we are, angel."

They pull up in front of a modest little cottage. The front light is twinkling through the fog like a guiding beacon

Aziraphale hesitates a moment before getting out of the car.

"And Crowley, if you ever find yourself unable to sleep, you don't have to settle for re-runs. You could, if you wanted, just give me a ring." Then, so briefly Crowley almost fancies he's dreamed it, Aziraphale leans over and presses soft lips to his cheek. "Good night, my dear sunflower," he says, his lips still brushing Crowley's skin. "Dream well."

Then, he's sweeping up his bouquet and before Crowley has had time to process what's just happened, he's already disappearing into the house.

And Crowley does dream well, maybe for the first time in his life.

Chapter Text

Crowley dreams of his angel. In his dream, Aziraphale and he are walking in a garden and Aziraphale smiles like sunshine. He picks a sunflower, tucks it in Crowley's lapel. "My dear sunflower," he whispers, and Crowley wakes with the feel of Aziraphale's lips on his cheek.

He sighs, buries his face in his pillow. He's so done for, so caught up in the man. Aziraphale is just so much more than Crowley had ever thought he would be. Crowley wants to know everything about him, remembers he's going to shortly be eating crepes in his home, and blushes in his bedroom alone like an idiot.

Then, he remembers that the kiss on the cheek wasn't only in his dream. It happened. Aziraphale's lips had touched Crowley's skin. It's exhilarating, terrifying.

What to make of it?

Crowley has no proper experience with love. He's never bothered with it. He's just never met the right person. It's not as if he's totally opposed to the idea, it's just that no one has ever sparked his interest. So, he goes it alone, leaves all that uncomfortable business to someone else. But he would know if he's being pursued. Wouldn't he? He has that much social awareness. And Aziraphale isn't exactly subtle.

No, Aziraphale can't have meant what Crowley hopes. Aziraphale is a pure beam of light. He's probably the sort of man who calls dating a courtship. He probably says farewell to everybody like that. The gentle creature he is, he's probably got dozens of old lady friends he calls "my dear" and "my flower" and whatnot. It doesn't mean anything. It can't.

But Crowley wants it to. Oh, how Crowley wants it to.

His want is an ache in his chest, an ache only Aziraphale can soothe.

"Get yourself together," he says into the mirror, "Grow up and stop this nonsense."

But he can't seem to help it.

And seeing him at work again, seeing the way his whole face lights up as soon as Crowley walks through the door, it's even more difficult to quell the bubble of adoration that blooms inside him.

He catches his coworkers, Newt and Anathema, staring at them. They're smiling awkwardly and Aziraphale, confusedly, smiles back.

"Congratulations," Newt says, "We were rooting for you two."

And there's another thing. All this "relationship" rubbish. The whole station seems to be in on it now and Crowley doesn't know what to do. He knows what he ought to do. He ought to tell Aziraphale, save him the embarrassment and confusion. But somehow, the words always catch in his throat, get stuck.

What's he supposed to say?

He pictures the look on Aziraphale's face. "They think we're what? Oh, Crowley, we must tell them the truth."

That's worse, somehow, everybody believing they're an item.

"Besides," a tiny voice says, "Is it so bad for people to think Aziraphale is yours?"

It's a selfish thought, one he dismisses immediately. Or, well, tries to.

But as they take their seats in the studio and Aziraphale gazes at him in that all-consuming, undivided way he has, the thought inevitably crawls back again, stronger than ever.

"Good evening, listeners, and good evening to you, my wonderful Crowley," Aziraphale begins.

Crowley's heart clenches. The more Aziraphale calls him wonderful or lovely, the more his unawareness of Crowley's true feelings stings. But Crowley thinks he'd rather explode on the spot than tell Aziraphale to stop.

"Today, I'm afraid, all I did was daydream about crepes. And how was your day, my dear?"

"Slept for most of it. Got a new plant. She's a beautiful hydrangea. Named her Audrey, just for you, angel."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll take splendid care of her. I can't wait to meet her someday."

Throwing caution to the wind, Crowley blurts out: "She'd like that very much. She's heard a lot about you already."

"All good things, I hope."

"I don't know. Depends how your crepes taste tonight. You have high standards to live up to, you know."

"Well, I do hope I measure up," Aziraphale laughs. "I want your plants to grow fond of me."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll "Take My Breath Away," angel, which coincidentally is what we're playing next."

"A perfect way to start the evening, I think," says Aziraphale"And may I say, good listeners, how breathtaking our favorite cohost is tonight. Is that new cologne, dear?"

Crowley blushes. "Ngk maybe."

"Well, it's quite divine. You ought to run adverts for it. But no adverts for the next hour. Just music. So sit back, relax, and enjoy your listening."

Aziraphale lets Crowley play as much Queen as he wants without complaint and, in return, they spend an hour listening to musical soundtracks. Aziraphale's favorite today is Company.

"I should like some company someday," Crowley hears Aziraphale mutter off microphone and sigh desolately.

"Oh, come off it. I bet you have loads more friends than I do, angel."

Aziraphale looks at him blankly. "Friends?" He seems confused at the word, like he can't believe Crowley has misunderstood him so. "What have friends got to do with… I mean, I have a very great many acquaintances and I am fond of a fair few of them immensely but friends? I'm afraid I've never been good at making those."

"Me neither."

"Does that have something to do with you hating people?"

"Yup. Can't stand 'em. Except you, of course. Sometimes."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale scoffs. "I don't believe you."

"It's true."

"And why is that?"

Crowley sighs. "You're not the only one who was told they were too much, angel. I'm not exactly mellow. I always pry into things, ask too many questions, never take people at their word. I suppose people find that hard to handle."

Aziraphale's eyes are twinkling. "Well, my dear, you can always ask me whatever you like."

Crowley's heart speeds up. His stomach flutters. Aziraphale is leaning close, his hand inches away from Crowley's own. It would be so easy to take it.

"Be my company," he would say. "Make me alive."

He almost does it, too.

And then they get a caller.

"Hi Crowley, Mr. Fell. My name's Maggie. I am a long-time listener, first time caller. And I just wanted your advice."

"Mine won't be helpful," says Crowley sourly. "And his will be downright tragic."

"Now, dear, we don't know that. Let's hear the girl out first. What is it you need advice about, Maggie?"

"Well, I've-I've had a crush on this-this woman who works across the street from me for ages and ages. Only, I can't seem to work out how to tell her. I figured you two might be able to give me some tips seeing as you're…"

"We're what?" they say together.

"Oh, you know," she replies evasively. "Anyway, I think she's amazing, so cool and funny and I-I just don't know what to do."

Aziraphale and Crowley stare at each other.

"And you think we do?" Crowley says, more than a little stunned.

"Yeah. Of course. How do I tell her that I've been madly in love with her all this time? What do you think, Mr. Fell?"

"I?" Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it again. Oddly, his cheeks go pink for some reason. "I… well, that is to say… in matters of the heart I… Why don't you ask Mr. Crowley here? A dashing fellow like him, he's bound to have more practical knowledge in these sort of things."

"Well, in my expert opinion you should er…"

Crowley nudges Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading, mouths "HELP!"

"You should…" Aziraphale tries and mouths back: "I don't know!"

"Uh make a grand romantic gesture, of course," says Crowley, as smoothly as he can manage.

"A grand romantic gesture?" says Maggie, unconvinced.

"Uh-huh. That's right."

"Such as?"

"Oh, erm…" Crowley flashes to a rainstorm, Aziraphale's warm breath on his neck, the lightest graze of his lips, the fire that ignites in his blood at the memory alone. "What you've got to do is to find your woman and get her wet."

"Excuse me?" says Maggie in scandalized tones.

Aziraphale pales just as Crowley's face goes burning hot.

"I mean, in the rain. Get caught in the rain together and, you know, do the thing."

"The thing?"

Crowley gestures impatiently. "Yes, yes, the love thing. You stand in the rain together, look into her eyes, and boom! You're in love. She's yours forever."

"Oh, but dear the rain is ever so unpleasant. No, a dance is the traditional way to begin a courtship. Or, thell, so they say."

"Who the bloody heaven is they?"

"My friend."

"Who? I thought you don't have friends."

"My friend Jane."

"Jane? Jane who?"

"Austen, of course."

"Oh, for somebody's sake! Don't listen to him. Nobody falls in love that way anymore. It's all about-about passion and declarations in the middle of airports or some such. You know "Waaaaiiit! Don't go! I'm lost without you!" That sort of thing. Jane Austen, hmph."

"Don't listen to him. He clearly hasn't read Persuasion. There is passion in Jane Austen's work, Crowley! How could you even say…"

"Maybe I'll just ask her to dinner," says Maggie.

"What?" says Aziraphale.

"You can't do that," says Crowley.

"Why not?"

"That's too commonplace," says Aziraphale.

"I'm telling you, rainstorms are where it's at," Crowley puts in.

"Yeah, no. I like the dinner idea. Thanks for the entertainment anyway, though, Mr. Fell, Crowley."

She hangs up.

"What was that about?" Aziraphale asks.

"I have no idea," says Crowley.

And before long, it's the end of their shift and time for crepes.

They walk out to Crowley's Bentley, still debating the topic.

As they climb into the car, Lucy emerges from the station and watches them go. Great, more fuel to the "definitely sleeping together" fire. After all, who goes home with someone at three in the morning just to eat crepes? Besides Crowley, that is?

He's got to tell Aziraphale. He's simply got to. Aziraphale will be mortified if he finds out from anyone else.

He clears his throat, readies himself.

Just as Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley's knee companionably, smiles over at him, and says, "I had no idea you were such a romantic, Crowley."

Crowley's brain misfires. His heart feels fit to burst. His stomach swoops. The road blurs before him. He's convinced the Bentley can drive herself, because his hands go lax at the wheel and somehow, they don't veer into another lane.

"I don't do romance," he says and regrets it immediately.

But Aziraphale isn't phased. "For someone who doesn't do romance, you do know quite a lot about it. So you'll excuse me, my dear, if I don't believe you." He pats Crowley's knee.

"Ngk, angel!" How's he supposed to focus on anything but the pressure of Aziraphale's hand? "I've only ever watched films, really. That's just what they do in the films."

"Is it? I don't watch much."

"Well, maybe we could watch one sometime and then you'll see."

Aziraphale removes his hand from Crowley's knee as his house comes into view. It's rather cold without him.

"I'd like that," Aziraphale says.

Then, casual as anything, he steps out of the car and leaves Crowley, brain buzzing, to try and collect himself before following him inside.

The first thing Crowley notices in Aziraphale's house is the books. They're everywhere, on every coffee table, littered over the sofa, stacked on the kitchen table. Heaps of books. More books than Crowley has ever seen before apart from in a library.

Aziraphale flips on a light and Crowley can tell he's a little embarrassed at the clutter.

"I, uh, I never get visitors, if I can help it," Aziraphale says.

"Wait, I thought you were the man of love and light and all that is good. Are you telling me you don't like hosting company?"

Aziraphale blushes at the complements, blushes even pinker at Crowley's suggestion. "Well, I… other people are alright, sometimes. But preferably not in my home."

"I can't believe you don't like visitors as much as I don't," Crowley laughs, surprised. He leans against the stout wooden kitchen table and grins. "I never would have thought that of you, angel. And yet you invited me, right enough."

"That I did." Aziraphale stands before him, his eyes glue to Crowley's face.

If Crowley moves forward, just an inch, their foreheads will be touching.

His mouth goes dry. He studiously avoids looking at Aziraphale's lips, Aziraphale's lips that have kissed him, if only on the cheek.

"And I do hope you like it here."

Crowley looks around. The walls are painted bright yellow. The shutters are thick but hung over with lacey curtains. There are knickknacks scattered here and there, extra cushions on every available surface, hand-knitted blankets thrown over the sofa. It can't be further from Crowley's sleek minimalist style. And yet, there's a charm in it, a sense of safety unlike anything he's ever felt before.

In a word, it's homey. And that's exactly how Crowley feels, like he's come home.

"It's perfect, angel," he says and finally meets his eyes so Aziraphale can see the sincerity there.

Aziraphale clears his throat, looks away.

"Shall I make the crepes?"

"Of course. Remember," Crowley says with a smile, "A lot is riding on those crepes. Audrey's counting on you."

"Then I best not let her down.

Aziraphale's kitchen is small and cramped. There's barely enough room for two to squeeze in next to each other at the counter.

Crowley notices that all Aziraphale's dishtowels are blue with spoons and forks on them. Aziraphale dons a matching apron and rolls up his sleeves.

He takes out an ancient, weathered cookbook. The cover is torn and there are smears all over every other page, as if it's suffered through innumerable cooking accidents.

"It's my mother's," Aziraphale explains at Crowley's look. "But I collect cookbooks, you know, the more elaborate recipes the better. And on my days off, I try and whip up something really spectacular for myself. Just for fun, you understand. I would qualify myself as an amateur cook but an avid connoisseur." He laughs. "What about you?"

"Hmm?" Crowley is too intent on following Aziraphale's every movement to hear his name.

"What about me?"

"Do you collect anything?"

Crowley shrugs. "Cds. Music. I've always been sort of obsessed with it. Sometimes, when I'm stressed, I take my collection off the shelves and reorganize it to calm down. It actually works wonders."

"Do you get anxious allot? Oh, sorry, dear." He whisks around to take out the flour, sugar, vanilla, butter, and eggs, and bumps into Crowley.

Crowley reaches out a hand, steadies him with a light touch to the back. "S alright. I used to more often. S why I liked the radio. Sometimes, I'd stay up the whole night just listening to records. It was an escape from my family. That's how I got into radio. I wanted to do my own thing, away from them."

Aziraphale retrieves a set of measuring cups from a drawer, begins carefully sifting flour into the mixing bowl. "Me too, actually," he says and Crowley stares at him. "Well, my family were not… supportive… of myself or my choices. Eventually, they accused me of stirring up trouble for trouble's sake, and now we don't speak."

"I'm sorry, angel."

There's so much sadness in his eyes. Crowley wants to rant and rage against Aziraphale's horrible family forever but restrains himself.

"Yes, well, that was a long time ago. And it's been just me ever since."

He cracks an egg forcefully on the countertop, pours the contents of the shell into the bowl, whisks and whisks and whisks. "It just gets rather-rather…"

"Lonely?" Crowley says.

Aziraphale nods.

"I know about that, angel."

"But it hasn't been, I mean, lately." He shoots one of those lovely smiles at Crowley.

Crowley can't resist smiling back. "No, I don't suppose it has been for me, either."

Aziraphale's recipe says the batter needs to rest for an hour in the refrigerator before cooking, so they amble into the living room, take seats on the tiny sofa so close their shoulders brush as they talk, each leaning imperceptibly but inevitably closer to the other.

"This is nice," Aziraphale sighs.

"It is."

"It isn't too early—late for you?"

"Not with you, angel."

"You really are quite sweet."

Crowley sighs, closes his eyes, unconsciously leans against Aziraphale as a flood of contentment wells up inside him. "Shhh. Don't let anyone hear that. The plants will never fear me again."

"Don't worry. My lips are sealed."

Aziraphale talks, then, talks of a million different things. He tells Crowley about his own disastrous forray into gardening, about the cooking shows he loves watching on lazy Sunday mornings. He wonders about his callers and genuinely hopes their lives are going well. And Crowley, for once, doesn't feel obligated to speak. All he has to do is listen. It's like falling asleep to Aziraphale's radio show, only better, because the man is right beside him, speaking soft but animatedly without polish or filter. He's warm, too, and smells of baked things, sugar, butter, vanilla.

Crowley's eyes drift close, but he does not fall asleep. His head droops onto Aziraphale's shoulder, but he is too wrapped up in the moment to stop himself. He makes the occasional comment, is grateful when Aziraphale does not press him. He shifts closer, is surprised and relieved to feel Aziraphale move his arm to accommodate him, even more surprised when Aziraphale drapes it around Crowley's shoulder, tucks him to his side.

Before they know it, the timer goes up and Aziraphale reluctantly pulls away to finally cook the crepes.

Aziraphale has set the table for a beautiful breakfast. He's put a white tablecloth down, a string of candles, and Crowley's bouquet at the center of it all.

He plates each strawberry and cream filled crepe effortlessly and goes to Crowley, shakes him gently.

Crowley blinks up at Aziraphale through puffy, sleep-laden eyes. "Angel?"

"My dear, your breakfast is ready."

Crowley gets to his feet, looks at the gorgeously arranged table with his bouquet at the heart of it, looks at Aziraphale smiling at him across the way, and allows unfamiliar happiness to to rush through him like wine.

"Angel, you've outdone yourself already."

He crosses to the table, takes his seat.

Music is playing lowly on a record player in the background.

"That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air…"

Crowley takes his first bite of crepe. It's perfect. Light and delicate, filled with fresh, sweet strawberries and cream with just a hint of honey and lemon.

He closes his eyes appreciatively, misses the look of delight on Aziraphale's face, opens them again and sees it.

He's practically glowing in the candlelight as he watches every muscle of Crowley's face move, every micro expression flicker in his eyes, with an intensity and fervor that makes Crowley's blood race.

To have this man's whole attention, Crowley realizes, is as thrilling as it is overwhelming. Crowley wants every scrap he can get. There is no brandy in the chocolate this time, but the sweetness goes to his head anyway.

"Well, how did I do? Will your plants be getting a positive report?"

"Heavenly, that's what I'll tell them. This is heavenly."

Aziraphale gives a happy wiggle and beams.

"Oh, Crowley, thank you!"

And then, he does something that takes Crowley's breath away. He reaches across the table and lays his free hand atop Crowley's. Crowley thinks of Aziraphale's hand on his knee, Aziraphale's arm around his shoulders, Aziraphale's crepes, restaurant worthy. He slowly turns his hand, so their fingers are interlocked and squeezes. Once, twice, three times. Aziraphale seems rather breathless across the table, flustered in a way Crowley has never seen. He longs to kiss each pinprick of pink on his cheeks, to kiss the creamy crepe filling right off his lips.

Crowley's own lips burn with the plain, pure wanting of it.

"Angel," he says through a bite of strawberry, "What if we did it ourselves."

"Did what, dear?"

"Our own show."

The thought has just occurred to him. He can do it. He can take Aziraphale away from all of Lucy's ignorant comments, everybody's condescension and prying eyes. They can create a space that is all their own.

"You mean, we wouldn't work for the station anymore?"

"Why not? They're toxic. We're the ones drawing in audience engagement. We don't need them. We could run things our way, just how you want it. We wouldn't be relegated to nighttime broadcasting anymore."

Aziraphale's eyes grow wide. "I-I wouldn't know how. What if our audience doesn't make the switch? Besides, I've worked here a long time. I feel obligated to stay."

"Just promise me you'll think about it, alright? Just consider it."

Aziraphale squeezes his hand, but his eyes were distant. "I promise."

When dinner is over, just before Crowley is preparing to clear the plates, he takes Aziraphale's hand that's still in his and brushes his lips against it.

"Thank you, angel for all of this."

He actually hears Aziraphale's breath catch, feels the tremor in his hand against his cheek.

"Any time, Crowley. Any time at all."

Crowley reluctantly gets up and does the washing up, but Aziraphale lingers in the kitchen with him, as if their bodies are tied with a string and he daren't venture too far.

After the washing up, they sit up talking of nothing for a time, until the first rays of morning leak in.

Crowley gets up, stretches, yawns.

"Well, I'd better go and let you get your sleep," he says, though everything in him wants to sink back into the sofa, into Aziraphale's sweet closeness.

"Is it morning already? Oh, I suppose it must be." A strange expression crosses Aziraphale's face, a half question, half—nameless something. "Must you go?"

Aziraphale, bless him, is just being polite. Crowley can see the exhaustion in his face, the way he tries to stifle his yawns. He is a superb host, however, and obviously won't admit his fatigue so as not to hurry Crowley on his way. Every day, Crowley is struck by how remarkably kind he is.

"Yeah. You look exhausted, angel. Get some sleep."

"Oh," Aziraphale says in a rather lackluster way, "Oh." He gathers himself, puts on a smile that does not quite meet his eyes. "Of course. I don't want to keep you."

"And I don't want to keep you awake. I'll tell the plants hello for you. They'll want to hear all about this, you know."

"Right," says Aziraphale.

He must be quite tired. His voice is so dull.

He walks Crowley to the door.

"Well, good night-I mean morning, then, Crowley," he says.

"Good morning, angel."

And because they're apparently doing this now, he leans forward and presses his lips to Aziraphale's cheek. Crowley feels the sharp intake of breath, feels Aziraphale turn his head slightly, the way the corner of their mouths almost, but not quite, touch.

For one long moment, Crowley is sorely tempted to take the angel's face in his hands and kiss him hard on the mouth. But that would be ridiculous. That would break the only friendship he's ever had. He can't risk that.

So, grudgingly, he pulls away, gives Aziraphale one last smile, and heads toward his Bentley and home.

He fails to notice Aziraphale standing at his doorway, silhouetted by the rising sun, watching him drive away.

"Well," Aziraphale says to no one in particular, "Now what on Earth was that about! And things were going so well, too."

But to Crowley, blasting music in his Bentley, things can't get much better.

"So this is what it's like to have a friend," he thinks. "It's nice." He sighs. If only Crowley didn't long for so much more than that.