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“There’s only room for one of us in this lane and it is not you,” Crowley muttered with a smirk, effortlessly sliding his Bentley around the bright orange old Toyota.
Repeated notifications buzzed at his phone where it rested on the stand in front of him. He didn’t even need to look to know it was Anathema, and that the texts had been exponentially growing with exasperation with every minute that passed and he wasn’t there yet.
Personally, he couldn’t care less if he was on time or not. Being fashionably late was always an option and he wasn’t above sliding into a seat at the back if first act was in full swing by the time he got there. He’d watch the same play, the same actors, hear the same lines as everyone else, so did it really matter where he sat?
Well, Anathema begged to differ. This was her friend’s opening night, apparently, and she was hell bent on dragging Crowley along. For company and moral support, she’d insisted, but Crowley knew her better to not think she has some ulterior motive. She had spent the entire week leading up to the play reminding him that the theatre was a little further away than he was used to, and he really ought to get a head start if he didn’t want to be late. And—she would point out—he really didn’t want to be late, because she didn’t want him to be late.
A great system overall. It had worked flawlessly until the third (and final) time his thumb had brushed over the snooze button. His 30 minute power nap graciously gave way to the first REM cycle, and next thing he knew he was being screamed at, his eardrums hurting no matter how far away he held the phone.
At last, the cheerful GPS voice announced that he had arrived at his destination. Lo and behold, the Rose Theatre sign came into view, as well as the giant poster over it. It was a man, smiling softly down at him, a crescent moon dangling from his fingers.
Phone, wallet, keys and jacket in hand, he ran across the street, giving a tiny smile to the clerk sitting behind the window, slumped in his office chair.
“Can I see your ticket, please?” he asked, barely pausing his frantic texting to look up at him.
The tiny verification blip seemed to take ages, Crowley’s grip around his phone vicious and his tapping foot echoing in the empty hallway.
“Round the corner, follow the door to your right,” said the young man, mouth barely opening to let the words out. “Enjoy the show.”
“Cheers,” mumbled Crowley, allowing one private snort to himself at the least enthusiastic wish he’d ever heard.
Hushed whispers wiped the mirth from his face as it dawned on him that he really ought to get going. Jogging down the short hallway, he turned the corner just as he was instructed to, only to stumble into someone, his nose colliding with the back of their head.
“Shit— Ahhh— Fuck,” he muttered, removing his sunglasses and clutching his nose.
“Oh— Oh, terribly sorry dear fellow, oh my goodness, are you okay?” the stranger said, voice laden with worry as if they were the one running head first into Crowley and weren’t merely standing in his way.
Crowley hadn’t even spared them a glance, too preoccupied examining his fingers in case there was any blood. Thankfully, his hand remained clean, though it didn’t do much to soothe the throbbing pain in the middle of his forehead.
“Yeah, just peachy.”
When he finally looked up, it was to two bright, light blue eyes, shiny with concern (or it was merely the blurriness around Crowley’s own eyes that came from crushing your nose into someone’s head). The stranger’s forehead was shaded by a wide fedora, his cheeks covered by a thick beard, yet Crowley was certain he’d seen his face before.
His eyes widened, eyebrows shooting up with recognition, which promptly sent a shock of pain through his face that made him hiss.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger asked again, his hand hovering in the air between them as if itching to reach out and heal him with just a touch. “Maybe some ice would help—”
“Nah, I’m fine, all good,” Crowley managed, trying not to take any deep breaths. “Shouldn’t you… be up there?” He motioned towards the closed door leading to the theatre.
As if on cue, an assistant poked their head around a wall. “You’re on, mister Fell!”
“Ah, well.” The stranger—Fell—blushed, his beard scratching his cravat. “I— Yes, I’ll— be there soon.”
“Oooooh, did I ruin your big entrance?” Crowley asked, unable to hold the grin from his face, pain be damned.
“Oh, don’t be silly, you didn’t ruin a thing. If anything, you were helpful,” Fell brushed him off, a light flush tainting his cheeks. “First day jitters, and all that.”
Crowley’s smile softened at the man’s darting eyes, his fingers now toying with the edge of his fedora. Fell was more than a little well-known; even Crowley could remember seeing his face on giant posters every now and again. And yet, he supposed, the anxiety in the face of the unknown never really went away.
“Well, my job here is done, then,” he announced cheerfully. “See you up there, I guess. Break an… arm, or whatever.”
Fell giggled—a sound so light and endearing Crowley couldn’t stop his smirk if he wanted to. “It’s a leg, usually, but I’ll take it.”
Crowley’s smile sharpened, and he made a show of running his eyes over the man’s figure. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Great legs.”
With confidence he never thought he would muster with a throbbing bruise blooming on his face, Crowley shot him a wink and cracked open the door to the stalls, shielding Fell from view.
A few audience members went silent upon his entrance, then let out sighs of frustration and dirty looks when they realised it wasn’t him they were waiting to see walk through the door. He offered half-apologetic winces as he crouched all the way down to the seat number his ticket indicated. His heart beat faster with every step he descended, bringing him closer to the stage and the bright projectors aimed at the audience.
“Shame they don’t let you sit on the stage,” he muttered as soon as he slid in the (only) empty chair next to his friend.
Five—five!—rows from the edge.
The lights were bothering his eyes despite his sunglasses once again perched high on his nose. Hopefully they would dim down as soon as Fell made his grand entrance.
“So much for not being late,” Anathema whisper-shouted at him, arms folded in front of her chest and gaze set directly ahead.
Ah. Yes. That. For a moment, Crowley had forgotten just why he had stumbled upon the leading man just outside. Between grey-blue eyes, shy smiles and admittedly pretty fucking great legs, his plan to butter Anathema up had flown out the window.
“Got here before the actors did, din’t I.”
She didn’t know just how borderline true that sentence was, and she didn’t ever have to.
Her scoff was drowned by the door opening again, followed by hushed whispers as people turned to look.
Crowley’s entire body twisted to face the dark clothed figure slowly descending the stairs. His fedora was pulled low over his eyes, head tilted downwards and a soft tune whistling out of his lips as if trying not to attract attention.
Fell climbed onto the stage, his nonchalant melody growing louder. By then, the entire audience had caught on. The excited chatter ceased, everyone holding their breaths as their eyes tracked the actor’s movements. He removed his coat, hanging it on a stand tucked away in the corner. His hat, too.
Then, Crowley stared with unblinking attention as Fell rolled his sleeves up, meticulous and calculated twists of the fabric until it rested just below his elbows. The harsh white lights seemed to melt around his forearms, the glow bending around the golden hairs. The projectors beamed from behind him, framing him in their shine, a faint halo surrounding his white-blond curls.
He put his hands in his pockets, lifted his head up towards the audience and smiled.
And Crowley was fucked.
By the time the lights brightened again and the actors dispersed for intermission, Crowley could safely say he was entranced (safely only in the privacy of his own mind, of course). The soft, anxious man he had met in the hallway seemed to disappear along with his long coat at the beginning of the play—an image still rolling around in Crowley’s brain. In the tight confines of the stage, he seemed to transform; his shoulders drew back, his gestures grew broad and confident. He moved about the space with quick movements, owning it as the rest of the ensemble danced around him.
Crowley hadn’t stopped staring—not when he was front and centre, delivering heart-wrenching monologues, not when he silently smiled at his costars, not even when the play went on in the middle of the stage and Fell stood off to the side, observing as if he were a member of the audience too.
Rushing outside for some much needed fresh air, Crowley allowed himself a moment to imagine that when Fell looked out into the crowd, it was him his eyes were searching for.
“He’s so good, isn’t he?”
Crowley jumped up at the sound of Anathema’s voice, landing at least two metres away. She merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
“Yeah, uh, he’s— yes, they’re great. It’s great,” he managed.
Anathema narrowed her eyes. “You okay? You seem… twitchy. Well, more so than usual.”
“Thanks,” Crowley scoffed, earning another chuckle. “‘m fine.”
She scrutinized him a bit more, apparently not believing him, but didn’t press further. “Aziraphale was born to be on a stage. He just… He gets so free when he’s up there, don’t you think?”
Crowley didn’t think. Had barely managed to form a single coherent thought for over an hour (any thought that wasn’t “I want to be closer” or “his hair looks so soft”, in any case). Not because he disagreed, but because he’d spent the entirety of the first act staring at Fell, and completely forgot he was supposed to be there to see Anathema’s friend. He probably wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line-up. That was decidedly not something Anathema needed to know.
He nodded and said, “Mhm. Absolutely, yep. So free.” Then he nodded some more, for good measure.
“You cannot be serious right now.”
Crowley’s head snapped back at her, all sorts of excuses already on the tip of his tongue. “Wot?”
“You have no idea which one Aziraphale is, do you?” Her grin was wide, like she was hearing the world’s most amusing joke.
“‘course I do! He’s the one… He’s…” There was really no way out of it other than admitting to the truth, which he was not mad enough to do. “He’s playing… The guy… The— uhm…”
Anathema’s arms were crossed in front of her chest by that point, but her smile never wavered. “Yes? Who is he playing?”
“They keep saying his name, it’s right here—”
“Yes, they absolutely repeat his name numerous times, I’m sure you’re just forgetting now.” It was her turn to nod, though hers was significantly exaggerated.
He sputtered for a few more seconds, his face heating up more with every passing one, until he finally gave up. “Just— Put me out of my misery…”
“His character doesn’t have a name, you idiot!”
What? But he remembered Anathema being so excited for her friend, and okay, yes, being on a stage is impressive in itself but she wouldn’t really have dragged him all the way out there to see her friend play an unnamed character? Did he even have any lines?
“He’s the Stage Manager,” she said, watching his expression grow more and more confused. “You know…” She pointed upwards, at the giant poster that had first greeted him and was now looking down at their interaction.
The poster of Fell. Aziraphale Fell, it would seem.
“Fuck…” Crowley muttered, heat climbing up to his neck, reaching his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“You really didn’t know?”
“I—I—I didn’t think… He’s your friend? Why have I never heard about him before?
Anathema scoffed. “You don’t know all my friends,” she said, but her smile betrayed more thoughts she chose not to share. Then, because she couldn’t possibly contain herself, “Did you want to hear about him before?”
“I—I— ngk— ‘m just…. Just saying… I could… err… y’know—”
“Right, yes, you think about that.” She gave him a rather patronising pat on the shoulder. “I’m gonna brave the queue for the toilet before act 2. Let me know if you work something out.”
Act 2 was… significantly shorter than the first one. By the time Crowley dragged his feet back to his seat, heart in his throat and ears already stretched towards the stage in case the cast—Aziraphale—decided to sneak back up there, it felt like he was standing up again, his hands hurting from the loud clapping.
He paid no more attention to the second part than he did to the first, but the tiny bit of context Anathema had offered was helpful. It made more sense now when the lead would slide to the edge of the stage, keeping a watchful eye on the rest of the cast but offering little to the actual plot. He was the one connection between the fictional town and the audience, more so talking to them than the people on stage.
At some point, close to the end of the play, Aziraphale stalked back to the sidelines. The audience seemed to be holding their breaths, not a pin dropping as the woman at the centre of the stage cried, begging for her mother to listen. Wavering breaths reached Crowley’s ears, everyone on the verge of tears. Anathema’s hand had found its way around his own, her grip warm and tight.
Crowley had to admit he was a little moved himself, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and shoulders hunched up. But it was impossible for his eyes not to follow Aziraphale; his hands were balled into fists at his side, mouth tight and head held up as he, too, watched the scene. It could be a trick of the lights, or a trick of his own blurry eyes, but Crowley could almost swear Aziraphale was tearing up as well.
And then, the man’s eyes were on him. It took Crowley a few seconds to register it, but his body had reacted instantly. His breath caught, his hand tightened around his friend’s—who squeezed back without looking at him, probably thinking it was because of the play. Crowley had no way of confirming it, of course, he’d heard of actors blankly staring at members of the audience without really seeing them, just as an anchor to help them focus.
But Aziraphale’s breathing slowed, his glassy eyes widening almost imperceptibly, a small twitch deepening his frown. The thought of taking his eyes away and pretend to pay attention to the play never even crossed Crowley’s mind. He just stared. His entire body on fire, he held Aziraphale’s gaze like the whole world had stopped turning around them.
Eventually, it was the actor who looked away; moments before he uttered his next line. His head twisted, his back at once straight again. Crowley took a deep breath, allowing himself a few more seconds to admire the man as he collected himself and landed right back into his character. Before he knew it, his palms were reddened from applause, cheeks warm from a tangle of feelings and salted tears, jaw pained from gritting teeth and wide smiles.
“Come on, let’s go out back,” Anathema whispered in his ear as the applause settled and people started walking out. She was already gathering her own coat and a bag Crowley hadn’t noticed before, the tips of a colourful bouquet peeking out over the top.
“What— Where?”
“The stage door!” she said, as if it was obvious. “Aziraphale usually spends some time with fans but I told him we’d go out for a drink afterwards. Unless you don’t feel like coming.” Her eyebrow was arched high above her glasses, a barely contained smile on her face.
“No— I— ngk— er— sure—” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I could go for a drink.”
Anathema chuckled, but mercifully didn’t comment on the blush determined to reach every inch of his face. “Thought you would. Come on.”
Aziraphale’s ears were still ringing by the time he made it off the stage, his shoulders pleasantly tender from all the congratulatory pats from his cast-mates. Sweat trickled down his temples and down his back, no doubt soaking his costume, but he couldn’t care less as delighted and relieved chatter carried him all the way to his dressing room.
Opening nights were always tinged with a special type of stress. It all came down to this, all their hours of rehearsal, endless repeats of the same exact scene until the choreographed dance felt effortless, the actors swirling around each other with ease. Aziraphale tended to carry his own load of responsibility whenever he wore the leading man’s shoes, and the relief at the end of the night was always immense.
It helped whenever he had someone in the audience to focus on, keep him tethered to the moment and bring his best self forward. In the past, it had been his parents, his friends, his sibling a few times. Partners had been rare, especially ones that could ground him with a look and douse him in a sense of calmness, but Aziraphale carried some fond memories.
Tonight, he had thought this person would have been Anathema. One of his oldest and dearest friends, a big supporter of his career ever since he was still scraping through, audition to audition. He had been excited to have her in the audience, on the opening night, looking forward to searching for her eyes and soaking in the intoxicating wave of support she exuded.
He had just handed his phone off to an attendant, moments before his first entrance as Stage Manager, her encouraging text pulling a smile out of him, when he stuttered forward under the sudden collision. He barely registered the dull ache at the back of his head when he turned around to see who had stumbled upon him. His words failed him for a moment, and he found himself aching for a script—someone to tell him what he was supposed to say, how he was supposed to stand in the face of such a handsome person.
In the end, his worry and guilt seemed to take over. He fretted over the stranger, resisting the urge to take his hands into his own and carefully examine his injury, brush the tears away before they had the chance to fall. The man was quick to brush him off, even as the barest twitch of his nose seemed to send a new painful wave through him. A smooth, lopsided smile fixed itself on his handsome face—the ripples around his mouth deep, making Aziraphale’s knees tremble.
And before the man disappeared into the theatre, he had looked back, shiny golden eyes raising goosebumps as they raked over the actor’s body and left him with a cheeky wink and a deliciously shameless comment.
It wasn’t that Aziraphale was unaccustomed to flirty comments. He knew that his form wasn’t what most would consider attractive—having long since abandoned the idea that all actors were meant to be fit, diet-focused models—and given himself permission to enjoy one of life’s greatest pleasures. As long as he was healthy, he saw no problem with the wider waistbands. Besides, he was more than well aware of the fans’…. enthusiastic appreciation.
But there was something about the slow descent of the man’s eyes, the smile spreading almost involuntarily, the deep, fetching flush that Aziraphale was almost certain had nothing to do with their collision… It carried him all the way to the stage, almost floating.
His eyes did search for his friend, all the more eager now for her serene smile to keep him tethered. He knew where she would be sitting, so it wasn’t all that hard to locate her. His lips twitched slightly when he caught her delighted wiggle from the corner of his eye, but he focused on not losing the thread of his melodic whistling.
He got through the first part completely dependant on his muscle memory (not that hanging his coat and folding his sleeves up required a high level of concentration, but there were things like blocking to consider—by then all a matter of exact choreography).
He stood at the centre of the stage, hands in his pockets, head held high. He threw another glance at Anathema, then his eyes drifted to her right and—
Oh… fuck.
Crowley bounced on his heels, hands shoved as deeply in his pockets as they could go in deference to the biting chill (and the urge to tug at his hang nails and betray his biggest tell).
“Would you stop vibrating?” Anathema hissed, even as she fought a smile.
Crowley forced himself to still with a huff. “‘m cold,” he said, only partly lying.
“Then maybe you should start wearing something warmer than this leather monstrosity.”
“Excuse you! This is real leather, if you must know.”
“Yeah, I can smell the poor sheep from here,” she shot back, pointedly pulling her—admittedly very warm and soft looking—scarf tighter around her neck.
Crowley huffed, but discreetly sniffed at his jacket just to make sure she was lying.
“Where’s your friend, anyway?” he muttered, sighing at the lack of sheep-like smells. “Fond of grand entrances, is he?”
“I’d like to see you jumping straight into the cold ready to plaster on a smile and make small talk with a bunch of strangers after running around a stage for 3 hours.”
She eyed him carefully, a fact he only knew because he had an excellent peripheral vision, if he did say so himself. His eyes remained resolutely ahead, and the fact that they happened to rest upon the stubbornly closed door was neither here nor there.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked, smile evident in her voice.
The little witch had sniffed his nerves like a dog with a bone, unwilling to let go.
“Nothing’s gotten into me,” he groused, ignoring her snort.
Before she could prod further—oh, how she wanted to prod further—the door opened, revealing two young kids. They were dressed in black, with theatre passes around their necks and matching earpieces wired around their necks.
They announced Aziraphale’s imminent appearance, requesting that everyone behaves with respect, staying behind the barrier and keeping the line moving.
“Jesus,” Crowley muttered, eyeing the shrieking fans forming something that vaguely resembled a line. “How famous is he, exactly?”
Anathema chuckled, resting her arms against the railing behind her. She looked just about ready to enjoy her second show of the night. “Quite,” was her annoyingly laconic response before she took her phone out and started scrolling on it.
Fucking hell.
The door opened again, and Crowley’s breath hitched. The crowd seemed to share the sentiment, for a moment gasping and huddling closer together. Applause rippled through them as soon as they recognised the shy smile of the young actress stepping out—not Aziraphale, but another one of the leads. Crowley wasn’t that far gone as to not realise she had been brilliant in it, and found his trembling hands clapping as well. She made polite chit-chat with those approaching her, took a couple of photos and then a security guard was passing over her backpack and she was thanking everyone on her way out. Crowley followed her with his eyes until she disappeared, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.
A couple more cast members making their tentative way out were met with the same warm welcome, even as the anticipation built. Even Anathema had noted the time, mentioning how they would miss last call if Aziraphale didn’t make it out soon.
Her complaints were answered mere moments later. A soft tuft of white-blond hair peeked over the rejuvenated crowd ignoring the guards’ repeated requests and pushing as far as the barrier allowed. Even Crowley took a couple of steps forward. It was futile, what with how the fans had formed a tight circle around the actor. Keeping a respectful distance, yes, but as close as they possibly could without the guard reprimanding them.
Crowley could barely make out a soft chuckle every now and again. Bashful words of appreciation were followed by delighted young giggles, excited chatter as the crowd fawned over their newly signed pictures.
As the fans slowly dispersed, Crowley managed to take his first good look. Not of the Stage Manager, or the person he’d seen plastered on posters all over the tube. This was just Aziraphale; his hair a mess, sticking out every which way, his cheeks a deep shade of red, pushed up by a grateful, if slightly tired, smile. He had changed out of his costume; a fact Crowley really should have anticipated, but which stole the air out of his lungs regardless. Instead of the black vest and blazer Crowley had examined at length (how they stretched and bunched around his arms, how the buttons strained or how Aziraphale’s hands fit into the small pockets), he found pale colours, a tartan bow-tie instead of his patterned tie, with a scarf loosely tied around it. He was wearing a long, light brown coat as well, but it was left open to reveal the tiny stretch of his tan waistcoat against his soft belly. One thing remained the same, and that was the glimmering chain reaching from his pocket up to a buttonhole. Of course the man actually owned a pocket watch.
Crowley gulped. His breath hitched, his eyes widened, yet his hands were left firmly inside his pockets, clenching as much as the tight fabric allowed (not much). While logically he was the very same man Crowley had just gawked at on stage, the same one he owed the dull ache in his nose to, this Aziraphale seemed even lighter. Softer, calmer. Like the weight of the earth had been finally allowed to slide off his shoulders, and now he reaped the benefits.
The actor was having a short conversation with a fan, smiling encouragingly at them as their hands shook and their words stammered. His own hands were lightly clasped at his sides, body leaning ever-so slightly towards them. His eyes flickered, barely for a moment. He looked away as if in thought, only for his gaze to brush by Crowley, sending a wave of chills in its wake.
It only lasted a second, but his eyes caught in Crowley’s figure (or the general direction, but these were Crowley’s private— secret thoughts and he was allowed to let them roam however they liked). Quick as lightning, they flickered back to the teenager, but his demeanour already changed. His smile widened, though it tightened at edges as his back straightened. The sharpie wiggled in his hold as he fidgeted.
Crowley snapped himself out of his stupor— quite literally, his fists clenching at his sides as he shook his head. Aziraphale hadn’t looked at him. He probably wouldn’t even spare him a glance if it weren’t for their… unfortunate collision a few hours ago. The man was an actor, a pretty successful one, at that. He was obviously accustomed to admiration from all ages and genders, if the indulging way he smiled to the stuttering teenager and their blushing mum was any indication. The last thing he wanted was to go out after a long performance and have a stranger gawking at him the entire night.
No, he had to collect himself. And quickly, too. The crowd had thinned significantly, grateful fans waving goodbye before fawning over their pictures with the actor. Time was running out for Crowley to compose himself into a semi-functional, somewhat mature adult, and the stakes were higher than ever. If he wanted the barest flicker of a chance with the man, he would have to make sure all the thoughts swimming around his brain were locked away, the key flung off into the aether.
Soon—too soon—Aziraphale was bidding goodbye to the last, more persistent group and making his way over to them. His eyes, bright but tired, wrinkled at the edges, darted between Crowley and Anathema. This was it, his last precious seconds before he inevitably found a way to make an arse of himself again, before he did or said something that would—
“You were… absolutely stunning!” Anathema’s words were muffled by the man’s thick scarf.
Aziraphale’s answering chuckle shook as she rocked them both side to side, his arms tight around her. “Thank you, my dear. And thank you for coming!” He glanced at Crowley for the quickest second before aiming his smile back at his friend.
“You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And… here!” She procured the slightly wilting (but no less beautiful—Anathema had a good eye) bouquet and offered it to him.
Crowley didn’t think it possible for the man to get even more attractive. He had seen him roll up his sleeves, for fuck’s sake! But the flush was so quick to lick up Aziraphale’s neck (honestly, who could blame it), and his eyes grew so impossibly wider and furiously brighter that Crowley had to mentally threaten his legs not to give out.
“Oh— my dear, you didn’t—”
“Of course I had to! It’s customary, for your premiere.”
The baby pink and violet arrangement seemed to bloom further under Aziraphale’s tender hold, preening at his satisfied sigh when he breathed the flowers in. Understanding ached in Crowley’s bones. Aziraphale’s palms barely clenched around the stems when he held the bouquet against his chest like a treasured possession.
“Thank you, Anathema,” the actor breathed, the pink roses accentuating his blush even more.
Once again, his eyes flickered up to Crowley, for once lingering. The shiny blue that had stolen Crowley’s breath away earlier had given way to a deeper, greyer hue that more than made up for it. A shyer, more gentle smile crooked Aziraphale’s lips, the tips of his ears peeking under the messy blond curls darkened.
Soft. The word bounced about Crowley’s head like an errant ping-pong ball, setting half-formed thoughts alight. Aziraphale was soft like a puffy white cloud, the sun reflecting right off his platinum curls. So soft.
“This is my friend Crowley,” Anathema introduced, catching both men’s attentions.
“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, his eyebrow arching ever-so slightly, enough to jump-start Crowley’s brain back into action. “We’ve met. How’s your nose?”
Crowley snickered, scrunching his nose experimentally. It gave a twinge of pain, but he paid it no mind. “Never better. How’s your head?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips, his mouth falling open with the sharp inhale of an unbidden (and probably improper) thought, but he caught himself with a chuckle and a faint cough before it had the chance to slip out.
“Just fine, thank you.”
“Good,” Crowley said, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. “Wouldn’t do to have caused any lasting damage.”
Anathema’s eyes jumped between the two, one thin eyebrow hoisted high. “What are you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” came Aziraphale’s response (a little too quickly), followed shortly by Crowley’s “Just an unfortunate collision, ‘s all.”
If possible, Aziraphale’s blush deepened, as he looked down for a moment before his eyes fluttered back up to him. “Not too unfortunate, I hope,” he murmured.
A deep inhale. “No, not really.”
Did Crowley hope he would get the chance to talk to the man, learn a bit more about him? Maybe. Was he under the wishful impression that a tiny bit of alcohol would tilt the scales his way, making him relax but also making his angles smoother and his remarks not as sharp? Perhaps.
His plans were foiled, much too quickly for his liking. It turned out that it wasn’t only Aziraphale they were going for a drink with, but half the cast, as well as their friends and family. Crowley found himself sitting between Anathema and one of the two young leads, Eric, who in turn was sitting next to his on-stage wife (who had turned into his real-life partner, as they had been all too excited to share). Aziraphale seemed to hesitate a little before taking his own seat, to Anathema’s other side, though not before giving Crowley a tight smile.
Right. Okay. He didn’t need to actually sit next to the man to talk to him, and he had a feeling that Anathema was a little too eager to play matchmaker between them. She always was. The second part of his plan crumbled when he realised he should probably hold back on his drinking, seeing as he had to drive back home at some point (unless Aziraphale lived close by— no, no, too much, too fast, you’ve barely said three sentences to him you twat). He ordered a draft beer, knowing he’d better stick to it.
The third and final part of the plan smashed it all to smithereens when Aziraphale smiled up at the server and the word chamomile left his mouth. Chamomile. At a pub. In a celebratory outing.
Crowley draped an arm over the back of Anathema’s chair, leaning slightly over her to look at Aziraphale. “Pretty sure that’s illegal, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?” the actor huffed.
“Chamomile? Really?”
“I find it especially soothing after a long—”
“Who cares about soothing? You’re supposed to be celebrating!”
“Aziraphale doesn’t care for anything less than a vintage red,” Anathema interjected with a small smile.
“I’m very sure they’ll have some—”
“How dare you,” Aziraphale bristled, pulling his waistcoat taut. “I have standards, you know.”
Crowley’s smile only widened. “Oh, excuse me, your highness, I didn’t realise pub wine was beneath you.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, his spine impossibly straightened. One corner of his lips was pulled up, but he hid it under the hand reaching up to stroke his beard. “It is, but you wouldn’t know a thing about it, would you?”
The red-head scoffed, ignoring the blasted opening for a joke about something being beneath something else. Or, well, someone.
“I have standards.”
And you’re knocking every single one of them out of the park.
Aziraphale’s eyebrow barely twitched. “I struggle to believe that.”
“You can’t honestly sit there with your— your— leaf water and holier-than-thou attitude and colour-coded outfits and talk to me about refined taste!”
“It’s chamomile,” Aziraphale pointed out with the serenity of someone whose blood was more tea than anything.
Crowley let out an exaggerated shush. “Don’t say that so loud or they’re gonna kick us out.”
“And what’s wrong with colour-coded outfits anyway?” Aziraphale went on, unperturbed, “Just because you seem to lack the capacity for such forethought doesn’t mean nobody else can do it.”
Oh, he was a bit of a bastard, wasn’t he? A gorgeous, talented bastard that didn’t even bat an eye before giving as well as he got.
Don’t— Do not even think about that.
Crowley cackled. “I’ll have you know, a black combo is all the rage these days.”
“Yes. Rage being the imperative word here.”
“I’ve seen him spend an hour trying to pick an outfit only to go with a black shirt and jeans,” Anathema—once again—butted in, hiding her smirk behind her long island ice tea. She lived 10 minutes away, so no driving for her tonight.
“Hey! I had three black shirts to choose from, each one with a different style.”
Aziraphale chuckled, letting out a satisfied (and surely overracted) sigh at his first sip. “Is that why you were so late today? The outfit held you back?”
Despite the somewhat judgemental tone of his words, his blue eyes did a very thorough sweep over said outfit that left Crowley feeling warm all over, tingles rising in his spine.
“Wasn’t the outfit. Traffic.”
Anathema let out a theatrical gasp that almost put Aziraphale’s performance to shame. “Bullshit, I have your location, remember? You left your apartment 25 minutes later than you were supposed to!”
“Yes, just as rush hour was starting! Traffic!”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, letting out a short hum before bringing his tea-cup (his fucking tea-cup) back to his lips.
“Got something to say?” Crowley groused.
“Nothing,” the actor shrugged innocently, “I’m just glad you made it, in the end.”
“Yeah,” Crowley said, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. “So am I.” And then, because he had no sense of self preservation (especially when Aziraphale looked at him like that, with his widened eyes and pink cheeks), he had to go and dig himself a deeper hole. “And any way, you didn’t seem to mind the all-black back on stage.”
The tips of Aziraphale’s ears darkened, but he held his composure. “Hm, you should know. You were staring quite intently.”
“I— hhn— ff— was not!”
“You were?!” Anathema punched his arm (he was actually quite grateful for the efficient—if painful—grounding). “And you pretended like you didn’t even know who he was!”
“Nkg— I didn’t! I wasn’t— I—” A deep breath. Yes. That’s what he needed. Maybe two. “I was taken by the plot.”
“I sincerely doubt you even blinked,” Aziraphale said—and frankly that confidence was unfairly hot. He wasn’t even trying to hide his smirk, or the smug roll of his shoulders. And all that with a fucking chamomile in his hands.
Crowley’s jaw fell, his face splitting with delight. “Must’ve been staring right back, then.”
“It’s normal for an actor to find the odd one out in the audience and focus on them,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly, even as the cup clattered softly when he set it down with an unsteady hand. “It’s grounding.”
“Aw, is that cause I’m so handsome?”
“Hardly.” He let out an indignant scoff. “But it’s hard not to notice the only person ignoring the action on stage to focus on the sidelines.”
“Say what you want, you were looking right back. Prob’ly forgot your lines, too, but you’re too good so nobody noticed.”
Aziraphale’s smile softened. “You thought I was good?”
Crowley tried to be snarky, he did. He wanted to say something along the lines of ‘good enough not to walk out half-way through’. But when he looked up at the man, the first word already on the tip of his tongue, to find hopeful eyes set on him, he couldn’t utter anything other than a heartfelt compliment.
“Yeah,” he breathed, shoulders deflating. “You were— You were great.”
“Oh,” the actor breathed, beaming.
Gratitude burst out of him in waves as he preened under the hesitant compliment. It was almost hard to look at him, with his bright smile, and glimmering eyes, and—
“Thank you. That’s awfully kind of you.”
“Hnng not kind, just— observant, ‘s all. Got a whole bloody standing ovation, didn’t you? Can’t have been a surprise.”
“Yeah, well,” Aziraphale’s smile turned coy. “It’s always nice. Being told.”
“Sweetheart, if you wanted me to tell you how well you were doing you only had to ask.”
The words stumbled out of Crowley’s lips regrettably quickly. The snap of his mouth did nothing other than throw bright projectors on to the fact that the thought came completely unfiltered, his cocky attitude dissipating and falling like a thick blanket over his shoulders.
For his part, Aziraphale looked just as flushed as Crowley felt. His jaw fell open, then snapped closed again.
“Oh,” he breathed, a little too unsteady.
“That’s— well— sort of— ffft—”
“I will…”
“Yeah, just. Ignore that.”
“Mhm.”
But Aziraphale’s smile was coy, the tips of his ears bright pink and his eyes shone a bit too brightly.
Fucked. Well and truly fucked.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself far too much,” Anathema said at some point, after Aziraphale had excused himself to go to the loo.
It’s the tea, Crowley hadn’t missed a beat to call after him, cackling at the huff he got in return.
“Tell that to your bloody grin,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes at his friend.
“I’m just glad there’s finally someone—besides me—capable of knocking you down a peg.”
Crowley let out an exaggerated gasp. “Knocking— I do not need to be knocked down.”
All his little performance earned him was an eye-roll and a gentle shove of his shoulder.
“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it as much as he is.”
Crowley was determined not to confirm or deny any baseless accusations. Not that based ones were going to get a different treatment, but the fact of the matter was that he simply couldn’t let such blatant smugness slide.
“I’m just having conversation.” He relaxed back in his chair, grateful to his sunglasses (yes, he had put them back on shortly after the sweetheart incident but the two were completely unrelated, swear) for masking just how much he was enjoying it. “Isn’t that why you brought me here? Meet new people?”
Anathema’s eyebrow twitched. “Yes. It is.”
Understanding crept up Crowley’s spine like lightning. His gasp attracted the attention of some of the other cast members, but it was quickly forgotten as they went back to their conversations.
“You little witch,” he whisper-shouted. “This was a set-up!”
“It’s not a set-up, we’re not kids in a school yard!” Anathema huffed, though her little squirm told a different story. “You’re both my friends and I thought you might get along. That’s all. And if you happened to hit it off, well.”
“It’s such a set-up!”
She levelled him with her best therapist stare, which he was loath to admit was annoyingly effective. His smile dimmed instantly, a dry gulp scratching his throat.
“You’re just projecting cause you want it to be a set-up,” she stated. Simple as that. With her stupid little pursed lips that bit back a smug smile, and her thin arched eyebrow, she went and took a sledgehammer to Crowley’s barely constructed walls of semi-coherent thoughts like it was a house of cards.
Unbelievable.
“What’s a set-up?” Of course— of fucking course this was the moment Aziraphale returned from the loo.
“Nothing!” The word came out of Crowley’s mouth before he had even registered the actor’s return.
It was his turn to squirm under Aziraphale’s interrogative stare; once again praying to the sunglasses God. His blond hair was ruffled and his cheeks slightly pink and glistening; he looked as if he had dunked his face into a bowl of ice-cold water. Even his lashes were darker, clumped together and almost sparkling as they fluttered in the dim lighting.
As soon as Aziraphale pulled his seat forward to sit back down, Anathema shot to her feet.
“Switch places with me,” she ordered.
“What?!” Aziraphale cried, and Crowley wanted to strangle his best friend while diving into the deepest pits of hell and dragging her along with him. Then maybe strangle himself too, for good measure.
Anathema’s smile widened, close-mouthed and tight. “Switch places with me.”
“What are you doing?” Crowley hissed.
“I wanna talk to… What did you say your name was?”
A bespectacled young man nearly jumped out of his skin at being addressed, his blue eyes widening even more at Anathema’s saccharine grin. Crowley recognised him as the young maestro in the play, a drunk and desperately in love man who definitely deserved better. (Crowley might have teared up. Shut up. You weren’t there.)
“M-Me? Newt,” he stammered at Anathema’s patient nod, almost unsure of his own answer.
“Newt,” Anathema repeated, and if Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d think that was fondness in her voice. “I wanna talk to Newt. So. Come on.”
Heart threatening to break through his chest, Crowley chanced a glance back at Aziraphale, who in turn looked from one to the other with a mildly bemused smile.
“Is this the set-up?”
Crowley almost smiled at the audible quotation marks.
“Ngk. ‘fraid so.”
“Hm.”
Without further comment (but with a great deal of red down his neck), Aziraphale dragged the chair back, then wiggled as he pulled it forward underneath him.
And, if he settled a little closer to Crowley than Anathema previously had, well. Surely an accident, right?
Crowley cradled his almost empty bottle of beer in his palm, thumb toying with the frayed tag. With every second that ticked by the air grew thicker around them, the music somehow louder but more a buzz than anything. Aziraphale made a few valiant attempts to join in on his cast-mates’ conversations (this was their celebratory outing, after all), but they all ended with a small chuckle and a return of his full attention to the surface of his tea.
Crowley leaned a bit closer, plucking every semblance of normalcy he had in him to make actual conversation with actual people. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
“Regretting it already, are you?”
“I— sorry?” Aziraphale’s eyes flashed up at him, bluer than ever, cup half-way to his mouth.
Crowley pushed his smile wider. “You don’t even think the tea is drinkable, admit it.”
A weak scoff. “I hardly think it takes a genius to steep a proper cup of tea.”
Crowley raised his eyebrow. He leaned even closer.
“I don’t get how they didn’t even get this right,” Aziraphale huffed at last, settling his saucer down and giving it a pout as if it had personally offended him. The poor porcelain was seconds away from cracking under the weight of his stare.
“Ha! I knew it!”
Okay, maybe throwing a celebratory fist in the air was a little uncalled for, the man was supposed to be enjoying his evening after such a success after all, but Crowley couldn’t help it.
Thankfully, Aziraphale didn’t seem offended. He gave him a smile, even as his eyes rolled—dare he say it—a little fondly. “Yes, yes, you’re so clever. I doubt your beer is any good either.”
He was grasping at straws, that much was evident, desperate to find some common ground.
Crowley, for his part, didn’t care for straws. Preferred drinking right out of the bottle. Which he did, slowly and rather performatively—too enthusiastically for being one of two non-actors on the table. But he raised the bottle to his mouth, a thumb and two fingers loose around the neck, barely touching it to his bottom lip before tilting his head back. Eyes fluttering closed, he gulped down the remains of his drink, savouring the bitter notes despite the tepid temperature and then put the bottle down with a satisfied sigh and a pleased smirk.
The little drop sliding down his bottom lip was honestly unplanned, but Crowley counted the way Aziraphale’s eyes traced its descent as a win. More flushed than before, Aziraphale’s mouth had barely parted, his shoulders rising steadily with his deepened breaths.
“Good?” the actor whispered.
Crowley’s smile widened. “Decadent.”
Aziraphale gave himself exactly three more seconds, then pulled his eyes away and down to his lap.
“You really were quite good, you know,” Crowley said. And if it were partly because he wanted to see the retreating blush return with full force, well, who could blame him? The thick beard hid most of it anyway, he was planning on getting as much of it as he could.
“Thank you.” It was soft, but not lacking of immense gratitude that made Crowley’s breath hitch.
He had heard that actors have a big ego, feeding off of praise and applause. But something told him this was something else entirely. It wasn’t Aziraphale Fell in front of him, renowned Shakespeare performer and beloved in screens worldwide (okay, perhaps Crowley had had a short foray into Google while they waited for Aziraphale at the stage door, sue him). He was just an artist. A hard worker, doing what he did for the love of the game if anything. If there was anything the compliments fed, it was the fruits of his labour, keeping them vibrant and filled with sweet juice.
If there was anything Crowley knew a lot about, it was fruits. And vegetables, and flowers, all sorts of plants he had kept under close attention for years. Some might say that his plants were the most vibrant in all of London, and he would merely respond that they wouldn’t dare fare otherwise.
Completely unbidden—and quite rudely, too—Crowley’s brain conjured up a detailed image of Aziraphale biting down on said fruits, eyes fluttering shut at the intoxicating taste, juice running down his chin, staining his beige bow-tie—
Shit. Fuck. Abort! Go back, back to safe ground!
Conversation. He knew how to make conversation. Probably. He was nearly 50, he couldn’t have gone through so many years of his life without making conversation at some point! Minimal amounts of success were acceptable, these were trying times.
“Er… Nn…” he tried, having no idea how the sentence was going to end. It hadn’t even begun, really, so what was the point.
“So what do you do?” Aziraphale rescued him, offering a small smile.
Crowley’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m an author. Well. I write. Dabble, mostly. Mainly an editor to make ends meet. Which is more often than not so.” He took a deep, decisive breath. “Editor, technically.”
How had he gone through 50 years without learning how to be a proper talking human?
Ignorant to Crowley’s inner face-palms (not to mention mental self-strangulation), Aziraphale beamed.
“Oh! Oh, that is simply marvellous!”
Had he even heard Crowley’s ramble?
“Have you worked on anything I might have read?”
“Nn— Pffft— Doubt it. ‘s not— Not big stuff.” He was fairly certain ants had crept up his jeans, tight as though they may be. His restless squirms did nothing to deter them.
“You would be surprised,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m something of a literature aficionado myself.”
Crowley chuckled. “‘course you are. Got all that… hot librarian thing goin’ on.”
Okay, if Crowley managed to make conversation, he apparently made himself trip over his momentary success by flirting.
Come to think of it, that’s exactly how he’d gone through life for 50 years. Charmed his way out of (and into) every situation, and it usually worked out quite well, if he did say so himself. He had only gotten arrested once. Well. And another time but that barely counted as half, seeing as they never even made it to the station.
It seemed to be working now, he was astonished to note, but he felt reluctant to let the flirting turn too shameless. Charmed as he may be, Aziraphale looked like the kind of man that would opt for a slow, careful burn instead of the rather fast crash and burn Crowley was used to.
“I assure you, there’s more than meets the eye.”
It was very quick, and Aziraphale turned away immediately afterwards, but Crowley would bet good money that it was a wink that followed his statement. Slow, careful burn? Really? The man was waving a lit up match in front of Crowley’s face, letting the flame lick his fingers and waiting for Crowley to push the candle just a tiny bit closer so it could burst.
If one thing was certain, it was that Aziraphale was prepared—if not eager—to play whatever game Crowley desired.
And he desired.
Leaning a bit closer, Crowley made a show of raking his eyes over the man beside him. “Is there?” he drawled with a smirk. “Maybe I’ll get to find out soon.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrow arched slightly as he gave him an appraisal of his own. “Hm,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “We’ll see.”
“Don’t think you’re going to weasel out of this so easily.”
Crowley frowned, eyes darting all over the actor’s smug face. “What’re you on about?”
“Your books!” Aziraphale exclaimed, as if it were the natural flow of their conversation and not a subject Crowley hoped to have left behind half an hour ago.
His groan translated his feelings to the t.
“Oh, please tell me more! I’ve been looking for a new read to relax before the shows.”
Imagining someone reading his books was hard enough. Imagining this certain someone, with his thoughtful little pursed lips and the little concentrated line between his eyebrows and that fucking twinkle that seemed to take permanent residence in his eyes was… well, unimaginable.
“If you’re such an aficionado as you say, you can prob’ly find fifteen books you’d rather read before your shows.”
The bastard only huffed. “But I want to read your books!”
At Crowley’s weak little scoff, Aziraphale’s back straightened, his voice dropped to a murmur only the two of them could hear.
“You saw me at my most vulnerable today, and I don’t just mean during the performance. I only wish to see a part of you as well.”
“Ngk— That’s— It’s— Fuckssssakeee!” Crowley threw his head back, closing his eyes and hoping to block out the insistent buzzing in his ears.
“If you’re as elegant in your writing as you are in real life I’m in for a wild ride,” Aziraphale kept on, merciless smug smile audible.
“Oh! Are we talking about Crowley’s writing?”
“No, no we’re not—” Crowley tried, at the same time as Aziraphale wiggled in his seat and said, “We are trying, but he’s being awfully stubborn, if I may say so.”
“Oh, you may,” Anathema scoffed. “It took him three years of knowing me to finally let me read one chapter of the book we was working on. And that’s only cause he wanted a therapist fact-check.”
“Worst decision I ever made,” Crowley muttered, folding his arms in front of his chest.
Aziraphale appraised him with an arched eyebrow. “You know, I’ve never met an author so set on convincing people not to read his books.”
Anathema leaned in conspiratorially. “‘s cause they’re sexy.”
“Oh!”
“No— It’s not— That’s not it! Hell, that’s the one part I’m actually proud of,” he said with smug smile of his own, ignoring the heat rushing up to his cheeks.
Yet when he chanced a look up at Aziraphale, saw the blush on his face, the spark of renewed interest in his eyes… He almost pulled up a PDF of his smuttiest book right then and there.
“Then why are you being so annoying?!” Anathema said.
How was he supposed to tell them that his writing wasn’t supposed to be read by anyone at first? That it simply started out as an outlet for his thoughts, when all he craved was an escape from his reality and losing himself in random characters was the best way he knew how? (He still blamed his therapist for giving him the idea in the first place. She took the accusation with a very unprofessionally—in his opinion—sly smile.)
The first publisher that read his book was a complete accident. They had met at a random bar Crowley couldn’t even remember the name of anymore through a mutual friend. They had dated for a while, and Crowley didn’t even know she was a publisher until one day he had accidentally left his laptop on his most recent work while he stepped away to shower. She hadn’t looked the least apologetic when he came out, dripping right into his thin carpets, and found her nose deep into the third chapter. Somehow, a week later, he found himself in a chair that dug uncomfortably into his spine, his leg bouncing, while a room full of publishers and editors discussed his writing.
The protective, vicious need to guard his writing never really went away, regardless of his minimal success; a word he still despised to this day.
By some sort of miracle, everyone’s attention swivelled to the approaching waiter and the two bottles with golden writing on them that he was carrying.
“We didn’t order this,” a woman with an eyebrow that was definitely painted on with an arch said, and Crowley nearly growled at her. Don’t bite the hand that brings you champagne, or whatever the hell the saying was.
“Actually,” Aziraphale perked up, the apples of his cheeks living up to their name, “I thought, since we’re all here… These are from my personal collection, and there really is no better occasion, is there?”
Everyone cheered as the waiter popped the two bottles with flourish, distributing the fizzy drink along the table. Once they all had their glasses filled and raised, Aziraphale pushed his chair back, stood up and cleared his throat.
“Um. As— As you know, I’m not a man of many words. Well, as long as those words are not written by other people.” It prompted a soft chuckle from his attentive—if modest—crowd. “I just… I just wanted to thank you all, for creating such a wonderful play, making magic up there and making me excited to come to work, day in and day out. From the very first rehearsal, I knew we had found the perfect person in each and every one of you, and there hasn’t been a day I doubted that decision. Here’s to all of you, and our friends and family for your support. And, of course, to a promising, wonderful run ahead of us!”
An echo of ‘hear hear’ resounded around the table, among soft whistles and loving pats. Aziraphale sat back down, face rosier than ever, eyes fixed downwards as his nose all but dove in his glass.
Crowley did not know what possibly possessed him; maybe his alcohol tolerance pummelled in a single night, and a glass of champagne after a bottle of beer was simply too much. Almost as an out of body experience, he saw his hand reach out and wrap around the actor’s trembling fingers, giving them a gentle squeeze. Aziraphale’s head shot up, eyebrows high and mouth in a perfect circle. It took a few seconds—Crowley almost retreated—but his shoulders relaxed, and a coy smile took over his anxious frown. The squeeze back was probably just as gentle and almost imperceptible, but Crowley felt it like a current shooting right up his arm and firing up every neuron in his body.
“Miles better than the leaf water, innit?” Crowley mumbled in Aziraphale’s ear after their first sip, relishing the grin on the other’s face.
“I told you I have standards.”
Shortly after both bottles were empty, people started bidding their goodbyes, more congratulatory words exchanged as they filtered out one by one. Aziraphale’s hand left his own when he stood for the first time to bid the first person goodnight. Crowley missed the contact as soon as it was gone, but it came back right after Aziraphale took his seat again. He pulled it ever-so closer; their knees brushed. He laughed at one of Crowley’s jokes and squeezed his arm along with it. He leaned in, eyes sparkling and lips twitching with a silly—adorable, fucking adorable—smile and his fingers barely grazed Crowley’s ear before he clumsily produced a coin that was clearly tucked behind his fingers. Crowley’s groan convinced no one.
Soon, they were the only ones left at the table, not long after Anathema had hugged them both and left, arm in arm with Newt. Huh. Turns out Crowley didn’t know better, if the way she laughed or the man’s blush were any indication.
The cold hit Crowley’s flushed face like a slap as they hastily made their way outside after the keeper’s polite—but firm—reminder that they were about to close. Aziraphale had apologised profusely, tipped graciously and ushered Crowley out the door, still muttering under his breath.
“Can I… walk you to your car?” Crowley asked, not really bothering to hide the hope tinging his words.
“I— I didn’t drive here, dear boy.”
“Oh. Right, well, could I… give you a lift? I’m right around the corner.”
If his mind fizzled at the mere thought of the man in his car, pale beige and tartan he couldn’t even pretend not to find charming against his shiny leather seats, well. It was nobody’s business but his own.
Aziraphale’s sigh barely registered over all the static in his brain. “I’m a mere five minute walk from here,” he said with a smile. “I find it easier to rent a room close by than drive an hour back and forth every day.”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. Yeah.” There was something thick and heavy in Crowley’s throat, resistant even to the strongest of his discreet coughs.
“You are more than welcome to walk with me, if you like.”
Fighting against the words threatening to melt his entire body into a pulp, Crowley made a show of letting out a long sigh. “Yeah, I guess I could spare five minutes.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, even as his smile widened. “How magnanimous of you.”
“I need to get my steps in somehow.”
They walked in silence for a moment, arms swinging at their sides, knocking when they turned a corner.
“So you live in London? When you don’t work out here, I mean,” Crowley asked.
“Yes, I do, I own a flat in SoHo.”
“SoHo?” He raised his eyebrows, his heart thumping stronger in his chest. “That’s not too far from where I live,” he said, only to elaborate at Aziraphale’s curious gasp. “Mayfair.”
“Mayfair? My, not too bad for a struggling writer, is it?” The actor graced him with a wide smile as their shoulders knocked together.
“Family heirloom. Same as my car. No amount of smutty old books could pay for them otherwise.”
“I have the nagging sense that you make a habit of bringing yourself down,” Aziraphale told the street ahead, hands clasped behind his back.
Crowley was aiming for a joke, even if he missed by miles, judging by the regret in the other’s voice. Oh, how his therapist would have loved Aziraphale. He could almost see her smug smile, her arched eyebrow as he told her everything about him, only to then destroy him with a sentence as simple as “I think he’s good for you.”
“W—Ngk—I—” Crowley scoffed.
Aziraphale spared him no mercy. “Current evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, I think you have a wonderful way with words. I know we joked about it earlier, but I would be honoured if you let me read one of them, at some point.”
“I-I don’t have any with me,” Crowley said, too taken by Aziraphale’s expectant smile to care about whatever words his mouth was producing.
“I don’t necessarily mean tonight… Just…” Oh, shit, now his cheeks were pinking and his eyes were growing wider. The PDFs had started boring holes in his pocket. “At some point.”
“You— You mean… Err—”
Such a way with words.
“I would love to see you again, Crowley.”
Ah! There it was! Mercy—sweet, sweet mercy thrown like a life-jacket in the spoonful of water Crowley managed to drown in.
“You would?”
Aziraphale let out a soft chuckle, which made no sense at all. It was supposed to be sneering, and frustrated, a mean cackle before he stomped away instead of entertaining Crowley’s vowel-less sounds.
But he stood firm, maybe even closer as they came to a stop in front of a dimly lit building, barely two stories high. Aziraphale put the bag of flowers Anathema had given him down and held a palm open between them, warm and inviting. Crowley stared at his own hand as it lifted on its own accord to wrap around the outstretched fingers.
Once again, Aziraphale chuckled, though this time it was breathier and followed by a squeeze of his hand.
“Can I have your phone, my dear?” he asked, smile wide, and only then did Crowley realise the hand was an invitation for the device in Crowley’s pocket and not a request for his hand.
“Oh! Shit, yeah, um, yeah, just— Ignore that.” Before he had the chance to pull his hand away, Aziraphale held him firmer.
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” he said, posh and calm and infuriatingly hot, and raised Crowley’s knuckles to his lips.
This was ridiculous. Utter bollocks. Someone had to be filming this. He wasn’t some sort of blushing maiden, twirling her hair around her fingers while the charming protagonist kissed her hand!
The fact that his knees were good as gone was—you guessed it—nobody’s fucking business.
By some sort of infernal miracle, Crowley managed to fish the phone out of his back pocket and offer it to Aziraphale who only then (regrettably) let go of him to hold the device in one hand and type his number in with the opposite index.
“It really was delightful to meet you,” Aziraphale said as he passed the phone back to him.
It was slightly warmed from his touch, and Crowley stared at the newly formed contact like it was going to disappear if he blinked.
“Yeah, yes—” he cleared his throat, “you too, yeup.”
Barely giving him enough time to recover from the fucking hand kiss (shut up), Aziraphale put both palms on Crowley’s shoulders, pushed himself closer and brushed his lips over his cheek. It only lasted a second, yet Crowley nearly chocked on air at the touch.
Aziraphale didn’t pull away immediately. His breath crashed onto Crowley’s temple, hot and heavy. One sharp breath in, and Crowley’s attention fixed on the tremble at the corner of his mouth.
“Mind how you go,” he said at last, stepping away like he had been burned.
He didn’t wait for the red-head to even attempt to gather his brain, possibly a puddle by their feet at that point, before he opened the door with shaky hands and disappeared inside the building.
1 week later
His touch was light—barely there—as he brushed the tips of his hands over the curved spine. A faint sheen of sweat caught beneath his fingertips, only aiding their glide across the other man’s back. Goosebumps covered every inch he trailed from broad shoulders down to shallow dimples. He paused there, felt the muscle’s give under the clench of his fingers. He barely resisted the urge to tease the waistband of the other’s trunks, find out just how soft the hips underneath were, how warm—
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice, clasping the book he was holding against his chest.
“You demon! Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
Crowley’s eyebrow arched in the way it did every time he found something incredibly amusing, backed-up by his open-mouthed grin.
“I have a feeling it’s quite literally impossible to sneak up on someone in my own home,” he said, crossing the room in three swift strides.
His hair was pulled low at the back of his head, his cheeks aflame from standing over the oven so long, and the knee-length abhorrent apron (“‘Hot stuff comin’ through’? Really?” “Hey, it was a gift!” “From whom?” “…myself. It’s a joke!”) was covered in flour. Underneath, his sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, and the turtle-neck he donned stretched nicely around his Adam’s apple. He looked absolutely delectable. Aziraphale’s mouth watered, and the smells coming from the kitchen were only partly to blame.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t take a look around,” Aziraphale pointed out, knuckles white around the book still above his heart. “I seem to recall an offer to make myself at home before you scurried off into the kitchen and left me to my own devices.”
“I did say that,” Crowley amended, head cocked as he read the title between Aziraphale’s fingers. “Didn’t mean you could go snooping around my office.”
Aziraphale’s cheeks blazed at the call-out. “I know, I’m sorry, my dear, it’s just— I couldn’t resist! This is such a lovely collection you have here and— the book was really sitting in plain sight, I only wanted to—”
“It’s okay,” Crowley interrupted him, his smile wide. “I did promise I’d let you read something of mine at some point.”
Shoulders relaxing, Aziraphale closed the book and put it back on the desk, mirroring the other’s smile. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he whispered. “Truly.”
Crowley nodded and chuckled lightly. “Sure you didn’t. I didn’t expect you to go straight for the racy parts, though.”
“I-I-I did not—”
“Yeah, tell that to the blush on your cheeks.” As if wanting to test it, Crowley’s broad palm cupped the side of his face, his thumb tracing the burning apples and scratching the coarse hairs there.
“It’s hardly my fault if I opened the book on a random page and it happened to have— that on it, is it?”
“‘course it isn’t,” Crowley conceded with a slow nod. “Although, you didn’t quite put it down the moment you realised what it was, did you?”
Ignoring the sharp ringing in his ears as his blood roared, Aziraphale stepped closer, leaned against the careful touch. “I must admit I was rather taken.”
“Were you, now?”
Aziraphale nodded ever-so slightly, careful not to miss Crowley’s touch. “See, it was rather exhilarating to find out just how right I was.”
“Bastard.”
Crowley’s chuckle barely had time to escape his lips before Aziraphale covered it with his own, clasping his hands around that God-awful apron and pulling the man closer. It was hesitant at first, just a gentle press against his mouth. Then a trembling sigh escaped Crowley’s nose, one hand tilting his head just-so while the other wrapped around his back and held him firmly. Aziraphale pushed him gently against the desk, prompting a gasp that only aided in deepening the kiss, when Crowley let out an almost pained whine.
“What is it?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly, pulling away even as his hands remained clenched around his apron.
Even with the line between his eyebrows, Crowley didn’t resist another peck. “I would love to keep this up but I should probably go check on the food if we ever want to eat tonight.”
As if on cue, Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled at the thought of an imminent home-cooked meal, hunger coiling around the desire building there.
Nevertheless, he made a show of pouting and sighing dramatically. “If you must. I’ll just wait for you here, then.”
Inches before his hand wrapped around the book that bore Crowley’s name on the front page, the man in question slapped it away, before taking it in his own and pulling him out of the room.
“Nope, you’re coming with me so I can keep an eye on you.”
Aziraphale let himself be guided onto a tall stool across the oven. Taking advantage of their linked hands, he pulled the man close again, making space for him between his legs and attracting him down for another kiss.
And another whine, it would seem. “Stop distracting me!”