Archive of Our Own

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. - Oscar Wilde

  It starts, as do most things between them, with a wager.

  But it wouldn’t be amiss to say that the wager itself would never have been placed if Aziraphale didn’t suffer from the carnal sins of Pride and Lust. Even Aziraphale could admit that much.

  To understand the intricacies of this particular incident, we must go back to the days after the first Apocalypse. When Heaven and Hell and the Universe stopped holding their breaths after 11 years of waiting.

  Aziraphale didn’t venture out of Soho much. He’d never had any reason to do so, preferring his quaint streets and idyllic little shops and familiar faces.

  Crowley never invited him over to his corner of London either. In fact, the demon seemed to prefer Soho as well. He certainly spent more time in the bookshop than his own flat, especially over the last decade. And the only time Aziraphale had been at the flat was the night after they’d stopped the Apocalypse.

  That wasn’t to say Aziraphale hadn’t seen the rest of London. Of course he had! He’d spent countless afternoons dragging Crowley to some new cafe or bistro, endless sunsets feeding the ducks at the park, and perhaps a small eternity could pass in all the nights that they’d dined at the Ritz.

  Aziraphale knew London. He knew most of the world in the same way- in the paths he’d wandered with Crowley.

  Now, Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t actually spend every single second together. Certainly, they indulged in each other’s company more now that they were free from their head offices, but even so, they had time apart. Mondays and Wednesdays were alone time. Crowley would usually pop in once during rush hour on Tuesday, milling about and scaring the sparse customers. He’d do nothing but lounge around lazily for most of Thursday afternoon. And then he’d come over on Friday morning, saying goodbye only on Sunday night. 

  It was a routine. It worked. Aziraphale liked his routines.

  So, it stood to reason that it baffled Aziraphale when Crowley didn’t show up to the bookshop one fine Friday. All he’d gotten was a little folded chit in his letterbox, with Crowley’s handwriting that read, Angel. Off running some errands today. Pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Ta.

  It had been a few hours since then, nearly lunchtime. Aziraphale chewed on his pork sandwich distractedly, eyeing the letter. Usually, the Cuban recipe made his mouth water with eagerness, but right now, his thoughts were preoccupied.

  Crowley rarely wrote letters, rarer in these modern times. Even this letter smelled faintly of a heavenly miracle- a manifestation of Aziraphale’s preferences when in reality, Crowley must have texted the mobile phone that was locked away in some forgotten drawer of the bookshop.

  What errand? Aziraphale wondered. Neither of them were reporting to their respective head offices anymore. While Aziraphale himself did sometimes miss receiving commendations for his work, he doubted Crowley spared any thought to Hell’s bureaucracy.

  Was he just running around causing mischief? Did he perhaps miss the work? Was he tired of Aziraphale-?

  No, that couldn’t be right.

  Was he meeting someone?

  Aziraphale frowned, tamping down the instant nugget of heat that flared up in his chest. Crowley was allowed to have other friends. Human friends. Aziraphale certainly had a few of his own.

  That was it then. Crowley must be meeting some other friends. Aziraphale could handle a Friday on his own.

  Aziraphale could not spend another minute of this Friday in his bookshop. By routine, he should be getting into the Bentley right now, driving to dinner.

  He fretted about the poetry section, shelving Keats’ works next to Blake’s, taking them down, and reshelving them with Byron’s.

  He glanced at the letter, half-folded on his writing desk.

  Who was Crowley meeting? Could it really be taking up the whole day? If not, then what was he doing? What errands?

  Oh, this was ridiculous! Aziraphale couldn’t just sit here in a sulk! He could- he could-

  Well, he could go to Crowley. It would be a nice change of pace. Yes, that was it, he’d pop in to visit the demon this time. He was sure Crowley would appreciate it.

  Grabbing his coat and an umbrella- a glance outside showed a murky sky- he locked the bookshop behind him.

  It took ten minutes of walking towards Mayfair for Aziraphale to stop enjoying the pleasant breeze and realize that he had no way of knowing whether Crowley would even be at his flat right now.

  He could very well be anywhere in the whole of London.

  Stopping in the middle of the pavement, he considered his new dilemma. He could either wait in the apartment alone for Crowley to return or he could figure out where Crowley was right now and just go to him.

  The sensible option, Aziraphale thought, would be the latter. He had a feeling, based on the demon’s discomfort That Night a few weeks ago, that Crowley didn’t really want Aziraphale in the flat. He barely seemed to like being in the flat himself.

  So, Aziraphale closed his human eyes and stretched out senses he barely ever used. He’d never needed to; Crowley was the one who always found him.

  It took mere seconds to locate the Bentley. Aziraphale hastened in its direction, eagerness taking away some grace from his steps.

  The car was parked on the street, in front of a boutique. Aziraphale frowned. What would Crowley be doing here?

  “Where is he, old girl?” He murmured, patting the Bentley’s bonnet. It hummed under his hand, despite the engine being turned off.

  Aziraphale took a step towards the front door, then paused, something pinging off his mental radar.

  Slowly, he turned. On the opposite side of the street was a long line of people, waiting to be let in through a set of double-doors. Through the small windows above, colorful lights flashed invitingly.

  It was a nightclub, practically a gravitational point for sin and debauchery. Now, Aziraphale might not be the most conventional angel in the world, but he loathed stepping foot into places like this.

  Unfortunately, that was definitely where Crowley was. And it certainly made more sense than the boutique, which looked a little too posh to be a spot for demon-related ‘errands’.

  Although… Hmm. Aziraphale surveyed the nightclub’s line of hopeful patrons. That place also seemed a tad too extravagant for Crowley’s tastes.

  Stop being a coward, Aziraphale scolded himself. You wanted to find Crowley- now go to him.

  “Wish me luck,” he sighed to the Bentley, and squared his shoulders before marching across the street. He didn’t bother with the line, silently praying in apology, though it was mostly out of habit.

  The bouncer at the front door raised an eyebrow at him. “You can’t-”

  “Let me through please.” Aziraphale smiled politely up at him. “You’ll find my name on the list of reservations.”

  The man blinked, eyes glazing over faintly, and nodded. With a smooth step to the side, he unhooked the red velvet rope, gesturing Aziraphale through.

  Aziraphale stepped into a dimly lit foyer. A young person at the desk smiled in greeting.

  “May I take your name, sir? And where would you like to go?”

  “Where would I like to go?” Aziraphale repeated dumbly.

  They seemed to take pity on him. “Upstairs is the dance floor. Downstairs is the lounge where live performances happen.” They hesitated. “I would recommend downstairs for you, sir.”

  “Oh. Oh, right, well… erm.” Aziraphale bit his lip uncertainly. “Is there a Crowley on your guest-list? Perhaps, an Anthony J Crowley?”

  Their eyes lit up, the brown shining darker under pink cosmetics. “Oh, Mr Crowley! Yes, he’s downstairs with his plus-one. He didn’t mention another guest though. And he did give me a very generous tip to cancel any other reservations for that booth…” They trailed off, frowning down at the list of guests in clear confusion. “Why did I agree to that?”

  Oh, darn it, Crowley, Aziraphale groaned. “I’m a friend of Mr Crowley’s,” he said, with all the easy confidence he could muster.

  Crowley’s miracle must have been quite strong because the doorperson smiled again, confusion cleared. “Of course, of course. Please go downstairs, sir, you’ll find him in the third booth from the stage, on the left.”

  Aziraphale beamed in thanks before turning towards the staircase. It was narrow, winding down to another door, framed by thick maroon curtains.

  It pushed open easily and Aziraphale took a quick breath, overwhelmed for a moment by the change in atmosphere. The air was drenched in an unholy combination of perfume, aftershave, sweat, and the sharp tang of air-conditioning. Music bounced between the walls, melodic and entrancing, a heavy bass accompanying it. On the stage at the far end, a couple of lithe performers were dancing on silks that hung from the air. The entire room was swathed in red fabric, even the aerial dancers’ silks the color of flames.

  Aziraphale swallowed, feeling more out of place than an angel in Hell. Which he’d experienced firsthand, so he knew what he was talking about, thank you very much. He could scarcely breathe for the flood of sin that invaded his senses.

  Most of the booths and tables were occupied with large parties or couples. A few people were lined up at the bar, liquors in hand.

  Well. Crowley was in here. It was definitely more his style than upstairs. And Aziraphale had made it this far. He started walking down the length of the room, gingerly picking his way through the loose crowd.

  What did the doorperson say upstairs? Third booth from the stage, on the left.

  The closer he got, the harder Aziraphale’s heart beat, the sound of the bass echoing heavily through his chest. He wasn’t sure what he was nervous about. The words plus-one came back to him from the conversation upstairs. Who was the plus-one?!

  When he finally caught sight of Crowley, the demon was already looking back at him. There was a faint frown fading from his face, his eyes flitting back to his companion. A demon, that much was obvious.

  Aziraphale’s knee-jerk reaction was to march over to the booth and support Crowley in whatever was going on. But Crowley, without even looking at him, shook his head imperceptibly.

  Pushing down the urge, Aziraphale miracled a party out of the neighboring booth and slipped into it instead. The walls curved in for privacy, giving the illusion of being cocooned in satin. He couldn’t see Crowley like this, but tried to take comfort in the knowledge that the only thing separating them was a few inches of wood and upholstery.

  The aerial performers were mesmerizing, so Aziraphale tried to watch them. At the same time, he strained his ears, hoping to catch a hint of the conversation between Crowley and his acquaintance.

  But not even a whisper reached him. There must be a demonic miracle around them.

  “Good evening, sir,” a waiter greeted, appearing out of nowhere. “Your Chianti Classico.” He poured out a glass of rich red wine.

  Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, but I didn’t order-”

  Crowley slid in beside him, as the waiter poured a second glass. “Thank you, Nigel.”

  “My pleasure, Mr Crowley.” The waiter vanished.

  Crowley picked up both glasses, offering one to Aziraphale. “Now, do you care to explain what you’re doing here, angel? Didn’t you get my note?”

  Aziraphale glared, accepting the drink. “Do you care to explain why you thought I wouldn’t want to know if you’re meeting a demon? An ‘errand’ is really not the way to say it.”

  “It was nothing,” Crowley said. “Hell keeps sending replacements, since I’m officially off the payroll. I interview them and send them back.”

  “Why?” Aziraphale was puzzled. “It’s none of your business anymore.”

  “Well, yeah, no,” he agreed. “But s’always useful to keep an ear to the ground. Literally, in this case. Figured the replacement could be some sort of inside man for us. And Hell has to take my advice, even they know I know better than them.”

  “Oh.” Aziraphale frowned at his wine. “Heaven doesn't seem in any hurry to post another angel on earth.”

  “Wish Hell would take a cue,” Crowley muttered. “I’d be happier without a demon anywhere in the vicinity of London.”

  “Is that why you keep sending them all back?”

  “Partly,” he admitted. “But also because they’re not fit for the role. Or to be an inside man. Too stupid, too cruel, too obvious, so on.”

  “What was wrong with this one?”

  Crowley’s face drew into a scowl. “Too smart. Serraine; he’s third-class, but in the Temptations department.”

  “Isn’t that your department?” Aziraphale asked.

  “Was.” Crowley sipped his wine, head cocked. “Alright, he’s gone far enough. Left Earth, by any luck.” He slouched back against the booth, body stretching languidly. Relaxing.

  Aziraphale stared at him, taking a larger sip in the hopes of hiding it. Crowley seemed to have dressed for the theme of the nightclub, abandoning his silver bolo tie, switching out his usual all-black vest and undershirt for a deep red button-down, the collar peeking out from a coat that was cut even more sharply than his usual one. His jeans were the same, but his boots were different, darker somehow, climbing halfway up his shin.

  “Angel?”

  Aziraphale’s eyes flit up guiltily, finding concern on Crowley’s face.

  “You didn’t have to be worried,” he went on. “I didn’t mean to hide anything, just didn’t think it was a big enough deal.”

  “It’s alright.”

  Crowley smiled slightly. “Never imagined you’d find your way down here though.”

  Aziraphale shuddered. “It’s a nightmare, to be honest. I might have lost my nerve if it wasn’t so easy to get in.”

  “Yeah, how did you get in?” Crowley questioned. “I’d done a miracle to keep from being disturbed.”

  “Well, there must have been a loophole,” Aziraphale said. “They let me in when I said I was your friend.”

  Crowley fell quiet. Aziraphale observed his nails. The f-word lingered between them, a not-quite-perfect fit. Friends, Aziraphale was sure, certainly didn’t wrestle with the distinctly unfriendly desire to feel each other’s skin.

  “So.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Tempations department? Is that where all the smartest demons are?”

  Crowley let it slide, smirking at him. “I practically started that department, and I was their best performer, so yes.”

  “Well, aren’t you full of yourself,” Aziraphale teased. “You speak as if you’ve never failed a job in your life.”

  “That’s not inaccurate,” Crowley insisted. “Some of my larger complicated schemes failed, yeah, and sometimes you were actively thwarting me. But by and large, personal temptations always worked out.”

  “Personal temptations?” Back when they’d made more frequent use of the Arrangement, they’d only exchanged the small assignments. Inspire some goodness here, cause some mischief there. Crowley had only ever given him tasks that could be performed from a safe emotional distance. Likewise, Aziraphale had only allowed Crowley to do assignments that wouldn’t require him actually getting close to a human.

  Crowley shrugged at his question. “Yeah, y’know, sometimes Hell wants a soul locked in stat. Can’t get away with all my brilliant scheming then, that person needs individual attention.”

  He sounded vaguely irritated. Aziraphale tamped down sudden fondness. “What kind of tasks were they?”

  “Um… All sorts. Thievery. Betrayal. Avoided murder, though.” He hesitated, took a long sip of his wine. “A lot of Lust.”

  Something in Aziraphale went still, eyes tracking over Crowley’s sprawled-out legs, his slender frame. “Oh.”

  “Hmm.”

  Aziraphale turned away. Silently, they both watched as the performers on the stage switched up, acrobats playing with fire taking the spotlight.

  “Did that always work then?”

  Crowley gave a questioning hum.

  “The Lust,” Aziraphale clarified, studiously not looking at him. “You said your larger schemes did fail sometimes. What about the personal ones that required Lust?”

  A short pause. “Always worked.”

  “Really?” Aziraphale wished he could sound more surprised than resigned.

  “Always,” Crowley repeated, drawing out the vowels lazily, voice dropped low.

  Aziraphale suppressed a shiver. The desire-soaked atmosphere of this establishment must be affecting him. “Not that I’m not enjoying the performances,” he said, with an effort to keep his voice steady. “But shall we abscond?”

  He glanced over as he asked and found Crowley already looking at him, head tipping slightly as if to see Aziraphale better over his glasses. Aziraphale felt his cheeks pink. 

  “Erm, it’s just, I mean,” he stammered, nervously fidgeting with his wine glass. “The air in here is a bit… Saturated. And it’s making it all a bit-”

  “S’alright, angel, I’m done here too.” Crowley drained his wine and stood, flashing a smile. “Dinner?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale said, fervent and relieved. He finished his own glass more demurely, before standing. A posse of servers were moving about the room and, quite by instinct, Aziraphale pressed his hand to Crowley’s back, only so they wouldn’t get separated.

  But the light touch meant he could feel the sudden subtle tensing of muscles and it made Aziraphale more nervous than anything. But he didn’t remove his hand, braving it until they were safely out of the performance hall.

  Dinner went without a hitch. Aziraphale forgot about the oddness of the moment in the club, chalking it up to the general atmosphere. Angel or not, he wasn’t unsusceptible to strong concentrations of human desire.

  But the Ritz was safe. And after the Ritz, they got into the car - also safe. And then, of course, the bookshop, for a final glass or two of wine.

  “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is,” Crowley said emphatically, yellow eyes wide and earnest. “While I’m glad you’ve caught up to the era of television, it’s time to explore something more modern than reruns of Mansfield Park.”

  “Was it just you who never failed a Temptation?”

  Crowley blinked, rearing back a bit. “What?”

  Aziraphale frowned. Maybe the topic wasn’t as far from his mind as he’d thought, or maybe he was just reminded of it by the way Crowley’s jacket was discarded, leaving his slender wrists more noticeable and just a tad more of his collarbones on display.

  “The Temptations? The Lust?” He tried to clarify. “You can’t be the only demon to never fail.”

  “Oh.” Crowley frowned, clearly trying to think. “I sort of was. Other demons… Don’t really like the hands-on approach much. And they don’t really know enough ‘bout humans to do it.” He scoffed, though it was more of a giggle in his current state. “Hastur was in the Temptations department with me. Can you imagine him trying to seduce a human? They’d have to be blind, deaf, and robbed of their olfactory senses for it to work.”

  “So, so you mean to say.” Aziraphale struggled to sit up a little straighter. “Anytime they wanted something hands-on, like you said… They assigned it to you?”

  Crowley hummed, slumping back on the couch. “Almost always, yeah.”

  “So, so you’ve…” He fought to find the words that wouldn’t give away just how much this topic was plaguing him. “You’ve taken a lot of humans to bed then?”

  Oh. Oh, drat it, that was possibly one of the worst ways he could have said it. “I’m sobering up,” he muttered. The miracle was finished almost before the words were out and he shook his head to regain his bearings.

  Crowley had turned his head to stare at him. He sobered up as well, gaze much clearer as he seemed to regard Aziraphale. “Well… Not really. Laying with someone I’d just Tempted took any possible fun out of it, so I just left them with their intentions solidified.” He bit his lip. “And ‘sides, not many humans interest me like that.”

  “But some do,” Aziraphale pointed out peevishly. “You spent quite a bit of time with Leonardo. And that singer in 1976. And Miss Herschel - you even helped her find those comets!”

  “Nebula,” Crowley corrected, but there was a gleam in his eyes. “And I didn’t help her, she discovered them herself. I have to say, angel, you’ve been keeping an uncanny track of my exploits through the ages.”

  Aziraphale paused. “Well…”

  “Besides, I’m fairly certain you’ve had your fair share of human lovers.”

  Blood, warm and mortal, rushed to his cheeks. Aziraphale gripped the armrests a little tighter. “Have I?”

  “Hmm, now, obviously I’m not one to judge, but you had a little more than a fling with at least one of them.” Crowley tipped his head at him. “Am I right?”

  “It wasn’t anything too great of a deal,” he muttered.

  Crowley snorted. In one languid motion, he got up from the couch and went straight for the shelf of classics, pulling out a thick leather-bound anthology. He flipped through it with decisiveness, running his finger down the page with an air of triumph.

  “Ah, there it is,” he proclaimed gleefully. “Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed; you had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.” 

  Feeling rather caught, Aziraphale stayed quiet. As much as Crowley liked to insist he didn’t read, he had a wonderful knack for recitals and a way with words that he didn’t seem to be aware of himself. Aziraphale could be quite content - entranced, even - listening to his musings all day.

  “What is your point?” He managed to say.

  Crowley returned the book to its place. “Nothing, really. Just wondering why you’re so interested in the subject all of a sudden. We’ve never…” He bit his lip, falling back into his seat. “We’ve never exchanged notes on human relations before. And you get closer to them than I do anyway, so… What exactly is your point, angel?”

  Aziraphale fought with himself for a moment. “I’m only curious,” he said softly. “About your Temptation works. I’ve never seen you do it myself.”

  Crowley opened his mouth as if to argue, then visibly bit his tongue.

  Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, yes, I know, but I mean, quite specifically Lust.”

  “So you want to see me Tempt a human?” Crowley asked, obviously confused. “Or, what, you want pointers so you can try it yourself…?”

  “No, of course not,” Aziraphale blustered. “I just meant-”

  “Or,” Crowley interrupted, suddenly perking up. “You want me to try it on you?”

  Aziraphale lost the leash on his reactions, jaw dropping slightly. “I- no! Don’t be absurd!”

  “What, it’ll just be like old times,” he cackled. “You, me, an angelic bookshop instead of a human’s cellar. Maybe some wine for setting the atmosphere.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Alright, alright-”

  “It wouldn’t work on me anyway!”

  Crowley stopped, an odd sound escaping him. “Sorry, what?”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Aziraphale repeated; he was dimly aware that he was digging some sort of grave for himself. Had the sobering miracle not worked right? “You couldn’t Tempt me into… Into sex.”

  Crowley waited a moment, as if trying to gauge whether they were actually having the conversation they seemed to be having. Feeling braver than usual, or at least not as scared, Aziraphale held his gaze to confirm that yes, actually, they were.

  “You do remember Job’s cellar, right?” Crowley said, still careful. “I was just humoring you at the moment, but that actually was… a Temptation. Nothing so direct as with humans, but still.”

  “I remember, and yes, I know,” Azirphale huffed. “That’s my point. I know all your tricks now. And being armed with knowledge is one sure way of avoiding Temptation.”

  “Yeah, but, mhh, not quite the same thing, is it?”

  “How different can it be?” Aziraphale asked. “And there’s also the matter of how I’m no mere human, nor as naive as I was in those days. You can’t Tempt me into something so…” Life-changing. Consequential. “You can’t Tempt me.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “I beg your- no, it jolly well isn’t!” Aziraphale yelped. “It’s a statement.”

  “One that I disagree with,” he countered. “Ergo, a challenge for me to prove you wrong.”

  “It’s nothing of the sort!”

  “Oh, come on, what’s the harm?” Crowley leaned forward in his seat, looking eager. Hopeful. “I try to seduce you, you resist, one of us wins. Consider it a wager; even your Boss has done those.”

  “I…” Aziraphale swallowed, a nervous fluttering making itself known somewhere below his ribcage. “What are the terms?”

  Crowley’s grin sharpened. “You tell me, angel.”

  “No touching,” was the first thing Aziraphale blurted. “No… No touching. Unless I give in.” He was pretty sure any sort of physical contact attempted to seduce would do him in quite fast. “If I want it to stop, or if you do, then we stop. Immediately. And, erm, if I win, we will never mention this again.”

  “Deal,” Crowley agreed, holding his hand out.

  Aziraphale shook it without much thought, then frowned. “Wait, what if you win?”

  Crowley chuckled. Still holding Aziraphale’s hand in his own, he stood and leaned down, far closer than necessary to pluck the empty glass from him. “Oh, angel, if I win,” he murmured, wine-sweet breath against Aziraphale’s cheek.

  But he didn’t finish his statement, walking away with their glasses to return them to the kitchen. 

  Aziraphale stayed slumped in his seat, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  Aziraphale wished he could forget all about the conversation. Instead, the moment he heard Crowley wake from his Saturday night nap, trepidation ruffled through his already unkempt wings. He debated whether to stay in place and continue reading as per usual, or give in to his restlessness and meet the demon in the kitchen, where he would no doubt be brewing a cup of coffee for himself.

  Stop being a coward, he told himself and stood decisively.

  Crowley had, after a lot of back-and-forth between them, moved a modern and rather complicated contraption into the kitchen. He was fiddling with it right now and Aziraphale stood at the doorway to watch him, to admire the glow of his hair under the cheery sunlight.

  Seeing him… It soothed an old ache in Aziraphale.

  Crowley didn’t greet him. But he poured out a cup, added two cubes of something unidentifiable, and handed it to Aziraphale with a saucer and a demitasse spoon.

  “I- oh.” Aziraphale took it, bemused. “Coffee for me?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been experimenting with stuff.” He waved his hand in a go on gesture. “Tried to recreate that drink you’d liked in Norbotten.”

  Aziraphale took a tentative sip. When he recognized the nutty flavor, he shut his eyes tight. 

  They’d travelled to Norbotten once, a few years before the Apocalypse. Crowley had gone on an assignment and, for once, it had been Aziraphale who made an excuse to follow him, eager to spend a little more time together after gifting the holy water. Aziraphale had become quickly infatuated with the local kaffeost coffee, drinking at least three cups a day before they’d had to return home.

  Aziraphale had tried and failed to find a suitable recreation in and around London.

  “How is it?”

  He blinked up at Crowley, taking another sip to hide what he could of his face. “It’s quite good. How did you manage it?”

  Crowley ducked his head, busying himself with brewing another cup. “Got bored in between interviewing all those demons. Humans think starting a new hobby is the solution to most stuff, so I figured, eh, why not? Took a couple tries to get the cheese right.”

  Every word was measured, each statement ended in a lazy drawl. But there was an upward tilt to Crowley’s lips, one that Aziraphale could dare to identify as shy. Sweet, even.

  And Aziraphale was so, so, so weak for sweet things.

  “It’s perfect, actually,” he said, sounding breathless to his own ears. “Thank you.”

  Crowley’s smile changed. He leaned against the counter with his own coffee, one hand braced upon the edge. Not a word was said, but his gaze stayed locked onto Aziraphale as he drank the whole cup in one breath, his neck exposed, sunlight falling on the hollow of his throat.

  Aziraphale stared at him, hands tight around the mug. Crowley was as cavalier about his form as Aziraphale was fond of his own. He changed his hair, his clothes, his accent, all with the ease of running water. Nothing about it was sacred to him. And Aziraphale had always found him lovely, in every iteration.

  So why did looking at him suddenly feel different?

  “I’m going to return to my book,” Aziraphale said, quickly finishing his coffee. For a moment, he mourned the missed opportunity to truly relish the perfect blend of flavors.

  “Sure, angel.” Crowley took the mug from his hand, fingers brushing knuckles. “I’ll wash up, then probably take another nap.”

  Aziraphale nodded and made his escape.

  Saturday and Sunday passed without notice. Aziraphale spent most of it reading his book. Crowley showed no suspicious signs, as they chatted the night away debating whether Tausret’s child had truly perished or if she’d managed to spirit her young daughter away to safety when the Pharoah died.

  Sunday evening, Crowley stretched his limbs out lazily. Aziraphale stared at the window, refusing to acknowledge the sliver of skin visible at his hip.

  Aziraphale himself felt underdressed. He’d removed his waistcoat a while ago and the bowtie with it, pre-monsoon humidity permeating even the bookshop. He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, wishing he had an excuse to button it up again. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how many times throughout the last two days Crowley’s gaze had flitted over his exposed neck.

  “Dinner at the Ritz?” He asked, mostly in an attempt to hide his nervousness.

  Crowley hummed, standing. “Why not somewhere else?”

  Aziraphale blinked at him. Why the break in routine? And since when did Crowley suggest places to eat? “Like where?”

  All he got was a twinkling grin. “You’ll like it. Trust me.”

  That was all the convincing Aziraphale needed.

  The Bentley drove them to Lambeth. Aziraphale really thought he knew all there was to know about London, but humans kept surprising him. Unsurprisingly.

  Crowley’s hand hovered near Aziraphale’s elbow when they stepped out of the car, as if wanting to guide him through touch. Instead, he nodded towards an almost invisible footpath, obscured by large-leaved trees and vines. “After you.”

  Aziraphale stepped onto the path; the foliage felt like it was enclosing him, forming a canopy above his head. The further he walked, the more silent the world grew. He could feel Crowley at his back, the heat of him more obvious in the shade.

  The path opened up into a garden courtyard. Picnic tables were set far apart, lush hedges walling them in to offer privacy and intimacy. Aziraphale breathed in deeply as a waiter appeared, greeting them with a wave towards the corner of the courtyard. It was a little distant from the rest, with a vase full of flowers and an electric candle lit up on top of it.

  “Crowley, this place is lovely,” Aziraphale said sincerely as he sat down. “When did you come to know of it?”

  “Only recently,” Crowley admitted. “It just opened about a year ago.” He sat down as well. But instead of taking the opposite bench as they were wont to do, he slid onto Aziraphale’s side, close enough for their sleeves to brush.

  Aziraphale tried not to react. Crowley shied away from touch like it might burn him and the last thing Aziraphale wanted was to scare him away when he was initiating it.

  “Well, since you’re the expert.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Why don’t you order for me?”

  Crowley’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

  “You know what I like.”

  His smile wasn’t nearly sardonic enough to be teasing, but he snapped his fingers willingly. The waiter reappeared, looking confused for only a moment before regaining his composure.

  Aziraphale didn’t even really listen to what Crowley ordered. He studied the demon instead, taking in the lines of his face and wondering how deep of a grave was being dug here.

  The wager they’d decided on… Of course, part of Crowley’s actions tonight was a performance in service of winning that bet. But even without it, one of them would have discovered this secret garden and the two of them would have ended up here anyway.

  So why did it feel different?

  “What?” Crowley asked, noticing his stare. At some point, a bottle of Calvados had appeared on the table, and he served two generous pours. Aziraphale took his glass with bated breath. The sides of their fingers touched.

  It was far from scandalous. They’d touched more boldly and more firmly before. But ‘before’ hadn’t included Crowley’s attention focused on him with this much intent before.

  Aziraphale took a shaky sip, searching for liquid courage. “Nothing at all. I just wanted to say… Thank you for bringing me here. Even if you are just trying to win the bet,” he added, hoping his voice was appropriately light.

  Crowley blinked, visible through his dark glasses at such close range. “Don’t get so excited so soon, angel,” he drawled. “There’s more to come. I intend to win this one.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Routine dictated that they say ‘goodbye’ after dinner on Sunday night. Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to see him on Monday. But his chest grew tight at the idea, so he invited Crowley in for a nightcap.

  Three hours later, in the space between midnight and dawn, Crowley nodded off. Aziraphale hadn’t moved from his place at all except to snap his fingers for the nearest piece of paper and something to draw with.

  What he got was a legal pad from his desk and a cheap ball pen that he hadn’t even known was in his shop. He couldn’t care enough to switch it out for something finer. Crowley’s profile formed under his fingers slowly, the angle of his jaw traced lovingly in blue ink.

  Strange thing, desire. Aziraphale was more than happy to sit here and draw Crowley a hundred times over, in all his various forms. But at the same time, his brain wouldn’t stop with ideas on how to get closer: well-worn fantasies of waking Crowley with a hand through his hair, of kissing each freckle scattered across his cheekbones.

  Crowley stirred, shuffling onto his side. His legs drew up a bit and the move left him looking younger, vulnerable.

  Aziraphale felt the ridiculous pen snap in his grip. He hissed in a sharp breath, cursing himself. Standing, he paced the length of the bookshop twice, stashing away his hasty sketch and disposing of the pen. After a second thought, he leaned over Crowley carefully, drawing the tartan afghan over his shoulders.

  His touch lingered. How far could he push? Would it be fair?

  Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Ngk, ‘ngel? Wha’s’it…?”

  “Nothing, dear. You seemed cold.”

  “Hmm. Thanks.”

  Aziraphale stepped back with a sigh. Perhaps reading a book would take his mind off things. He headed to a shelf, pulling one out at random. By cruel chance, Oscar Wilde’s name stared back at him. Aziraphale scowled and replaced it on the shelf.

  A cup of tea might be a better idea.

  “Angel!”

  Aziraphale and several of the mid-week student customers jumped at the shout. Crowley looked slightly flushed, a cross between determined and nervous.

  “No need to shout,” Aziraphale scolded. “If there’s nothing chasing you at present, you can wait.”

  “Can’t wait, nope.” He tucked his thumbs into his pockets, but there was a jitteriness to his shoulders. “We’ve got plans.”

  “It’s Thursday,” Aziraphale said indignantly. “I have a shop to run and customers to attend to.” As he spoke, he noticed several of the patrons looking curiously between himself and Crowley. Now, the demon might seem visibly flustered to Aziraphale, but one of the younger humans, a teenage boy by the looks of it, was staring at Crowley with his mouth hanging open and a dazed look in his eyes.

  Nothing new, but it sent a flash of irritation through Aziraphale. “Whatever these plans are, can you wait to tell me about them until after I help these people find what they’re looking for?”

  Crowley ignored him, leaning against the bookshelf like that might restore his usual nonchalance. “Meteor shower at midnight. Supposed to be a big one. Picnic in the South Downs.”

  Aziraphale blinked at him. “Are you inviting me out or demanding I accompany you?”

  “Inviting.” Crowley bit his lip, leaning a little closer. “I just thought, you know. We never did get to go on one. And now we can.” His voice had pitched low, as if he truly thought Aziraphale might refuse him. “You don’t want to?”

  He did. Of course he did. “Yes,” he said quietly, and in the corner of his eye, he saw a woman near the Science section grin in their direction. 

  Crowley tipped his head to the side, just enough for a glimmer of yellow to shine over his glasses. “You sure?”

  “Yes,” Aziraphale said again, bolder. “I’ll pack the wine and the blankets.”

  Crowley nodded, though the tension didn’t leave his shoulders. He pulled back, nudging his glasses back up. “I’ll pick you up around 10 then. Ta.” He sauntered out into the afternoon sunlight.

  Aziraphale took a deep breath and turned back to his customer, only to find the teenager from earlier standing at his side. “Is that your boyfriend?” He asked, with all the guileless curiosity of a 14-year-old.

  Aziraphale glared, doing his best not to include a touch of Heavenly wrath. “Did you find the book you wanted?”

  Crowley drove even faster at night, if that was even possible. As soon as they cleared city limits, he put his foot down with manic glee and Aziraphale clutched his picnic basket with a terrified moan.

  “You’ll get us discorporated!”

  “I would never!”

  “It’s not like we’ll be given new bodies this time around!”

  “We’re not going to get discorporated!”

  “Crowley, you fiend, I swear to- to Someone-”

  The car slowed abruptly. And then stopped.

  Crowley propped his elbow on the steering wheel, looking at Aziraphale with a terrible attempt at a look of innocence. “See? We’re already there.”

  Aziraphale grasped at his chest, trying to catch his breath. “You’re going to kill us both one day.”

  “Nonsense. The Bentley knows better than to crash.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t justify such reckless speed,” Aziraphale said. “I’m far from delicate or fussy-”

  “Ha!”

  “-but you really do drive far too fast for me sometimes.”

  Crowley’s smirk faltered. He looked out the window, forehead creased in that way it got when he was trying to decide how much blunt truth Aziraphale could handle. “You won’t… I wouldn’t let you get hurt, you know.”

  Aziraphale was taken aback. “I know that. That’s not what I-”

  “Why’d you hesitate today?” Crowley interrupted. “When I asked you out here?”

  “I didn’t hesitate.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  Aziraphale chose to look out the windshield. In the distance, he could see the shapes of humans milling about on the fields, mostly in groups of two. Romantic outings, no doubt.

  “I didn’t hesitate,” he lied again.

  Crowley sighed. “It’s almost midnight. Come on.”

  They walked leisurely, Crowley taking the picnic basket from Aziraphale. There were no artificial lights as far the naked eye could see, but they’d never needed anything of the sort to see in the dark. None of the humans they passed gave them any notice either, too wrapped up in each other to care.

  “Do you think anyone’s watching us?” Aziraphale asked, glancing up at the sky.

  Crowley looked up as well, flicking a wrist into the air. “Not that I can tell. And anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore, remember?”

  “Right. Of course.” Aziraphale believed him, he did, but it took some getting used to. Dinners and nightcaps and long drives were one thing, but for so long, they’d avoided isolated empty spaces like this in the fear of being watched.

  Their newfound freedom was almost equally frightening.

  Crowley stopped at a random spot. “This is good. Good as anywhere else.”

  Aziraphale nodded. He reached for the picnic basket in Crowley’s hand and pulled out a blanket, laying it neatly on the grass, then brought the wine out. “So. What exactly are we supposed to see?”

  Crowley sat down in his usual limbless fashion, legs spread out in front of him and his torso leaning back on both palms. “Lyrids. Right about… There.” He pointed northeast and Aziraphale followed his gaze diligently. “From Lyra.”

  “Is that one of yours?” Aziraphale asked, careful to keep his tone light as he took a sip and passed the bottle.

  Crowley shot him a look, indecipherable. “No. No, most of my work was more, um… Far-off. Anyway, the meteors haven’t gotten anything to do with the constellation. It’s really just bits and pieces of starstuff from Comet Thatcher.”

  Whispers of awe reached their ears and they both looked up just in time to see the first two bright streaks of light cross the sky.

  “There it is,” Crowley whispered.

  Aziraphale stole a glimpse at him. He’d laid down completely, wine forgotten in the space between them. He’d taken his glasses off as well and Aziraphale thought about how easy it would be to touch the rise of his cheekbone.

  He took a large swig from the bottle and looked up again. More streaks appeared within seconds, three of them together, then two more right after. The entire night sky seemed to have dulled in comparison.

  “Where do you think humans got the idea of wishing on them?” Crowley asked curiously. “Did your lot have anything to do with that?”

  “Not that I can remember,” Aziraphale said. “It might be just something they came up with on their own.”

  “Mmyeah, maybe. S’nice though.”

  “Nice how?”

  Crowley shrugged. “Just… Nice that they find silly little things to believe in. Shooting stars, birthday candles, whatnot.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is a rather romantic notion, if fanciful,” Aziraphale said. “What would you wish for?”

  “Me?”

  Aziraphale could hear the frown in the word. “Yes, you,” he said with a slight laugh. “If it were true that wishing on a shooting star - or meteor, I suppose - would make it come true, then what would you wish for?”

  “Nothing at all,” Crowley said.

  It was Aziraphale’s turn to be skeptical. “Really? Nothing? There’s nothing you want?”

  “No, I didn’t say that,” Crowley said. His eyes stayed fixed on the sky. “I just wouldn’t wish for it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if it came true then, I wouldn’t be able to trust it.”

  Aziraphale shook his head. “You cynical old serpent. I don’t think it works like that.”

  “Well, alright, what would you wish for?”

  He looked up at the sky as a particularly bright streak danced through the cosmos. “You’re not supposed to say it out loud. It would never work then.”

  Crowley stayed quiet. Aziraphale could feel his stare and he didn’t have the courage to return it. He made a wish instead.

  They stayed there for the whole night, even as the meteor shower petered out and the humans around either drove back home or fell asleep. No more words were spoken. The wine dwindled down only halfway, neither of them trying to get drunk.

  It wasn’t until the sky began to lighten that Crowley nudged his hand. “Shall we go back?”

  Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I hesitated earlier. Because for a moment, I wondered if we were pushing things.”

  Crowley sat up. “Pushing things?”

  “Tempting fate. Getting cocky with our freedom,” Aziraphale said tightly. “Call it what you want. I was just - I wonder, sometimes, if we’re being too careless. Now that we don’t need to be careful.”

  Crowley mulled over it, peering at Aziraphale like a book he was pretending not to be able to read. “We’re not humans, obviously. But 6000 years is a long time to be afraid. We’ve won, we can bloody well celebrate it.”

  “I know, I know. I just…” He bit his tongue in frustration, glowering at the blanket.

  “It’s alright, angel.” Crowley stood and held his hand out.

  Aziraphale looked up at him. His hair was mussed, glasses yet to be retrieved from his pocket. His mouth was soft, smiling. Aziraphale ached. He took the offered hand and let himself be helped to his feet.

  The last and only time they’d held hands like this had been on the bus home from Tadfield. Aziraphale had reached out first, too tired and scared and full of grief to pretend he didn’t need comfort.

  He let go first now.

  “This wager,” Crowley said quietly. “You want to call it off?”

  Aziraphale swallowed. “Did you only bring me here tonight to try and win?”

  “No,” was the immediate answer.

  “Then, no, I don’t.” He smiled as best as he could. “Besides, it might be good practice. At being braver.”

  Crowley didn’t look convinced, but he played along. “That only works if you lose, you know.”

  “Yes, well. Win-win, as the kids say. If you lose, you might learn a little delayed gratification.”

  Crowley snorted. “I’m already an expert. Now come on, angel. I’ll drive a little slower this time.”

  The next few days saw the topic almost forgotten. 

  Crowley got busy with more demon interviews and the latest one, according to him, was annoyingly clever. “Just stupid enough for us to risk having around though,” he said, when Aziraphale asked why he wasn’t sending her back downstairs. “Really, it’d be fine if she didn’t constantly harangue me for on-hands training.”

  But there was something he was hiding. Aziraphale could see that well enough. He was hanging around the bookshop more often, for one, but at the same time, there was a hesitance in staying the night. Something that had never been a problem before.

  “Crowley, is everything alright?” Aziraphale pointedly asked late one night.

  The demon paused in the act of putting on his glasses. “Ye-eah,” he said, drawing out the vowel. “Why’d you ask?”

  “You usually just sleep in my bed for the night,” Aziraphale said, then flushed. “I mean, that is, you sleep in the bed. Upstairs. It’s not really mine, barely, I’ve certainly never used it.”

  Crowley’s face did something complicated, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh at Aziraphale’s expense or soothe his awkwardness. He settled on neither. “It’s nothing. Just the plants have been out of sorts lately. Need a little extra care.”

  “Oh, is that why you’ve been keeping them in the car?” Aziraphale asked. “That’s awfully ni- uhm, sweet of you.”

  Crowley glowered. “Sweet isn’t a better alternative, angel.”

  “I think it rather suits you,” he said solemnly, pleased when it got him an amused eyeroll. “And it’s five letters, not four.”

  “Right. Good job, very clever of you.” Crowley shook his head, half-smiling. “Night.”

  “Goodnight.”

  The wedding invite appeared on a golden afternoon. Matthew ‘Mutt’ Mullinger of the magic shop was getting married to his long-time sweetheart.

  Aziraphale waved the invite in front of Crowley’s face.

  “No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

  “Crowley, I can’t not go!” He exclaimed. “I’m a member of the community and we Whickber Street shopkeepers support each other. That includes going to weddings.”

  “You just want cake.” Crowley didn’t even open his eyes, sprawled out over the length of the couch. “I’ll get you cake. But you’re not dragging me to a wedding.”

  “It’s not happening in a church,” Aziraphale coaxed. “And I hear there's going to be an open bar. And it’s been so long since I’ve attended a wedding, I’ve quite missed it, actually.”

  Crowley threw an arm over his face. “If you’re trying to Tempt me, you’re doing an awful job of it, angel.”

  “Crowley!” He pouted slightly. “You’re being needlessly dramatic.”

  “Hmm.”

  “If you come with me, this might be a good opportunity for you to win the wager,” Aziraphale said after a moment. “After all, weddings do inspire a lot of… Ardour.”

  Crowley uncovered his face. “I’m aware.”

  “Of course you are,” he agreed congenially. “You’ve done your fair share of nudging bridesmaids and groomsmen into ill-informed decisions, haven’t you?”

  Crowley grimaced. “Don’t remind me. Not my favorite kind of work.”

  Aziraphale tried to suppress a beam, waving the invitation at him again.

  Crowley snatched it out of his hand, giving it a perfunctory glance. “Fine. But only for the open bar.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Aziraphale, like all angels were meant to, thrived when surrounded by joy and love. Weddings were full of it and this one, with familiar faces everywhere and Crowley at his side, was bursting with it. It was a tent set-up, sparkling amber lights strung up everywhere and small round tables to rest at. The air smelled like oncoming rain, sharp and metallic.

  “Oh, Mr Fell, it’s so nice to see you here!” Maggie from the record shop greeted in her trilling voice. “I don’t think I’ve seen you all dressed up before.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale chuckled. He hadn’t dressed all that differently, just changed out his vest for something slightly more modern and replaced his beloved coat with a formal suit.

  “Positively glowing, isn’t he?” Crowley spoke up at his side. There was a teasing lilt to his words and Aziraphale realized that he probably was on the verge of glowing in a more literal sense. Tone it down, angel was the unspoken warning.

  He bit the inside of his cheek, focusing on containing himself a bit as Maggie gave Crowley a sharp once-over.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you at any of our shopkeeper meetings, Mr…?”

  “Anthony Crowley.” He gave a lazy sort of smile, not moving his hands from his pockets. Rude as anything, but Maggie lit up.

  “Oh, wait, I have seen you. You’re always at the bookshop. Mr Fell, you didn’t tell me he’s your-”

  “He’s my friend!” Aziraphale interrupted. “He’s a very old… Very dear friend of mine.”

  Crowley hummed, leaning slightly against Aziraphale’s side. “The oldest, really.”

  Maggie nodded, smiling. “Of course, of course. Well. I’ll go congratulate the happy couple.” She disappeared into the throng.

 Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

  “What?” Crowley asked.

  “Nothing.” He looked him over slowly, taking in the three-piece black suit Crowley had opted for, the only hint of red being his pocket square. He’d kept his snakeskin boots though. “You look nice.”

  “Don’t I always?” Crowley shot back, but a hint of pink had crawled up the side of his neck.

  “Thank you for coming tonight.”

  “Hmm.” Crowley nodded at the open bar. “Had to miracle the wine to be a little better, but s’fine otherwise, I guess. Not a bad way to spend time.”

  “Oh, hush.” Aziraphle nudged his arm lightly. “You enjoy weddings.”

  “I enjoy a good party,” Crowley refuted. “Funerals can be good parties too.”

  Aziraphale almost wanted to get annoyed. Just a little bit. But then the music that had been softly playing all this time without notice changed. It was time for the newly married couple to have their first dance.

  Aziraphale didn’t think twice. He grabbed Crowley’s hand, tugging him to the front of the crowd so they could watch.

  The magician and his partner didn’t look like they even remembered their audience. They held each other tightly, pressed close enough for their noses to brush, and moved around the floor as if in a trance.

  Aziraphale watched with bated breath, casting a half-conscious miracle to ensure that neither missed a single step or got distracted, wanting to give them as perfect a moment as possible. Oh, he loved this, truly. There was a special kind of wonder in watching humans shower each other with adoration and affection.

  Slowly, the rest of the party split into couples as well, taking to the floor. Some were laughing, twirling with good cheer. Some were shy, their touches hesitant but eager. Some were wrapped up in each other's arms, barely swaying, content to just hold and be held.

  “Well?” Crowley cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

  “Shall we…?”

  “Dance.”

  Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it. A strange feeling bloomed in his chest. “I- well. I don’t know if-”

  “One dance, that’s all,” Crowley promised. “We’ll stop whenever you want.”

  He sounded so earnest, so hopeful. Aziraphale could only nod. And then his breath caught in his throat as Crowley took his hand. With purpose. With intent. His other palm hovered at Aziraphale’s waist for a moment, before settling a little higher.

  Aziraphale could only grip back at his elbow as Crowley stepped in close, needing only a single step to bring them to the dance floor.

  Aziraphale knew how to dance. He’d done the gavotte, the Viennese waltz, the foxtrot. This wasn’t anything so complex, just their feet moving in small synchronized circles.

  It felt a lot harder to keep his concentration. Aziraphale was sure that if he breathed wrong, he would do something horridly embarrassing.

  “Angel,” Crowley murmured. “You look like I’m threatening to bite you.”

  Bless him, he sounded just as wrong-footed as Aziraphale felt. It relaxed him a little. “Sorry.”

  “Hmm, no, it’s, it’s fine.” 

  “You know,” Aziraphale said softly. “You could take the glasses off. It’s nighttime. Even if someone looks too closely, a small miracle should set it to rights.”

  Crowley ducked his head with a quick shake, self-consciously touching the frame of the sunglasses. This close, Aziraphale could just make out the shape of his pupils. “Nah. Got a reputation to keep up. Can’t have people catching the way I look at…” He waved their joint hands vaguely.

  Aziraphale was confused. “Look at what?”

  Crowley met his eyes through the glasses and, for a moment, the gentle waves of exuberant love turned into a wrecking ball, hitting Aziraphale squarely in the chest. The force of it made him gasp and he froze in place. Above them, through the roof of the tent, the sky flashed with lightning.

  The emotion was reeled back in instantly, but Crowley dropped his hands, retreating. “Angel?”

  Oh. Oh God, what was he doing? What were they doing? This was too dangerous. Hell was still at Crowley’s heels and Heaven an all-seeing eye. It hadn’t even been two months since they’d practically spit in the faces of their respective Head Offices and now they were, they were-

  Flaunting their victory? Their freedom? Their defiance?

  Aziraphale wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but he did know that anyone who stood within ten feet of him and Crowley together could see Aziraphale’s desires written plainly over his face. He’d never been good at pacing himself when he wanted something.

  “Home. We should. Go home. Return to the bookshop.”

  Crowley looked like he wanted to fight. But he set his jaw, hands returning to his pockets. “I’ll bring the car around.”

  Aziraphale didn’t remember the drive. He was vaguely aware of the music playing softly, something classical that Crowley knew he liked. He kept catching himself stealing glances at the driver’s side: Crowley had his window rolled down and an elbow propped up on the frame, idly carding fingers through his wind-ruffled hair. He looked tired. He looked sad.

  Aziraphale hated it.

  He didn’t even notice when they’d reached until Crowley’s voice called, “Angel?”

  Aziraphale startled. They were in front of the bookshop. Crowley was already outside, holding Aziraphale’s door open with a concerned air about him.

  “Yes. Sorry,” Aziraphale said faintly. “Thank you.” He climbed out of the car, Crowley backing away to give him space. It was still early in the night, but the sky was dark and thunderous.

  Aziraphale fumbled with his keys. “Would you, um, like to come in? One more glass of wine for the night?”

  Crowley’s answer was gentle. “I don’t think I will, no.”

  The door unlocked with a click. Aziraphale opened it, but didn’t step inside. “Crowley.”

  “Yeah?” He sounded close. Too close.

  Aziraphle turned around, knowing it was a mistake when he found Crowley’s eyes bare.

  “I’m sorry-”

  “Nothing to apologize for.” One side of his mouth ticked up into a wry smile. “We’re good, angel.”

  Aziraphale wavered. At this minuscule distance, he had to tilt his chin up to properly face Crowley. Behind him, the sky lit up white, and rain began to pour. 

  “Get indoors, please, before you get soaked-”

  “Angel,” Crowley laughed softly, catching his arm. “It’s fine. I should get going.”

  “Crowley,” Aziraphale protested, but it was weak, and it was a plea, and his own hand curled into Crowley’s suit lapels without his permission.

  Crowley’s touch slid up, fingertips touching Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale shut his eyes tight. He couldn’t bear to see the longing stripped naked, reflected back at him. He couldn’t acknowledge it, because doing so would mean admitting that Heaven would always, always, have power over him, something to hold over his head and keep him in line.

  But Crowley didn’t have those fears and if Aziraphale kept his eyes shut, if he ignored the rest of the blessed universe… Then he could pretend to be braver. Then, if Crowley kissed him, he could allow it and give in.

  He wanted to. 

  He could feel Crowley’s breath on his own lips as acutely as he could feel the rain drenching them both. His palm was trembling, flat over Crowley’s chest, and he could feel the heart beating in there too, as unnecessary and mortal as his own.

  Crowley sighed. His mouth pressed, half-open, to Aziraphale’s temple. A shudder ran through him and he blinked his eyes open just in time to see Crowley pull away.

  “You win.”

  Aziraphale stared, a horrible emptiness yawning wide in his chest. “I…”

  “The wager,” Crowley said. “You win. Or. I forfeit. Whatever.”

  “I… Why?”

  Crowley grinned, painful and somehow still kind. “You’ve got an iron will there, angel. Not likely to fall to Temptation to any demon, much less little old me.”

  A slap would have hurt less. A smiting might have hurt less.

  Crowley wiped stray raindrops from his face and slid his glasses back on. “See you tomorrow?”

  No! Aziraphale wanted to shout. No, come back this instant, come inside and do something about this cursed desire before it kills me!

  But that would be cruel. Not least because Aziraphale didn’t think he’d be able to go through with it, even if Crowley would. And Crowley would never.

  “Do drive safely,” Aziraphale said, barely audible to himself.

  But Crowley nodded, waving a hand in goodbye before sauntering back to his car. He didn’t look back once as he drove off and Aziraphale stood there in the rain for long after the car had vanished into the night.