Chapter Text
The London morning sun filtered shyly through the dusty, leaded panes of the bookshop on Whickham Street. Under normal circumstances, it would have been an idyllic start to the day: the delicate aroma of freshly brewed Earl Grey, the comforting scent of aged calfskin bindings, and the hard-won peace of a post-Armageddon world.
That was, of course, if not for one rather glaring anatomical detail: Aziraphale’s earthly corporation felt as though it had been thoroughly run over by a Victorian carriage drawn by six unruly dray horses.
With a painful, muffled whimper that he just barely managed to swallow, the angel tried to adjust his position in his favorite velvet armchair. Every single muscle in his thighs, lower back, and hips immediately staged a furious, unified mutiny. He blinked hard, feeling as though even the ethereal tips of his discorporate wings were weighed down with lead.
Four months. It had been precisely one hundred and twenty days since they had finally voiced the painfully obvious, kissed away six millennia of repression, and decided to share quarters. And for the past four months, Anthony J. Crowley had behaved not like a sophisticated, world-weary demon, but like a starving beast that had just discovered the banquet would never, ever end.
On the mahogany desk, on the sofa, on the tiled bathroom floor, pressed rather scandalously against the Romantic Poetry section (which Aziraphale would now have to meticulously catalog all over again)... Every. Single. Day. And yesterday, as the absolute crown jewel of their unchecked debauchery, they had engaged in it four separate times. Four rounds before the grandfather clock had even struck two in the morning.
— Ngk. Morning, angel.
The low, gravelly purr drifted in from the back room. Crowley slithered through the doorway with the fluid, hip-swaying grace of a serpent, clad in skin-tight black trousers and an unbuttoned silk shirt. His dark sunglasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his sharp nose, and he was sporting that insufferably smug, well-fed grin of someone running on the boundless energy of a celestial power plant.
Before Aziraphale could raise his teacup defensively, Crowley had already glided up behind the armchair. He leaned down, draping his long, lean frame over the backrest, and pressed his warm lips directly against the sensitive crook of Aziraphale’s neck. A shockwave of electric pleasure—immediately followed by a sharp ache—shot straight down the angel's spine.
— Sleep well? — Crowley murmured, his long, deft fingers trailing deliberately down over Aziraphale’s shoulders toward his collarbones. — I was thinking... since the day is young and neither of us has anywhere to be... the kitchen table is completely clear. And I’ve had a rather wicked idea about what we could do with that new linen tablecloth you bought...
Aziraphale froze. He closed his eyes tight, drew a shuddering breath, and clattered his porcelain teacup onto its saucer with an icy, definitive clink.
— No.
Crowley blinked from behind his dark lenses, tilting his head like a curious, slightly ruffled cat.
— "No"? What d'you mean, "no"? Angel, it's barely eight in the morning, we have an eternity ahead of us, and—
— No, Crowley. Take three steps back. Immediately.
Startled by the sharp, authoritative cadence—the very tone Aziraphale used to reserve for when the demon casually suggested setting fire to inconsequential French bureaucrats—Crowley took a reluctant step backward, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
— Woah, alright. Steady on. It was just a suggestion. If you’d rather use the Persian rug—
— I would not rather use the Persian rug! Nor the table, nor the divan, nor any square inch of upholstery in this entire establishment! — Aziraphale snapped, attempting to rise with majestic dignity.
Unfortunately, the abrupt movement sent a blinding flare of soreness straight through his pelvis. Aziraphale let out an undignified, tragic little “eugh!” and collapsed right back into the cushions with a miserable grimace.
Crowley’s amused swagger vanished instantly, his brow furrowing in genuine, bewildered panic.
— You're hurt? What happened? Did some low-ranking imp sneak in? Did Heaven send someone? Did Gabriel—
— You! You insatiable reptile! — Aziraphale accused, thrusting a trembling, indignant finger straight into the demon’s chest. The angel’s round cheeks were blazing with a furious, petal-pink flush. — I possess a human corporation, Crowley! Made of flesh, bone, and delicate, mortal nervous tissue! I am not a perpetual motion machine! I can barely cross my legs without wanting to weep!
Crowley’s jaw went slack. His mouth formed a comical, silent ‘O’.
— Four times, Crowley! Four! Every single day! Without a truce, without respite! I came down here this morning simply wishing to read a lovely, tranquil volume of Oscar Wilde, and at present, I cannot even lean against this chair without profound physical distress!
— Well... — Crowley swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck as a rare, heated blush crept up past his dark collar. — I... I thought you were enjoying it. You didn’t exactly sound like you were suffering when we were in the Classics aisle...
— That was not rapturous enthusiasm, Crowley, that was delirium born of sheer bodily exhaustion! — Aziraphale huffed, smoothing down his tartan waistcoat with whatever shreds of celestial dignity he could muster. His blue eyes flashed with cold, unyielding judgment. — And that is precisely why a new protocol must be enacted. Immediately.
— What protocol? — Crowley asked, folding his arms, his tone suddenly dripping with profound suspicion.
Aziraphale lifted his chin, looking every bit the Principality of the Eastern Gate passing sentence.
— Four months of unrestrained, hedonistic madness demand a proportional period of restorative austerity. Therefore, my dear... no carnal relations. For the next eight months.
The silence that descended upon the Soho bookshop was so absolute that one could have heard a pin drop three streets over in Covent Garden.
Crowley’s sunglasses slipped right down the bridge of his nose.
— Eight... what?!