Chapter Text
‘Darling, I’m home!’
Aziraphale closed the door behind him. The house was silent. No Antichrist greeted him at the door. He leaned his umbrella up against the coat stand and took his jacket and shoes off before tiptoeing into the living room. There they were, both of them. Crowley stretched out on the sofa on his back, one arm dangling down the side of it. The cat was snuggled up between his torso and his other arm. Both were fast asleep. On the coffee table was Crowley’s laptop, the novel draft still open on it. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and brushed back a strand of hair from Crowley’s face.
‘Back early,’ mumbled Crowley, blinking rapidly.
‘Not really. It’s nearly six.’
‘Fuck!’ Crowley shot upright, almost knocking the Antichrist off the sofa. ‘Haven’t started cooking yet. Bollocks.’
Aziraphale put a flat palm against Crowley’s chest and pushed him back down into the cushions.
‘Crowley, you’re not my housewife nor my housekeeper. Why don’t you stay right there and I’ll order us something?’
He got up and wandered over to the bookshelf, picking up his complete collection of Tadfield’s takeaway menus. Crowley made nondescript grumbling noises but remained horizontal.
Aziraphale tutted.
‘I hate that you feel obligated to feed me when I get back from work, you know. You work all day, too. You certainly don’t owe me anything for staying here. If anything, I should be paying you for cat-sitting. You’ve turned the Antichrist positively tame.’
The cat was still pushing into Crowley’s side. He picked her up and cradled her like a baby.
‘She’s my little fluffy muse, yes she is,’ crooned Crowley and she purred contently.
The cottage his agent had booked for him had been abandoned a mere week and a half into his stay in Tadfield. His visits to Aziraphale’s house had begun earlier in the morning and gone on later into the night with every passing day. Then, one Tuesday evening, Aziraphale had declared that the Antichrist was suffering from severe Crowley withdrawal whenever he left to go back to the cottage, and could he please just stay for a bit. Crowley had sighed with relief, replied that he found it much easier to write with her around anyway, and promptly moved in.
And so Crowley spent his days working on the first draft of his latest novel, set during the school days of Serpent’s Gift hero Giles West. The Antichrist had indeed become very attached to Crowley. So had Aziraphale.
‘Let’s get pizza. And if you’re feeling awake enough, I’d like you to look over my latest lecture, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Sure,’ said Crowley, still on the sofa.
This was nothing new. When Aziraphale returned from university in the afternoon, they liked to look over each other’s work. Aziraphale offered feedback on the novel draft, mainly focusing on the details of boarding-school life. And Crowley would read through what was looking to become one of the best undergraduate modules Aziraphale had ever designed in his career. Queerness in thriller fiction. It was shaping up rather nicely.
Aziraphale walked back to the sofa, stood in front of it. Crowley looked him up and down, taking in his outfit for the first time today. He’d been asleep this morning when Aziraphale had left for work.
‘Damn,’ he said.
Aziraphale smiled and preened a little. He’d been dressing more flamboyant again lately, spurned on by those hungry looks Crowley gave him whenever he wore a bow tie or a tweed jacket. Sure, it was positively subdued compared to the notorious outfits from his undergraduate days, but he knew Crowley appreciated it. Today he was wearing the latest addition to his wardrobe: a sand-coloured velvet waistcoat, a real vintage piece. The students certainly had noticed, as had Anathema. Aziraphale would never admit it, but he rather enjoyed the looks and whispers that followed him through the university these days.
‘Looking forward to taking that off you later,’ Crowley mumbled and Aziraphale laughed.
‘Me too, darling, but I’d really like you to take a look at my lecture first. I’ve emailed it to you.’
Crowley lowered the cat to the floor, bent down over the coffee table and clicked around on his laptop until he found the email. Aziraphale fidgeted with the pizza menu, trying not to let his nerves show.
‘Want me to read out loud again?’
‘Please.’
‘Alright, but stop fussing and sit down,’ Crowley said over the top of the laptop before he lowered his gaze to the screen. The white light from it illuminated his chiselled face in an almost eerie way. Aziraphale remained standing, trying to keep his feet still and his hands from shaking.
‘Lecture five: Queer-sexual tension as plot element,’ he read out. ‘Eh, we can work on that title, I reckon. Doesn’t even have a pun in it.’
‘Really now.’
‘What? Students love puns. Anyway. Let me read on. Queer sexual tension can be utilised in order to create conflict and atmosphere, both on the small scale of a scene or the larger arc of the plot. The way two or more characters interact with each other, particularly in contexts with already heightened stakes— ah. But some arsehole’s gonna put their hand up here and ask how exactly you know if tension between two people is queer or if you’re just imagining it.’
‘Oh. Yes, I suppose they will.’
Crowley looked up again and grinned.
‘But there’s a really easy trick you can teach them. Listen up: Say you’ve got tension between two women in some dialogue. Ask this: Does this tension become unambiguously sexual or romantic if you replace one of them with a man in your head? If yes, then it’s just as sexual or romantic in the original context too and you’ve successfully tricked your inner heteronormativity.’
Aziraphale, momentarily distracted from his own concerns by another one of Crowley’s brilliant ideas, clapped his hands.
‘Oh, that’s excellent! I’ll make sure to add that in. Ooh, maybe we could analyse some scenes like that in seminar. I must find examples. I know there are some in your novels, and perhaps—’
‘Tomorrow, angel. You’ve worked hard enough already today. Shall I continue?’
Aziraphale nodded. The nerves sparked back up in a heartbeat. He twirled his ring around his little finger, round and round until it started rubbing on his skin. Crowley was reading again.
‘…particularly in contexts with already heightened stakes, such as are the driving force behind the plot of a thriller. Sexual tension can provide an added layer to such scenes, or alternatively, can be used for the purposes of misdirection. I can’t continue to write without getting some words off my chest, my dearest Crowley. Today it has been six weeks— er, is that meant to be in here?’
‘Read on. Please.’
Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, brow furrowed. The air changed in the living room. Became thin, dry. Crowley swallowed heavily. Aziraphale held his breath.
‘Okay.’ Crowley turned back to the laptop, finding his place. ‘My dearest Crowley. Today it has been six weeks since you came back into my life. Another week and you’ll be gone from it again. I won’t, angel, not this time, we’ve been over—’
‘Please. Just read it all out, Crowley. Then we can talk.’
His heart was thumping in his ears and his mouth was dry. He put a hand on the upholstered back of the sofa and dug his fingernails into it.
When Crowley continued to read, his voice was quivering with emotion. ‘And I know it’s different this time. You have taught me to speak. You have taught me to think. And you have taught me to listen, to you and to myself. I have listened to myself, and all I can hear is my love for you echoing within me, stronger than ever. Oh, angel.’
‘Read.’
Crowley blinked quickly and sniffed. The tears would be coming any moment now.
‘And all I want is for you to know just how much it means to be afforded this privilege. Despite everything I did to you, you found it in your heart to take me back, to give me a second chance. A chance I don’t deserve, because I never deserved anything as good as you in the first place. Aziraphale, you know what we said about not putting—’
‘Read.’
‘And I know you are going to tell me off for putting myself down, but I’m not. I promise. It’s just that you are too good for anyone in this world. You call me angel, but you are the one who can work miracles.’
Crowley let out a broken sob now. Wiped his eyes, impatient to continue reading.
‘I never had a pet name for you that did you any justice at all. But I rather like the idea of calling you my husband.’
Crowley’s head whipped up, tears streaming down his face now as he gazed up at Aziraphale, stunned. Aziraphale realised he should probably be on one knee for this bit. He stumbled forwards and knocked his knee into the coffee table before sinking down with a groan of pain. And there was something else.
‘I’m terrible, I don’t even have a bloody ring for this. I’m so sorry, Crowley, I wasn’t really prepared or I would have gotten one. It’s just that all day today I couldn’t think of anything else and when I sat down to work on the module, I had to get it all out of me. And I know it’s fast and hasty and perhaps you don’t feel the same way, but I needed you to know, before you go back to London. And if you want to, we can go to Oxford at the weekend and find a ring for you, one that’s just perfect, but only if you—’
Crowley leaned forwards and pulled Aziraphale close to him. He wrapped Aziraphale’s face in his long hands and kissed him, wetting his face with his tears. Aziraphale clasped his shaking hands around Crowley’s waist. Kissing Crowley was still a strange sensation. New and familiar all at once. Muscle memory blending deliciously with new perceptions. Utterly addictive. The nerves that had been steadily building inside Aziraphale all day, pressing on his ribcage and tensing his shoulders, were lifted off him in a single moment. He kissed Crowley until the throbbing in his knee got too much. Then he pulled away. Crowley gazed at him, radiating love. Aziraphale wanted to soak it all up.
‘Yes, angel. Of course I’ll marry you.’
Aziraphale leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple. Just for a brief moment. Then he grinned. Remembered a similar conversation from long ago. An echo from the past.
‘But darling. I haven’t even asked the question yet.’